rilla of ingleside by l. m. montgomery.chapter i. glen "notes" and other matters it was a warm, golden-cloudy, lovable afternoon.in the big living-room at ingleside susan baker sat down with a certain grim satisfactionhovering about her like an aura; it was four o'clock and susan, who had been working incessantlysince six that morning, felt that she had fairly earned an hour of repose and gossip.susan just then was perfectly happy; everything had gone almost uncannily well in the kitchenthat day. dr. jekyll had not been mr. hyde and so had not grated on her nerves; fromwhere she sat she could see the pride of her heart—the bed of peonies of her own plantingand culture, blooming as no other peony plot in glen st. mary ever did or could bloom,with peonies crimson, peonies silvery pink,
peonies white as drifts of winter snow. susan had on a new black silk blouse, quiteas elaborate as anything mrs. marshall elliott ever wore, and a white starched apron, trimmedwith complicated crocheted lace fully five inches wide, not to mention insertion to match.therefore susan had all the comfortable consciousness of a well-dressed woman as she opened hercopy of the daily enterprise and prepared to read the glen "notes" which, as miss corneliahad just informed her, filled half a column of it and mentioned almost everybody at ingleside.there was a big, black headline on the front page of the enterprise, stating that somearchduke ferdinand or other had been assassinated at a place bearing the weird name of sarajevo,but susan tarried not over uninteresting,
immaterial stuff like that; she was in questof something really vital. oh, here it was—"jottings from glen st. mary." susan settled down keenly,reading each one over aloud to extract all possible gratification from it. mrs. blythe and her visitor, miss cornelia—aliasmrs. marshall elliott—were chatting together near the open door that led to the veranda,through which a cool, delicious breeze was blowing, bringing whiffs of phantom perfumefrom the garden, and charming gay echoes from the vine-hung corner where rilla and missoliver and walter were laughing and talking. wherever rilla blythe was, there was laughter. there was another occupant of the living-room,curled up on a couch, who must not be overlooked,
since he was a creature of marked individuality,and, moreover, had the distinction of being the only living thing whom susan really hated. all cats are mysterious but dr. jekyll-and-mr.hyde—"doc" for short—was trebly so. he was a cat of double personality—or else,as susan vowed, he was possessed by the devil. to begin with, there had been something uncannyabout the very dawn of his existence. four years previously rilla blythe had had a treasureddarling of a kitten, white as snow, with a saucy black tip to its tail, which she calledjack frost. susan disliked jack frost, though she could not or would not give any validreason therefor. "take my word for it, mrs. dr. dear," shewas wont to say ominously, "that cat will
come to no good." "but why do you think so?" mrs. blythe wouldask. "i do not think—i know," was all the answersusan would vouchsafe. with the rest of the ingleside folk jack frostwas a favourite; he was so very clean and well groomed, and never allowed a spot orstain to be seen on his beautiful white suit; he had endearing ways of purring and snuggling;he was scrupulously honest. and then a domestic tragedy took place atingleside. jack frost had kittens! it would be vain to try to picture susan'striumph. had she not always insisted that that cat would turn out to be a delusion anda snare? now they could see for themselves!
rilla kept one of the kittens, a very prettyone, with peculiarly sleek glossy fur of a dark yellow crossed by orange stripes, andlarge, satiny, golden ears. she called it goldie and the name seemed appropriate enoughto the little frolicsome creature which, during its kittenhood, gave no indication of thesinister nature it really possessed. susan, of course, warned the family that no goodcould be expected from any offspring of that diabolical jack frost; but susan's cassandra-likecroakings were unheeded. the blythes had been so accustomed to regardjack frost as a member of the male sex that they could not get out of the habit. so theycontinually used the masculine pronoun, although the result was ludicrous. visitors used tobe quite electrified when rilla referred casually
to "jack and his kitten," or told goldie sternly,"go to your mother and get him to wash your fur." "it is not decent, mrs. dr. dear," poor susanwould say bitterly. she herself compromised by always referring to jack as "it" or "thewhite beast," and one heart at least did not ache when "it" was accidentally poisoned thefollowing winter. in a year's time "goldie" became so manifestlyan inadequate name for the orange kitten that walter, who was just then reading stevenson'sstory, changed it to dr. jekyll-and-mr. hyde. in his dr. jekyll mood the cat was a drowsy,affectionate, domestic, cushion-loving puss, who liked petting and gloried in being nursedand patted. especially did he love to lie
on his back and have his sleek, cream-colouredthroat stroked gently while he purred in somnolent satisfaction. he was a notable purrer; neverhad there been an ingleside cat who purred so constantly and so ecstatically. "the only thing i envy a cat is its purr,"remarked dr. blythe once, listening to doc's resonant melody. "it is the most contentedsound in the world." doc was very handsome; his every movementwas grace; his poses magnificent. when he folded his long, dusky-ringed tail about hisfeet and sat him down on the veranda to gaze steadily into space for long intervals theblythes felt that an egyptian sphinx could not have made a more fitting deity of theportal.
when the mr. hyde mood came upon him—whichit invariably did before rain, or wind—he was a wild thing with changed eyes. the transformationalways came suddenly. he would spring fiercely from a reverie with a savage snarl and biteat any restraining or caressing hand. his fur seemed to grow darker and his eyes gleamedwith a diabolical light. there was really an unearthly beauty about him. if the changehappened in the twilight all the ingleside folk felt a certain terror of him. at suchtimes he was a fearsome beast and only rilla defended him, asserting that he was "sucha nice prowly cat." certainly he prowled. dr. jekyll loved new milk; mr. hyde wouldnot touch milk and growled over his meat. dr. jekyll came down the stairs so silentlythat no one could hear him. mr. hyde made
his tread as heavy as a man's. several evenings,when susan was alone in the house, he "scared her stiff," as she declared, by doing this.he would sit in the middle of the kitchen floor, with his terrible eyes fixed unwinkinglyupon hers for an hour at a time. this played havoc with her nerves, but poor susan reallyheld him in too much awe to try to drive him out. once she had dared to throw a stick athim and he had promptly made a savage leap towards her. susan rushed out of doors andnever attempted to meddle with mr. hyde again—though she visited his misdeeds upon the innocentdr. jekyll, chasing him ignominiously out of her domain whenever he dared to poke hisnose in and denying him certain savoury tidbits for which he yearned.
"'the many friends of miss faith meredith,gerald meredith and james blythe,'" read susan, rolling the names like sweet morsels underher tongue, "'were very much pleased to welcome them home a few weeks ago from redmond college.james blythe, who was graduated in arts in 1913, had just completed his first year inmedicine.'" "faith meredith has really got to be the mosthandsomest creature i ever saw," commented miss cornelia above her filet crochet. "it'samazing how those children came on after rosemary west went to the manse. people have almostforgotten what imps of mischief they were once. anne, dearie, will you ever forget theway they used to carry on? it's really surprising how well rosemary got on with them. she'smore like a chum than a step-mother. they
all love her and una adores her. as for thatlittle bruce, una just makes a perfect slave of herself to him. of course, he is a darling.but did you ever see any child look as much like an aunt as he looks like his aunt ellen?he's just as dark and just as emphatic. i can't see a feature of rosemary in him. normandouglas always vows at the top of his voice that the stork meant bruce for him and ellenand took him to the manse by mistake." "bruce adores jem," said mrs blythe. "whenhe comes over here he follows jem about silently like a faithful little dog, looking up athim from under his black brows. he would do anything for jem, i verily believe." "are jem and faith going to make a match ofit?"
mrs. blythe smiled. it was well known thatmiss cornelia, who had been such a virulent man-hater at one time, had actually takento match-making in her declining years. "they are only good friends yet, miss cornelia." "very good friends, believe me," said misscornelia emphatically. "i hear all about the doings of the young fry." "i have no doubt that mary vance sees thatyou do, mrs. marshall elliott," said susan significantly, "but i think it is a shameto talk about children making matches." "children! jem is twenty-one and faith isnineteen," retorted miss cornelia. "you must not forget, susan, that we old folks are notthe only grown-up people in the world."
outraged susan, who detested any referenceto her age—not from vanity but from a haunting dread that people might come to think hertoo old to work—returned to her "notes." "'carl meredith and shirley blythe came homelast friday evening from queen's academy. we understand that carl will be in chargeof the school at harbour head next year and we are sure he will be a popular and successfulteacher.'" "he will teach the children all there is toknow about bugs, anyhow," said miss cornelia. "he is through with queen's now and mr. meredithand rosemary wanted him to go right on to redmond in the fall, but carl has a very independentstreak in him and means to earn part of his own way through college. he'll be all thebetter for it."
"'walter blythe, who has been teaching forthe past two years at lowbridge, has resigned,'" read susan. "'he intends going to redmondthis fall.'" "is walter quite strong enough for redmondyet?" queried miss cornelia anxiously. "we hope that he will be by the fall," saidmrs. blythe. "an idle summer in the open air and sunshine will do a great deal for him." "typhoid is a hard thing to get over," saidmiss cornelia emphatically, "especially when one has had such a close shave as walter had.i think he'd do well to stay out of college another year. but then he's so ambitious.are di and nan going too?" "yes. they both wanted to teach another yearbut gilbert thinks they had better go to redmond
this fall." "i'm glad of that. they'll keep an eye onwalter and see that he doesn't study too hard. i suppose," continued miss cornelia, witha side glance at susan, "that after the snub i got a few minutes ago it will not be safefor me to suggest that jerry meredith is making sheep's eyes at nan." susan ignored this and mrs. blythe laughedagain. "dear miss cornelia, i have my hands full,haven't i?—with all these boys and girls sweethearting around me? if i took it seriouslyit would quite crush me. but i don't—it is too hard yet to realize that they're grownup. when i look at those two tall sons of
mine i wonder if they can possibly be thefat, sweet, dimpled babies i kissed and cuddled and sang to slumber the other day—only theother day, miss cornelia. wasn't jem the dearest baby in the old house of dreams? and now he'sa b.a. and accused of courting." "we're all growing older," sighed miss cornelia. "the only part of me that feels old," saidmrs. blythe, "is the ankle i broke when josie pye dared me to walk the barry ridge-polein the green gables days. i have an ache in it when the wind is east. i won't admit thatit is rheumatism, but it does ache. as for the children, they and the merediths are planninga gay summer before they have to go back to studies in the fall. they are such a fun-lovinglittle crowd. they keep this house in a perpetual
whirl of merriment." "is rilla going to queen's when shirley goesback?" "it isn't decided yet. i rather fancy not.her father thinks she is not quite strong enough—she has rather outgrown her strength—she'sreally absurdly tall for a girl not yet fifteen. i am not anxious to have her go—why, itwould be terrible not to have a single one of my babies home with me next winter. susanand i would fall to fighting with each other to break the monotony." susan smiled at this pleasantry. the ideaof her fighting with "mrs. dr. dear!" "does rilla herself want to go?" asked misscornelia.
"no. the truth is, rilla is the only one ofmy flock who isn't ambitious. i really wish she had a little more ambition. she has noserious ideals at all—her sole aspiration seems to be to have a good time." "and why should she not have it, mrs. dr.dear?" cried susan, who could not bear to hear a single word against anyone of the inglesidefolk, even from one of themselves. "a young girl should have a good time, and that i willmaintain. there will be time enough for her to think of latin and greek." "i should like to see a little sense of responsibilityin her, susan. and you know yourself that she is abominably vain."
"she has something to be vain about," retortedsusan. "she is the prettiest girl in glen st. mary. do you think that all those over-harbourmacallisters and crawfords and elliotts could scare up a skin like rilla's in four generations?they could not. no, mrs. dr. dear, i know my place but i cannot allow you to run downrilla. listen to this, mrs. marshall elliott." susan had found a chance to get square withmiss cornelia for her digs at the children's love affairs. she read the item with gusto. "'miller douglas has decided not to go west.he says old p.e.i. is good enough for him and he will continue to farm for his aunt,mrs. alec davis.'" susan looked keenly at miss cornelia.
"i have heard, mrs. marshall elliott, thatmiller is courting mary vance." this shot pierced miss cornelia's armour.her sonsy face flushed. "i won't have miller douglas hanging roundmary," she said crisply. "he comes of a low family. his father was a sort of outcast fromthe douglases—they never really counted him in—and his mother was one of those terribledillons from the harbour head." "i think i have heard, mrs. marshall elliott,that mary vance's own parents were not what you could call aristocratic." "mary vance has had a good bringing up andshe is a smart, clever, capable girl," retorted miss cornelia. "she is not going to throwherself away on miller douglas, believe me!
she knows my opinion on the matter and maryhas never disobeyed me yet." "well, i do not think you need worry, mrs.marshall elliott, for mrs. alec davis is as much against it as you could be, and saysno nephew of hers is ever going to marry a nameless nobody like mary vance." susan returned to her mutton, feeling thatshe had got the best of it in this passage of arms, and read another "note." "'we are pleased to hear that miss oliverhas been engaged as teacher for another year. miss oliver will spend her well-earned vacationat her home in lowbridge.'" "i'm so glad gertrude is going to stay," saidmrs. blythe. "we would miss her horribly.
and she has an excellent influence over rillawho worships her. they are chums, in spite of the difference in their ages." "i thought i heard she was going to be married?" "i believe it was talked of but i understandit is postponed for a year." "who is the young man?" "robert grant. he is a young lawyer in charlottetown.i hope gertrude will be happy. she has had a sad life, with much bitterness in it, andshe feels things with a terrible keenness. her first youth is gone and she is practicallyalone in the world. this new love that has come into her life seems such a wonderfulthing to her that i think she hardly dares
believe in its permanence. when her marriagehad to be put off she was quite in despair—though it certainly wasn't mr. grant's fault. therewere complications in the settlement of his father's estate—his father died last winter—andhe could not marry till the tangles were unravelled. but i think gertrude felt it was a bad omenand that her happiness would somehow elude her yet." "it does not do, mrs. dr. dear, to set youraffections too much on a man," remarked susan solemnly. "mr. grant is quite as much in love with gertrudeas she is with him, susan. it is not he whom she distrusts—it is fate. she has a littlemystic streak in her—i suppose some people
would call her superstitious. she has an oddbelief in dreams and we have not been able to laugh it out of her. i must own, too, thatsome of her dreams—but there, it would not do to let gilbert hear me hinting such heresy.what have you found of much interest, susan?" susan had given an exclamation. "listen to this, mrs. dr. dear. 'mrs. sophiacrawford has given up her house at lowbridge and will make her home in future with herniece, mrs. albert crawford.' why that is my own cousin sophia, mrs. dr. dear. we quarrelledwhen we were children over who should get a sunday-school card with the words 'god islove,' wreathed in rosebuds, on it, and have never spoken to each other since. and nowshe is coming to live right across the road
from us." "you will have to make up the old quarrel,susan. it will never do to be at outs with your neighbours." "cousin sophia began the quarrel, so she canbegin the making up also, mrs. dr. dear," said susan loftily. "if she does i hope iam a good enough christian to meet her half-way. she is not a cheerful person and has beena wet blanket all her life. the last time i saw her, her face had a thousand wrinkles—maybemore, maybe less—from worrying and foreboding. she howled dreadful at her first husband'sfuneral but she married again in less than a year. the next note, i see, describes thespecial service in our church last sunday
night and says the decorations were very beautiful." "speaking of that reminds me that mr. pryorstrongly disapproves of flowers in church," said miss cornelia. "i always said there wouldbe trouble when that man moved here from lowbridge. he should never have been put in as elder—itwas a mistake and we shall live to rue it, believe me! i have heard that he has saidthat if the girls continue to 'mess up the pulpit with weeds' that he will not go tochurch." "the church got on very well before old whiskers-on-the-mooncame to the glen and it is my opinion it will get on without him after he is gone," saidsusan. "who in the world ever gave him that ridiculousnickname?" asked mrs. blythe.
"why, the lowbridge boys have called him thatever since i can remember, mrs. dr. dear—i suppose because his face is so round and red,with that fringe of sandy whisker about it. it does not do for anyone to call him thatin his hearing, though, and that you may tie to. but worse than his whiskers, mrs. dr.dear, he is a very unreasonable man and has a great many queer ideas. he is an elder nowand they say he is very religious; but i can well remember the time, mrs. dr. dear, twentyyears ago, when he was caught pasturing his cow in the lowbridge graveyard. yes, indeed,i have not forgotten that, and i always think of it when he is praying in meeting. well,that is all the notes and there is not much else in the paper of any importance. i nevertake much interest in foreign parts. who is
this archduke man who has been murdered?" "what does it matter to us?" asked miss cornelia,unaware of the hideous answer to her question which destiny was even then preparing. "somebodyis always murdering or being murdered in those balkan states. it's their normal conditionand i don't really think that our papers ought to print such shocking things. the enterpriseis getting far too sensational with its big headlines. well, i must be getting home. no,anne dearie, it's no use asking me to stay to supper. marshall has got to thinking thatif i'm not home for a meal it's not worth eating—just like a man. so off i go. mercifulgoodness, anne dearie, what is the matter with that cat? is he having a fit?"—this,as doc suddenly bounded to the rug at miss
cornelia's feet, laid back his ears, sworeat her, and then disappeared with one fierce leap through the window. "oh, no. he's merely turning into mr. hyde—whichmeans that we shall have rain or high wind before morning. doc is as good as a barometer." "well, i am thankful he has gone on the rampageoutside this time and not into my kitchen," said susan. "and i am going out to see aboutsupper. with such a crowd as we have at ingleside now it behooves us to think about our mealsbetimes." chapter ii dew of morning
outside, the ingleside lawn was full of goldenpools of sunshine and plots of alluring shadows. rilla blythe was swinging in the hammock underthe big scotch pine, gertrude oliver sat at its roots beside her, and walter was stretchedat full length on the grass, lost in a romance of chivalry wherein old heroes and beautiesof dead and gone centuries lived vividly again for him. rilla was the "baby" of the blythe familyand was in a chronic state of secret indignation because nobody believed she was grown up.she was so nearly fifteen that she called herself that, and she was quite as tall asdi and nan; also, she was nearly as pretty as susan believed her to be. she had great,dreamy, hazel eyes, a milky skin dappled with
little golden freckles, and delicately archedeyebrows, giving her a demure, questioning look which made people, especially lads intheir teens, want to answer it. her hair was ripely, ruddily brown and a little dent inher upper lip looked as if some good fairy had pressed it in with her finger at rilla'schristening. rilla, whose best friends could not deny her share of vanity, thought herface would do very well, but worried over her figure, and wished her mother could beprevailed upon to let her wear longer dresses. she, who had been so plump and roly-poly inthe old rainbow valley days, was incredibly slim now, in the arms-and-legs period. jemand shirley harrowed her soul by calling her "spider." yet she somehow escaped awkwardness.there was something in her movements that
made you think she never walked but alwaysdanced. she had been much petted and was a wee bit spoiled, but still the general opinionwas that rilla blythe was a very sweet girl, even if she were not so clever as nan anddi. miss oliver, who was going home that nightfor vacation, had boarded for a year at ingleside. the blythes had taken her to please rillawho was fathoms deep in love with her teacher and was even willing to share her room, sinceno other was available. gertrude oliver was twenty-eight and life had been a strugglefor her. she was a striking-looking girl, with rather sad, almond-shaped brown eyes,a clever, rather mocking mouth, and enormous masses of black hair twisted about her head.she was not pretty but there was a certain
charm of interest and mystery in her face,and rilla found her fascinating. even her occasional moods of gloom and cynicism hadallurement for rilla. these moods came only when miss oliver was tired. at all other timesshe was a stimulating companion, and the gay set at ingleside never remembered that shewas so much older than themselves. walter and rilla were her favourites and she wasthe confidante of the secret wishes and aspirations of both. she knew that rilla longed to be"out"—to go to parties as nan and di did, and to have dainty evening dresses and—yes,there is no mincing matters—beaux! in the plural, at that! as for walter, miss oliverknew that he had written a sequence of sonnets "to rosamond"—i.e., faith meredith—andthat he aimed at a professorship of english
literature in some big college. she knew hispassionate love of beauty and his equally passionate hatred of ugliness; she knew hisstrength and his weakness. walter was, as ever, the handsomest of theingleside boys. miss oliver found pleasure in looking at him for his good looks—hewas so exactly like what she would have liked her own son to be. glossy black hair, brilliantdark grey eyes, faultless features. and a poet to his fingertips! that sonnet sequencewas really a remarkable thing for a lad of twenty to write. miss oliver was no partialcritic and she knew that walter blythe had a wonderful gift. rilla loved walter with all her heart. henever teased her as jem and shirley did. he
never called her "spider." his pet name forher was "rilla-my-rilla"—a little pun on her real name, marilla. she had been namedafter aunt marilla of green gables, but aunt marilla had died before rilla was old enoughto know her very well, and rilla detested the name as being horribly old-fashioned andprim. why couldn't they have called her by her first name, bertha, which was beautifuland dignified, instead of that silly "rilla"? she did not mind walter's version, but nobodyelse was allowed to call her that, except miss oliver now and then. "rilla-my-rilla"in walter's musical voice sounded very beautiful to her—like the lilt and ripple of somesilvery brook. she would have died for walter if it would have done him any good, so shetold miss oliver. rilla was as fond of italics
as most girls of fifteen are—and the bitterestdrop in her cup was her suspicion that he told di more of his secrets than he told her. "he thinks i'm not grown up enough to understand,"she had once lamented rebelliously to miss oliver, "but i am! and i would never tellthem to a single soul—not even to you, miss oliver. i tell you all my own—i just couldn'tbe happy if i had any secret from you, dearest—but i would never betray his. i tell him everything—ieven show him my diary. and it hurts me dreadfully when he doesn't tell me things. he shows meall his poems, though—they are marvellous, miss oliver. oh, i just live in the hope thatsome day i shall be to walter what wordsworth's sister dorothy was to him. wordsworth neverwrote anything like walter's poems—nor tennyson,
either." "i wouldn't say just that. both of them wrotea great deal of trash," said miss oliver dryly. then, repenting, as she saw a hurt look inrilla's eye, she added hastily, "but i believe walter will be a great poet,too—some day—and you will have more of his confidence as you grow older." "when walter was in the hospital with typhoidlast year i was almost crazy," sighed rilla, a little importantly. "they never told mehow ill he really was until it was all over—father wouldn't let them. i'm glad i didn't know—icouldn't have borne it. i cried myself to sleep every night as it was. but sometimes,"concluded rilla bitterly—she liked to speak
bitterly now and then in imitation of missoliver—"sometimes i think walter cares more for dog monday than he does for me." dog monday was the ingleside dog, so calledbecause he had come into the family on a monday when walter had been reading robinson crusoe.he really belonged to jem but was much attached to walter also. he was lying beside walternow with nose snuggled against his arm, thumping his tail rapturously whenever walter gavehim an absent pat. monday was not a collie or a setter or a hound or a newfoundland.he was just, as jem said, "plain dog"—very plain dog, uncharitable people added. certainly,monday's looks were not his strong point. black spots were scattered at random overhis yellow carcass, one of them, apparently,
blotting out an eye. his ears were in tatters,for monday was never successful in affairs of honour. but he possessed one talisman.he knew that not all dogs could be handsome or eloquent or victorious, but that everydog could love. inside his homely hide beat the most affectionate, loyal, faithful heartof any dog since dogs were; and something looked out of his brown eyes that was nearerakin to a soul than any theologian would allow. everybody at ingleside was fond of him, evensusan, although his one unfortunate propensity of sneaking into the spare room and goingto sleep on the bed tried her affection sorely. on this particular afternoon rilla had noquarrel on hand with existing conditions. "hasn't june been a delightful month?" sheasked, looking dreamily afar at the little
quiet silvery clouds hanging so peacefullyover rainbow valley. "we've had such lovely times—and such lovely weather. it has justbeen perfect every way." "i don't half like that," said miss oliver,with a sigh. "it's ominous—somehow. a perfect thing is a gift of the gods—a sort of compensationfor what is coming afterwards. i've seen that so often that i don't care to hear peoplesay they've had a perfect time. june has been delightful, though." "of course, it hasn't been very exciting,"said rilla. "the only exciting thing that has happened in the glen for a year was oldmiss mead fainting in church. sometimes i wish something dramatic would happen oncein a while."
"don't wish it. dramatic things always havea bitterness for some one. what a nice summer all you gay creatures will have! and me mopingat lowbridge!" "you'll be over often, won't you? i thinkthere's going to be lots of fun this summer, though i'll just be on the fringe of thingsas usual, i suppose. isn't it horrid when people think you're a little girl when you'renot?" "there's plenty of time for you to be grownup, rilla. don't wish your youth away. it goes too quickly. you'll begin to taste lifesoon enough." "taste life! i want to eat it," cried rilla,laughing. "i want everything—everything a girl can have. i'll be fifteen in anothermonth, and then nobody can say i'm a child
any longer. i heard someone say once thatthe years from fifteen to nineteen are the best years in a girl's life. i'm going tomake them perfectly splendid—just fill them with fun." "there's no use thinking about what you'regoing to do—you are tolerably sure not to do it." "oh, but you do get a lot of fun out of thethinking," cried rilla. "you think of nothing but fun, you monkey,"said miss oliver indulgently, reflecting that rilla's chin was really the last word in chins."well, what else is fifteen for? but have you any notion of going to college this fall?"
"no—nor any other fall. i don't want to.i never cared for all those ologies and isms nan and di are so crazy about. and there'sfive of us going to college already. surely that's enough. there's bound to be one duncein every family. i'm quite willing to be a dunce if i can be a pretty, popular, delightfulone. i can't be clever. i have no talent at all, and you can't imagine how comfortableit is. nobody expects me to do anything so i'm never pestered to do it. and i can't bea housewifely, cookly creature, either. i hate sewing and dusting, and when susan couldn'tteach me to make biscuits nobody could. father says i toil not neither do i spin. therefore,i must be a lily of the field," concluded rilla, with another laugh.
"you are too young to give up your studiesaltogether, rilla." "oh, mother will put me through a course ofreading next winter. it will polish up her b.a. degree. luckily i like reading. don'tlook at me so sorrowfully and so disapprovingly, dearest. i can't be sober and serious—everythinglooks so rosy and rainbowy to me. next month i'll be fifteen—and next year sixteen—andthe year after that seventeen. could anything be more enchanting?" "rap wood," said gertrude oliver, half laughingly,half seriously. "rap wood, rilla-my-rilla." chapter iii moonlit mirth
rilla, who still buttoned up her eyes whenshe went to sleep so that she always looked as if she were laughing in her slumber, yawned,stretched, and smiled at gertrude oliver. the latter had come over from lowbridge theprevious evening and had been prevailed upon to remain for the dance at the four windslighthouse the next night. "the new day is knocking at the window. whatwill it bring us, i wonder." miss oliver shivered a little. she never greetedthe days with rilla's enthusiasm. she had lived long enough to know that a day may bringa terrible thing. "i think the nicest thing about days is theirunexpectedness," went on rilla. "it's jolly to wake up like this on a golden-fine morningand wonder what surprise packet the day will
hand you. i always day-dream for ten minutesbefore i get up, imagining the heaps of splendid things that may happen before night." "i hope something very unexpected will happentoday," said gertrude. "i hope the mail will bring us news that war has been averted betweengermany and france." "oh—yes," said rilla vaguely. "it will bedreadful if it isn't, i suppose. but it won't really matter much to us, will it? i thinka war would be so exciting. the boer war was, they say, but i don't remember anything aboutit, of course. miss oliver, shall i wear my white dress tonight or my new green one? thegreen one is by far the prettier, of course, but i'm almost afraid to wear it to a shoredance for fear something will happen to it.
and will you do my hair the new way? noneof the other girls in the glen wear it yet and it will make such a sensation." "how did you induce your mother to let yougo to the dance?" "oh, walter coaxed her over. he knew i wouldbe heart-broken if i didn't go. it's my first really-truly grown-up party, miss oliver,and i've just lain awake at nights for a week thinking it over. when i saw the sun shiningthis morning i wanted to whoop for joy. it would be simply terrible if it rained tonight.i think i'll wear the green dress and risk it. i want to look my nicest at my first party.besides, it's an inch longer than my white one. and i'll wear my silver slippers too.mrs. ford sent them to me last christmas and
i've never had a chance to wear them yet.they're the dearest things. oh, miss oliver, i do hope some of the boys will ask me todance. i shall die of mortification—truly i will, if nobody does and i have to sit stuckup against the wall all the evening. of course carl and jerry can't dance because they'rethe minister's sons, or else i could depend on them to save me from utter disgrace." "you'll have plenty of partners—all theover-harbour boys are coming—there'll be far more boys than girls." "i'm glad i'm not a minister's daughter,"laughed rilla. "poor faith is so furious because she won't dare to dance tonight. una doesn'tcare, of course. she has never hankered after
dancing. somebody told faith there would bea taffy-pull in the kitchen for those who didn't dance and you should have seen theface she made. she and jem will sit out on the rocks most of the evening, i suppose.did you know that we are all to walk down as far as that little creek below the oldhouse of dreams and then sail to the lighthouse? won't it just be absolutely divine?" "when i was fifteen i talked in italics andsuperlatives too," said miss oliver sarcastically. "i think the party promises to be pleasantfor young fry. i expect to be bored. none of those boys will bother dancing with anold maid like me. jem and walter will take me out once out of charity. so you can't expectme to look forward to it with your touching
young rapture." "didn't you have a good time at your firstparty, though, miss oliver?" "no. i had a hateful time. i was shabby andhomely and nobody asked me to dance except one boy, homelier and shabbier than myself.he was so awkward i hated him—and even he didn't ask me again. i had no real girlhood,rilla. it's a sad loss. that's why i want you to have a splendid, happy girlhood. andi hope your first party will be one you'll remember all your life with pleasure." "i dreamed last night i was at the dance andright in the middle of things i discovered i was dressed in my kimono and bedroom shoes,"sighed rilla. "i woke up with a gasp of horror."
"speaking of dreams—i had an odd one," saidmiss oliver absently. "it was one of those vivid dreams i sometimes have—they are notthe vague jumble of ordinary dreams—they are as clear cut and real as life." "what was your dream?" "i was standing on the veranda steps, hereat ingleside, looking down over the fields of the glen. all at once, far in the distance,i saw a long, silvery, glistening wave breaking over them. it came nearer and nearer—justa succession of little white waves like those that break on the sandshore sometimes. theglen was being swallowed up. i thought, 'surely the waves will not come near ingleside'—butthey came nearer and nearer—so rapidly—before
i could move or call they were breaking rightat my feet—and everything was gone—there was nothing but a waste of stormy water wherethe glen had been. i tried to draw back—and i saw that the edge of my dress was wet withblood—and i woke—shivering. i don't like the dream. there was some sinister significancein it. that kind of vivid dream always 'comes true' with me." "i hope it doesn't mean there's a storm comingup from the east to spoil the party," murmured rilla. "incorrigible fifteen!" said miss oliver dryly."no, rilla-my-rilla, i don't think there is any danger that it foretells anything so awfulas that."
there had been an undercurrent of tensionin the ingleside existence for several days. only rilla, absorbed in her own budding life,was unaware of it. dr. blythe had taken to looking grave and saying little over the dailypaper. jem and walter were keenly interested in the news it brought. jem sought walterout in excitement that evening. "oh, boy, germany has declared war on france.this means that england will fight too, probably—and if she does—well, the piper of your oldfancy will have come at last." "it wasn't a fancy," said walter slowly. "itwas a presentiment—a vision—jem, i really saw him for a moment that evening long ago.suppose england does fight?" "why, we'll all have to turn in and help her,"cried jem gaily. "we couldn't let the 'old
grey mother of the northern sea' fight itout alone, could we? but you can't go—the typhoid has done you out of that. sort ofa shame, eh?" walter did not say whether it was a shameor not. he looked silently over the glen to the dimpling blue harbour beyond. "we're the cubs—we've got to pitch in toothand claw if it comes to a family row," jem went on cheerfully, rumpling up his red curlswith a strong, lean, sensitive brown hand—the hand of the born surgeon, his father oftenthought. "what an adventure it would be! but i suppose grey or some of those wary old chapswill patch matters up at the eleventh hour. it'll be a rotten shame if they leave francein the lurch, though. if they don't, we'll
see some fun. well, i suppose it's time toget ready for the spree at the light." jem departed whistling "wi' a hundred pipersand a' and a'," and walter stood for a long time where he was. there was a little frownon his forehead. this had all come up with the blackness and suddenness of a thundercloud.a few days ago nobody had even thought of such a thing. it was absurd to think of itnow. some way out would be found. war was a hellish, horrible, hideous thing—too horribleand hideous to happen in the twentieth century between civilized nations. the mere thoughtof it was hideous, and made walter unhappy in its threat to the beauty of life. he wouldnot think of it—he would resolutely put it out of his mind. how beautiful the oldglen was, in its august ripeness, with its
chain of bowery old homesteads, tilled meadowsand quiet gardens. the western sky was like a great golden pearl. far down the harbourwas frosted with a dawning moonlight. the air was full of exquisite sounds—sleepyrobin whistles, wonderful, mournful, soft murmurs of wind in the twilit trees, rustleof aspen poplars talking in silvery whispers and shaking their dainty, heart-shaped leaves,lilting young laughter from the windows of rooms where the girls were making ready forthe dance. the world was steeped in maddening loveliness of sound and colour. he would thinkonly of these things and of the deep, subtle joy they gave him. "anyhow, no one will expectme to go," he thought. "as jem says, typhoid has seen to that."
rilla was leaning out of her room window,dressed for the dance. a yellow pansy slipped from her hair and fell out over the sill likea falling star of gold. she caught at it vainly—but there were enough left. miss oliver had wovena little wreath of them for her pet's hair. "it's so beautifully calm—isn't that splendid?we'll have a perfect night. listen, miss oliver—i can hear those old bells in rainbow valleyquite clearly. they've been hanging there for over ten years." "their wind chime always makes me think ofthe aerial, celestial music adam and eve heard in milton's eden," responded miss oliver. "we used to have such fun in rainbow valleywhen we were children," said rilla dreamily.
nobody ever played in rainbow valley now.it was very silent on summer evenings. walter liked to go there to read. jem and faith trystedthere considerably; jerry and nan went there to pursue uninterruptedly the ceaseless wranglesand arguments on profound subjects that seemed to be their preferred method of sweethearting.and rilla had a beloved little sylvan dell of her own there where she liked to sit anddream. "i must run down to the kitchen before i goand show myself off to susan. she would never forgive me if i didn't." rilla whirled into the shadowy kitchen atingleside, where susan was prosaically darning socks, and lighted it up with her beauty.she wore her green dress with its little pink
daisy garlands, her silk stockings and silverslippers. she had golden pansies in her hair and at her creamy throat. she was so prettyand young and glowing that even cousin sophia crawford was compelled to admire her—andcousin sophia crawford admired few transient earthly things. cousin sophia and susan hadmade up, or ignored, their old feud since the former had come to live in the glen, andcousin sophia often came across in the evenings to make a neighbourly call. susan did notalways welcome her rapturously for cousin sophia was not what could be called an exhilaratingcompanion. "some calls are visits and some are visitations, mrs. dr. dear," susan saidonce, and left it to be inferred that cousin sophia's were the latter.
cousin sophia had a long, pale, wrinkled face,a long, thin nose, a long, thin mouth, and very long, thin, pale hands, generally foldedresignedly on her black calico lap. everything about her seemed long and thin and pale. shelooked mournfully upon rilla blythe and said sadly, "is your hair all your own?" "of course it is," cried rilla indignantly. "ah, well!" cousin sophia sighed. "it mightbe better for you if it wasn't! such a lot of hair takes from a person's strength. it'sa sign of consumption, i've heard, but i hope it won't turn out like that in your case.i s'pose you'll all be dancing tonight—even
the minister's boys most likely. i s'posehis girls won't go that far. ah, well, i never held with dancing. i knew a girl once whodropped dead while she was dancing. how any one could ever dance aga' after a judgmentlike that i cannot comprehend." "did she ever dance again?" asked rilla pertly. "i told you she dropped dead. of course shenever danced again, poor creature. she was a kirke from lowbridge. you ain't a-goingoff like that with nothing on your bare neck, are you?" "it's a hot evening," protested rilla. "buti'll put on a scarf when we go on the water." "i knew of a boat load of young folks whowent sailing on that harbour forty years ago
just such a night as this—just exactly sucha night as this," said cousin sophia lugubriously, "and they were upset and drowned—every lastone of them. i hope nothing like that'll happen to you tonight. do you ever try anything forthe freckles? i used to find plantain juice real good." "you certainly should be a judge of freckles,cousin sophia," said susan, rushing to rilla's defence. "you were more speckled than anytoad when you was a girl. rilla's only come in summer but yours stayed put, season inand season out; and you had not a ground colour like hers behind them neither. you look realnice, rilla, and that way of fixing your hair is becoming. but you are not going to walkto the harbour in those slippers, are you?"
"oh, no. we'll all wear our old shoes to theharbour and carry our slippers. do you like my dress, susan?" "it minds me of a dress i wore when i wasa girl," sighed cousin sophia before susan could reply. "it was green with pink posieson it, too, and it was flounced from the waist to the hem. we didn't wear the skimpy thingsgirls wear nowadays. ah me, times has changed and not for the better i'm afraid. i torea big hole in it that night and someone spilled a cup of tea all over it. ruined it completely.but i hope nothing will happen to your dress. it orter to be a bit longer i'm thinking—yourlegs are so terrible long and thin." "mrs. dr. blythe does not approve of littlegirls dressing like grown-up ones," said susan
stiffly, intending merely a snub to cousinsophia. but rilla felt insulted. a little girl indeed! she whisked out of the kitchenin high dudgeon. another time she wouldn't go down to show herself off to susan—susan,who thought nobody was grown up until she was sixty! and that horrid cousin sophia withher digs about freckles and legs! what business had an old—an old beanpole like that totalk of anybody else being long and thin? rilla felt all her pleasure in herself andher evening clouded and spoiled. the very teeth of her soul were set on edge and shecould have sat down and cried. but later on her spirits rose again when shefound herself one of the gay crowd bound for the four winds light.
the blythes left ingleside to the melancholymusic of howls from dog monday, who was locked up in the barn lest he make an uninvited guestat the light. they picked up the merediths in the village, and others joined them asthey walked down the old harbour road. mary vance, resplendent in blue crepe, with laceoverdress, came out of miss cornelia's gate and attached herself to rilla and miss oliverwho were walking together and who did not welcome her over-warmly. rilla was not veryfond of mary vance. she had never forgotten the humiliating day when mary had chased herthrough the village with a dried codfish. mary vance, to tell the truth, was not exactlypopular with any of her set. still, they enjoyed her society—she had such a biting tonguethat it was stimulating. "mary vance is a
habit of ours—we can't do without her evenwhen we are furious with her," di blythe had once said. most of the little crowd were paired off aftera fashion. jem walked with faith meredith, of course, and jerry meredith with nan blythe.di and walter were together, deep in confidential conversation which rilla envied. carl meredith was walking with miranda pryor,more to torment joe milgrave than for any other reason. joe was known to have a stronghankering for the said miranda, which shyness prevented him from indulging on all occasions.joe might summon enough courage to amble up beside miranda if the night were dark, buthere, in this moonlit dusk, he simply could
not do it. so he trailed along after the processionand thought things not lawful to be uttered of carl meredith. miranda was the daughterof whiskers-on-the-moon; she did not share her father's unpopularity but she was notmuch run after, being a pale, neutral little creature, somewhat addicted to nervous giggling.she had silvery blonde hair and her eyes were big china blue orbs that looked as if shehad been badly frightened when she was little and had never got over it. she would muchrather have walked with joe than with carl, with whom she did not feel in the least athome. yet it was something of an honour, too, to have a college boy beside her, and a sonof the manse at that. shirley blythe was with una meredith and bothwere rather silent because such was their
nature. shirley was a lad of sixteen, sedate,sensible, thoughtful, full of a quiet humour. he was susan's "little brown boy" yet, withhis brown hair, brown eyes, and clear brown skin. he liked to walk with una meredith becauseshe never tried to make him talk or badgered him with chatter. una was as sweet and shyas she had been in the rainbow valley days, and her large, dark-blue eyes were as dreamyand wistful. she had a secret, carefully-hidden fancy for walter blythe that nobody but rillaever suspected. rilla sympathized with it and wished walter would return it. she likeduna better than faith, whose beauty and aplomb rather overshadowed other girls—and rilladid not enjoy being overshadowed. but just now she was very happy. it was sodelightful to be tripping with her friends
down that dark, gleaming road sprinkled withits little spruces and firs, whose balsam made all the air resinous around them. meadowsof sunset afterlight were behind the westerning hills. before them was the shining harbour.a bell was ringing in the little church over-harbour and the lingering dream-notes died aroundthe dim, amethystine points. the gulf beyond was still silvery blue in the afterlight.oh, it was all glorious—the clear air with its salt tang, the balsam of the firs, thelaughter of her friends. rilla loved life—its bloom and brilliance; she loved the rippleof music, the hum of merry conversation; she wanted to walk on forever over this road ofsilver and shadow. it was her first party and she was going to have a splendid time.there was nothing in the world to worry about—not
even freckles and over-long legs—nothingexcept one little haunting fear that nobody would ask her to dance. it was beautiful andsatisfying just to be alive—to be fifteen—to be pretty. rilla drew a long breath of rapture—andcaught it midway rather sharply. jem was telling some story to faith—something that had happenedin the balkan war. "the doctor lost both his legs—they weresmashed to pulp—and he was left on the field to die. and he crawled about from man to man,to all the wounded men round him, as long as he could, and did everything possible torelieve their sufferings—never thinking of himself—he was tying a bit of bandageround another man's leg when he went under. they found them there, the doctor's dead handsstill held the bandage tight, the bleeding
was stopped and the other man's life was saved.some hero, wasn't he, faith? i tell you when i read that—" jem and faith moved on out of hearing. gertrudeoliver suddenly shivered. rilla pressed her arm sympathetically. "wasn't it dreadful, miss oliver? i don'tknow why jem tells such gruesome things at a time like this when we're all out for fun." "do you think it dreadful, rilla? i thoughtit wonderful—beautiful. such a story makes one ashamed of ever doubting human nature.that man's action was godlike. and how humanity responds to the ideal of self-sacrifice. asfor my shiver, i don't know what caused it.
the evening is certainly warm enough. perhapssomeone is walking over the dark, starshiny spot that is to be my grave. that is the explanationthe old superstition would give. well, i won't think of that on this lovely night. do youknow, rilla, that when night-time comes i'm always glad i live in the country. we knowthe real charm of night here as town dwellers never do. every night is beautiful in thecountry—even the stormy ones. i love a wild night storm on this old gulf shore. as fora night like this, it is almost too beautiful—it belongs to youth and dreamland and i'm halfafraid of it." "i feel as if i were part of it," said rilla. "ah yes, you're young enough not to be afraidof perfect things. well, here we are at the
house of dreams. it seems lonely this summer.the fords didn't come?" "mr. and mrs. ford and persis didn't. kennethdid—but he stayed with his mother's people over-harbour. we haven't seen a great dealof him this summer. he's a little lame, so didn't go about very much." "lame? what happened to him?" "he broke his ankle in a football game lastfall and was laid up most of the winter. he has limped a little ever since but it is gettingbetter all the time and he expects it will be all right before long. he has been up toingleside only twice." "ethel reese is simply crazy about him," saidmary vance. "she hasn't got the sense she
was born with where he is concerned. he walkedhome with her from the over-harbour church last prayer-meeting night and the airs shehas put on since would really make you weary of life. as if a toronto boy like ken fordwould ever really think of a country girl like ethel!" rilla flushed. it did not matter to her ifkenneth ford walked home with ethel reese a dozen times—it did not! nothing that hedid mattered to her. he was ages older than she was. he chummed with nan and di and faith,and looked upon her, rilla, as a child whom he never noticed except to tease. and shedetested ethel reese and ethel reese hated her—always had hated her since walter hadpummelled dan so notoriously in rainbow valley
days; but why need she be thought beneathkenneth ford's notice because she was a country girl, pray? as for mary vance, she was gettingto be an out-and-out gossip and thought of nothing but who walked home with people! there was a little pier on the harbour shorebelow the house of dreams, and two boats were moored there. one boat was skippered by jemblythe, the other by joe milgrave, who knew all about boats and was nothing loth to letmiranda pryor see it. they raced down the harbour and joe's boat won. more boats werecoming down from the harbour head and across the harbour from the western side. everywherethere was laughter. the big white tower on four winds point was overflowing with light,while its revolving beacon flashed overhead.
a family from charlottetown, relatives ofthe light's keeper, were summering at the light, and they were giving the party to whichall the young people of four winds and glen st. mary and over-harbour had been invited.as jem's boat swung in below the lighthouse rilla desperately snatched off her shoes anddonned her silver slippers behind miss oliver's screening back. a glance had told her thatthe rock-cut steps climbing up to the light were lined with boys, and lighted by chineselanterns, and she was determined she would not walk up those steps in the heavy shoesher mother had insisted on her wearing for the road. the slippers pinched abominably,but nobody would have suspected it as rilla tripped smilingly up the steps, her soft darkeyes glowing and questioning, her colour deepening
richly on her round, creamy cheeks. the veryminute she reached the top of the steps an over-harbour boy asked her to dance and thenext moment they were in the pavilion that had been built seaward of the lighthouse fordances. it was a delightful spot, roofed over with fir-boughs and hung with lanterns. beyondwas the sea in a radiance that glowed and shimmered, to the left the moonlit crestsand hollows of the sand-dunes, to the right the rocky shore with its inky shadows andits crystalline coves. rilla and her partner swung in among the dancers; she drew a longbreath of delight; what witching music ned burr of the upper glen was coaxing from hisfiddle—it was really like the magical pipes of the old tale which compelled all who heardthem to dance. how cool and fresh the gulf
breeze blew; how white and wonderful the moonlightwas over everything! this was life—enchanting life. rilla felt as if her feet and her soulboth had wings. chapter iv the piper pipes rilla's first party was a triumph—or soit seemed at first. she had so many partners that she had to split her dances. her silverslippers seemed verily to dance of themselves and though they continued to pinch her toesand blister her heels that did not interfere with her enjoyment in the least. ethel reesegave her a bad ten minutes by beckoning her mysteriously out of the pavilion and whispering,with a reese-like smirk, that her dress gaped
behind and that there was a stain on the flounce.rilla rushed miserably to the room in the lighthouse which was fitted up for a temporaryladies' dressing-room, and discovered that the stain was merely a tiny grass smear andthat the gap was equally tiny where a hook had pulled loose. irene howard fastened itup for her and gave her some over-sweet, condescending compliments. rilla felt flattered by irene'scondescension. she was an upper glen girl of nineteen who seemed to like the societyof the younger girls—spiteful friends said because she could queen it over them withoutrivalry. but rilla thought irene quite wonderful and loved her for her patronage. irene waspretty and stylish; she sang divinely and spent every winter in charlottetown takingmusic lessons. she had an aunt in montreal
who sent her wonderful things to wear; shewas reported to have had a sad love affair—nobody knew just what, but its very mystery allured.rilla felt that irene's compliments crowned her evening. she ran gaily back to the pavilionand lingered for a moment in the glow of the lanterns at the entrance looking at the dancers.a momentary break in the whirling throng gave her a glimpse of kenneth ford standing atthe other side. rilla's heart skipped a beat—or, if thatbe a physiological impossibility, she thought it did. so he was here, after all. she hadconcluded he was not coming—not that it mattered in the least. would he see her? wouldhe take any notice of her? of course, he wouldn't ask her to dance—that couldn't be hopedfor. he thought her just a mere child. he
had called her "spider" not three weeks agowhen he had been at ingleside one evening. she had cried about it upstairs afterwardsand hated him. but her heart skipped a beat when she saw that he was edging his way roundthe side of the pavilion towards her. was he coming to her—was he?—was he?—yes,he was! he was looking for her—he was here beside her—he was gazing down at her withsomething in his dark grey eyes that rilla had never seen in them. oh, it was almosttoo much to bear! and everything was going on as before—the dancers were spinning round,the boys who couldn't get partners were hanging about the pavilion, canoodling couples weresitting out on the rocks—nobody seemed to realize what a stupendous thing had happened.
kenneth was a tall lad, very good looking,with a certain careless grace of bearing that somehow made all the other boys seem stiffand awkward by contrast. he was reported to be awesomely clever, with the glamour of afar-away city and a big university hanging around him. he had also the reputation ofbeing a bit of a lady-killer. but that probably accrued to him from his possession of a laughing,velvety voice which no girl could hear without a heartbeat, and a dangerous way of listeningas if she were saying something that he had longed all his life to hear. "is this rilla-my-rilla?" he asked in a lowtone. "yeth," said rilla, and immediately wishedshe could throw herself headlong down the
lighthouse rock or otherwise vanish from ajeering world. rilla had lisped in early childhood; but shehad grown out of it. only on occasions of stress and strain did the tendency re-assertitself. she hadn't lisped for a year; and now at this very moment, when she was so especiallydesirous of appearing grown up and sophisticated, she must go and lisp like a baby! it was toomortifying; she felt as if tears were going to come into her eyes; the next minute shewould be—blubbering—yes, just blubbering—she wished kenneth would go away—she wishedhe had never come. the party was spoiled. everything had turned to dust and ashes. and he had called her "rilla-my-rilla"—not"spider" or "kid" or "puss," as he had been
used to call her when he took any notice whateverof her. she did not at all resent his using walter's pet name for her; it sounded beautifullyin his low caressing tones, with just the faintest suggestion of emphasis on the "my."it would have been so nice if she had not made a fool of herself. she dared not lookup lest she should see laughter in his eyes. so she looked down; and as her lashes werevery long and dark and her lids very thick and creamy, the effect was quite charmingand provocative, and kenneth reflected that rilla blythe was going to be the beauty ofthe ingleside girls after all. he wanted to make her look up—to catch again that little,demure, questioning glance. she was the prettiest thing at the party, there was no doubt ofthat.
what was he saying? rilla could hardly believeher ears. "can we have a dance?" "yes," said rilla. she said it with such afierce determination not to lisp that she fairly blurted the word out. then she writhedin spirit again. it sounded so bold—so eager—as if she were fairly jumping at him! what wouldhe think of her? oh, why did dreadful things like this happen, just when a girl wantedto appear at her best? kenneth drew her in among the dancers. "i think this game ankle of mine is good forone hop around, at least," he said. "how is your ankle?" said rilla. oh, why couldn'tshe think of something else to say? she knew
he was sick of inquiries about his ankle.she had heard him say so at ingleside—heard him tell di he was going to wear a placardon his breast announcing to all and sundry that the ankle was improving, etc. and nowshe must go and ask this stale question again. kenneth was tired of inquiries about his ankle.but then he had not often been asked about it by lips with such an adorable kissabledent just above them. perhaps that was why he answered very patiently that it was gettingon well and didn't trouble him much, if he didn't walk or stand too long at a time. "they tell me it will be as strong as everin time, but i'll have to cut football out they danced together and rilla knew everygirl in sight envied her. after the dance
they went down the rock steps and kennethfound a little flat and they rowed across the moonlit channel to the sand-shore; theywalked on the sand till kenneth's ankle made protest and then they sat down among the dunes.kenneth talked to her as he had talked to nan and di. rilla, overcome with a shynessshe did not understand, could not talk much, and thought he would think her frightfullystupid; but in spite of this it was all very wonderful—the exquisite moonlit night, theshining sea, the tiny little wavelets swishing on the sand, the cool and freakish wind ofnight crooning in the stiff grasses on the crest of the dunes, the music sounding faintlyand sweetly over the channel. "'a merry lilt o' moonlight for mermaidenrevelry,'" quoted kenneth softly from one
of walter's poems. and just he and she alone together in theglamour of sound and sight! if only her slippers didn't bite so! and if only she could talkcleverly like miss oliver—nay, if she could only talk as she did herself to other boys!but words would not come, she could only listen and murmur little commonplace sentences nowand again. but perhaps her dreamy eyes and her dented lip and her slender throat talkedeloquently for her. at any rate kenneth seemed in no hurry to suggest going back and whenthey did go back supper was in progress. he found a seat for her near the window of thelighthouse kitchen and sat on the sill beside her while she ate her ices and cake. rillalooked about her and thought how lovely her
first party had been. she would never forgetit. the room re-echoed to laughter and jest. beautiful young eyes sparkled and shone. fromthe pavilion outside came the lilt of the fiddle and the rhythmic steps of the dancers. there was a little disturbance among a groupof boys crowded about the door; a young fellow pushed through and halted on the threshold,looking about him rather sombrely. it was jack elliott from over-harbour—a mcgillmedical student, a quiet chap not much addicted to social doings. he had been invited to theparty but had not been expected to come since he had to go to charlottetown that day andcould not be back until late. yet here he was—and he carried a folded paper in hishand.
gertrude oliver looked at him from her cornerand shivered again. she had enjoyed the party herself, after all, for she had foregatheredwith a charlottetown acquaintance who, being a stranger and much older than most of theguests, felt himself rather out of it, and had been glad to fall in with this clevergirl who could talk of world doings and outside events with the zest and vigour of a man.in the pleasure of his society she had forgotten some of her misgivings of the day. now theysuddenly returned to her. what news did jack elliott bring? lines from an old poem flashedunbidden into her mind—"there was a sound of revelry by night"—"hush! hark! a deepsound strikes like a rising knell"—why should she think of that now? why didn't jack elliottspeak—if he had anything to tell? why did
he just stand there, glowering importantly? "ask him—ask him," she said feverishly toallan daly. but somebody else had already asked him. the room grew very silent all atonce. outside the fiddler had stopped for a rest and there was silence there too. afaroff they heard the low moan of the gulf—the presage of a storm already on its way up theatlantic. a girl's laugh drifted up from the rocks and died away as if frightened out ofexistence by the sudden stillness. "england declared war on germany today," saidjack elliott slowly. "the news came by wire just as i left town." "god help us," whispered gertrude oliver underher breath. "my dream—my dream! the first
wave has broken." she looked at allan dalyand tried to smile. "is this armageddon?" she asked. "i am afraid so," he said gravely. a chorus of exclamations had arisen roundthem—light surprise and idle interest for the most part. few there realized the importof the message—fewer still realized that it meant anything to them. before long thedancing was on again and the hum of pleasure was as loud as ever. gertrude and allan dalytalked the news over in low, troubled tones. walter blythe had turned pale and left theroom. outside he met jem, hurrying up the rock steps.
"have you heard the news, jem?" "yes. the piper has come. hurrah! i knew englandwouldn't leave france in the lurch. i've been trying to get captain josiah to hoist theflag but he says it isn't the proper caper till sunrise. jack says they'll be callingfor volunteers tomorrow." "what a fuss to make over nothing," said maryvance disdainfully as jem dashed off. she was sitting out with miller douglas on a lobstertrap which was not only an unromantic but an uncomfortable seat. but mary and millerwere both supremely happy on it. miller douglas was a big, strapping, uncouth lad, who thoughtmary vance's tongue uncommonly gifted and mary vance's white eyes stars of the firstmagnitude; and neither of them had the least
inkling why jem blythe wanted to hoist thelighthouse flag. "what does it matter if there's going to be a war over there in europe? i'msure it doesn't concern us." walter looked at her and had one of his oddvisitations of prophecy. "before this war is over," he said—or somethingsaid through his lips—"every man and woman and child in canada will feel it—you, mary,will feel it—feel it to your heart's core. you will weep tears of blood over it. thepiper has come—and he will pipe until every corner of the world has heard his awful andirresistible music. it will be years before the dance of death is over—years, mary.and in those years millions of hearts will break."
"fancy now!" said mary who always said thatwhen she couldn't think of anything else to say. she didn't know what walter meant butshe felt uncomfortable. walter blythe was always saying odd things. that old piper ofhis—she hadn't heard anything about him since their playdays in rainbow valley—andnow here he was bobbing up again. she didn't like it, and that was the long and short ofit. "aren't you painting it rather strong, walter?"asked harvey crawford, coming up just then. "this war won't last for years—it'll beover in a month or two. england will just wipe germany off the map in no time." "do you think a war for which germany hasbeen preparing for twenty years will be over
in a few weeks?" said walter passionately."this isn't a paltry struggle in a balkan corner, harvey. it is a death grapple. germanycomes to conquer or to die. and do you know what will happen if she conquers? canada willbe a german colony." "well, i guess a few things will happen beforethat," said harvey shrugging his shoulders. "the british navy would have to be lickedfor one; and for another, miller here, now, and i, we'd raise a dust, wouldn't we, miller?no germans need apply for this old country, eh?" harvey ran down the steps laughing. "i declare, i think all you boys talk thecraziest stuff," said mary vance in disgust.
she got up and dragged miller off to the rock-shore.it didn't happen often that they had a chance for a talk together; mary was determined thatthis one shouldn't be spoiled by walter blythe's silly blather about pipers and germans andsuch like absurd things. they left walter standing alone on the rock steps, lookingout over the beauty of four winds with brooding eyes that saw it not. the best of the evening was over for rilla,too. ever since jack elliott's announcement, she had sensed that kenneth was no longerthinking about her. she felt suddenly lonely and unhappy. it was worse than if he had nevernoticed her at all. was life like this—something delightful happening and then, just as youwere revelling in it, slipping away from you?
rilla told herself pathetically that she feltyears older than when she had left home that evening. perhaps she did—perhaps she was.who knows? it does not do to laugh at the pangs of youth. they are very terrible becauseyouth has not yet learned that "this, too, will pass away." rilla sighed and wished shewere home, in bed, crying into her pillow. "tired?" said kenneth, gently but absently—oh,so absently. he really didn't care a bit whether she were tired or not, she thought. "kenneth," she ventured timidly, "you don'tthink this war will matter much to us in canada, do you?" "matter? of course it will matter to the luckyfellows who will be able to take a hand. i
won't—thanks to this confounded ankle. rottenluck, i call it." "i don't see why we should fight england'sbattles," cried rilla. "she's quite able to fight them herself." "that isn't the point. we are part of thebritish empire. it's a family affair. we've got to stand by each other. the worst of itis, it will be over before i can be of any use." "do you mean that you would really volunteerto go if it wasn't for your ankle? asked rilla incredulously. "sure i would. you see they'll go by thousands.jem'll be off, i'll bet a cent—walter won't
be strong enough yet, i suppose. and jerrymeredith—he'll go! and i was worrying about being out of football this year!" rilla was too startled to say anything. jem—andjerry! nonsense! why father and mr. meredith wouldn't allow it. they weren't through college.oh, why hadn't jack elliott kept his horrid news to himself? mark warren came up and asked her to dance.rilla went, knowing kenneth didn't care whether she went or stayed. an hour ago on the sand-shorehe had been looking at her as if she were the only being of any importance in the world.and now she was nobody. his thoughts were full of this great game which was to be playedout on bloodstained fields with empires for
stakes—a game in which womenkind could haveno part. women, thought rilla miserably, just had to sit and cry at home. but all this wasfoolishness. kenneth couldn't go—he admitted that himself—and walter couldn't—thankgoodness for that—and jem and jerry would have more sense. she wouldn't worry—shewould enjoy herself. but how awkward mark warren was! how he bungled his steps! why,for mercy's sake, did boys try to dance who didn't know the first thing about dancing;and who had feet as big as boats? there, he had bumped her into somebody! she would neverdance with him again! she danced with others, though the zest wasgone out of the performance and she had begun to realize that her slippers hurt her badly.kenneth seemed to have gone—at least nothing
was to be seen of him. her first party wasspoiled, though it had seemed so beautiful at one time. her head ached—her toes burned.and worse was yet to come. she had gone down with some over-harbour friends to the rock-shorewhere they all lingered as dance after dance went on above them. it was cool and pleasantand they were tired. rilla sat silent, taking no part in the gay conversation. she was gladwhen someone called down that the over-harbour boats were leaving. a laughing scramble upthe lighthouse rock followed. a few couples still whirled about in the pavilion but thecrowd had thinned out. rilla looked about her for the glen group. she could not seeone of them. she ran into the lighthouse. still, no sign of anybody. in dismay she ranto the rock steps, down which the over-harbour
guests were hurrying. she could see the boatsbelow—where was jem's—where was joe's? "why, rilla blythe, i thought you'd be gonehome long ago," said mary vance, who was waving her scarf at a boat skimming up the channel,skippered by miller douglas. "where are the rest?" gasped rilla. "why, they're gone—jem went an hour ago—unahad a headache. and the rest went with joe about fifteen minutes ago. see—they're justgoing around birch point. i didn't go because it's getting rough and i knew i'd be seasick.i don't mind walking home from here. it's only a mile and a half. i s'posed you'd gone.where were you?" "down on the rocks with jem and mollie crawford.oh, why didn't they look for me?"
"they did—but you couldn't be found. thenthey concluded you must have gone in the other boat. don't worry. you can stay all nightwith me and we'll 'phone up to ingleside where you are." rilla realized that there was nothing elseto do. her lips trembled and tears came into her eyes. she blinked savagely—she wouldnot let mary vance see her crying. but to be forgotten like this! to think nobody hadthought it worth while to make sure where she was—not even walter. then she had asudden dismayed recollection. "my shoes," she exclaimed. "i left them inthe boat." "well, i never," said mary. "you're the mostthoughtless kid i ever saw. you'll have to
ask hazel lewison to lend you a pair of shoes." "i won't." cried rilla, who didn't like thesaid hazel. "i'll go barefoot first." mary shrugged her shoulders. "just as you like. pride must suffer pain.it'll teach you to be more careful. well, let's hike." accordingly they hiked. but to "hike" alonga deep-rutted, pebbly lane in frail, silver-hued slippers with high french heels, is not anexhilarating performance. rilla managed to limp and totter along until they reached theharbour road; but she could go no farther in those detestable slippers. she took themand her dear silk stockings off and started
barefoot. that was not pleasant either; herfeet were very tender and the pebbles and ruts of the road hurt them. her blisteredheels smarted. but physical pain was almost forgotten in the sting of humiliation. thiswas a nice predicament! if kenneth ford could see her now, limping along like a little girlwith a stone bruise! oh, what a horrid way for her lovely party to end! she just hadto cry—it was too terrible. nobody cared for her—nobody bothered about her at all.well, if she caught cold from walking home barefoot on a dew-wet road and went into adecline perhaps they would be sorry. she furtively wiped her tears away with her scarf—handkerchiefsseemed to have vanished like shoes!—but she could not help sniffling. worse and worse!
"you've got a cold, i see," said mary. "youought to have known you would, sitting down in the wind on those rocks. your mother won'tlet you go out again in a hurry i can tell you. it's certainly been something of a party.the lewisons know how to do things, i'll say that for them, though hazel lewison is nochoice of mine. my, how black she looked when she saw you dancing with ken ford. and sodid that little hussy of an ethel reese. what a flirt he is!" "i don't think he's a flirt," said rilla asdefiantly as two desperate sniffs would let her. "you'll know more about men when you're asold as i am," said mary patronizingly. "mind
you, it doesn't do to believe all they tellyou. don't let ken ford think that all he has to do to get you on a string is to drophis handkerchief. have more spirit than that, child." to be thus hectored and patronized by maryvance was unendurable! and it was unendurable to walk on stony roads with blistered heelsand bare feet! and it was unendurable to be crying and have no handkerchief and not tobe able to stop crying! "i'm not thinking"—sniff—"about kenneth"—sniff—"ford"—twosniffs—"at all," cried tortured rilla. "there's no need to fly off the handle, child.you ought to be willing to take advice from older people. i saw how you slipped over tothe sands with ken and stayed there ever so
long with him. your mother wouldn't like itif she knew." "i'll tell my mother all about it—and missoliver—and walter," rilla gasped between sniffs. "you sat for hours with miller douglason that lobster trap, mary vance! what would mrs. elliott say to that if she knew?" "oh, i'm not going to quarrel with you," saidmary, suddenly retreating to high and lofty ground. "all i say is, you should wait untilyou're grown-up before you do things like that." rilla gave up trying to hide the fact thatshe was crying. everything was spoiled—even that beautiful, dreamy, romantic, moonlithour with kenneth on the sands was vulgarized
and cheapened. she loathed mary vance. "why, whatever's wrong?" cried mystified mary."what are you crying for?" "my feet—hurt so—" sobbed rilla clingingto the last shred of her pride. it was less humiliating to admit crying because of yourfeet than because—because somebody had been amusing himself with you, and your friendshad forgotten you, and other people patronized you. "i daresay they do," said mary, not unkindly."never mind. i know where there's a pot of goose-grease in cornelia's tidy pantry andit beats all the fancy cold creams in the world. i'll put some on your heels beforeyou go to bed."
goose-grease on your heels! so this was whatyour first party and your first beau and your first moonlit romance ended in! rilla gave over crying in sheer disgust atthe futility of tears and went to sleep in mary vance's bed in the calm of despair. outside,the dawn came greyly in on wings of storm; captain josiah, true to his word, ran up theunion jack at the four winds light and it streamed on the fierce wind against the cloudedsky like a gallant unquenchable beacon. chapter v "the sound of a going" rilla ran down through the sunlit glory of the maple
grove behind ingleside, to her favourite nookin rainbow valley. she sat down on a green-mossed stone among the fern, propped her chin onher hands and stared unseeingly at the dazzling blue sky of the august afternoon—so blue,so peaceful, so unchanged, just as it had arched over the valley in the mellow daysof late summer ever since she could remember. she wanted to be alone—to think things out—toadjust herself, if it were possible, to the new world into which she seemed to have beentransplanted with a suddenness and completeness that left her half bewildered as to her ownidentity. was she—could she be—the same rilla blythe who had danced at four windslight six days ago—only six days ago? it seemed to rilla that she had lived as muchin those six days as in all her previous life—and
if it be true that we should count time byheart-throbs she had. that evening, with its hopes and fears and triumphs and humiliations,seemed like ancient history now. could she really ever have cried just because she hadbeen forgotten and had to walk home with mary vance? ah, thought rilla sadly, how trivialand absurd such a cause of tears now appeared to her. she could cry now with a right goodwill—but she would not—she must not. what was it mother had said, looking, with herwhite lips and stricken eyes, as rilla had never seen her mother look before, "when our women fail in courage,shall our men be fearless still?" yes, that was it. she must be brave—likemother—and nan—and faith—faith, who
had cried with flashing eyes, "oh, if i wereonly a man, to go too!" only, when her eyes ached and her throat burned like this shehad to hide herself in rainbow valley for a little, just to think things out and rememberthat she wasn't a child any longer—she was grown-up and women had to face things likethis. but it was—nice—to get away alone now and then, where nobody could see her andwhere she needn't feel that people thought her a little coward if some tears came inspite of her. how sweet and woodsey the ferns smelled! howsoftly the great feathery boughs of the firs waved and murmured over her! how elfinly rangthe bells of the "tree lovers"—just a tinkle now and then as the breeze swept by! how purpleand elusive the haze where incense was being
offered on many an altar of the hills! howthe maple leaves whitened in the wind until the grove seemed covered with pale silveryblossoms! everything was just the same as she had seen it hundreds of times; and yetthe whole face of the world seemed changed. "how wicked i was to wish that something dramaticwould happen!" she thought. "oh, if we could only have those dear, monotonous, pleasantdays back again! i would never, never grumble about them again." rilla's world had tumbled to pieces the veryday after the party. as they lingered around the dinner table at ingleside, talking ofthe war, the telephone had rung. it was a long-distance call from charlottetown forjem. when he had finished talking he hung
up the receiver and turned around, with aflushed face and glowing eyes. before he had said a word his mother and nan and di hadturned pale. as for rilla, for the first time in her life she felt that every one must hearher heart beating and that something had clutched at her throat. "they are calling for volunteers in town,father," said jem. "scores have joined up already. i'm going in tonight to enlist." "oh—little jem," cried mrs. blythe brokenly.she had not called him that for many years—not since the day he had rebelled against it."oh—no—no—little jem." "i must, mother. i'm right—am i not, father?"said jem.
dr. blythe had risen. he was very pale, too,and his voice was husky. but he did not hesitate. "yes, jem, yes—if you feel that way, yes—" mrs. blythe covered her face. walter staredmoodily at his plate. nan and di clasped each others' hands. shirley tried to look unconcerned.susan sat as if paralysed, her piece of pie half-eaten on her plate. susan never did finishthat piece of pie—a fact which bore eloquent testimony to the upheaval in her inner womanfor susan considered it a cardinal offence against civilized society to begin to eatanything and not finish it. that was wilful waste, hens to the contrary notwithstanding. jem turned to the phone again. "i must ringthe manse. jerry will want to go, too."
at this nan had cried out "oh!" as if a knifehad been thrust into her, and rushed from the room. di followed her. rilla turned towalter for comfort but walter was lost to her in some reverie she could not share. "all right," jem was saying, as coolly asif he were arranging the details of a picnic. "i thought you would—yes, tonight—theseven o'clock—meet me at the station. so long." "mrs. dr. dear," said susan. "i wish you wouldwake me up. am i dreaming—or am i awake? does that blessed boy realize what he is saying?does he mean that he is going to enlist as a soldier? you do not mean to tell me thatthey want children like him! it is an outrage.
surely you and the doctor will not permitit." "we can't stop him," said mrs. blythe, chokingly."oh, gilbert!" dr. blythe came up behind his wife and tookher hand gently, looking down into the sweet grey eyes that he had only once before seenfilled with such imploring anguish as now. they both thought of that other time—theday years ago in the house of dreams when little joyce had died. "would you have him stay, anne—when theothers are going—when he thinks it his duty—would you have him so selfish and small-souled?" "no—no! but—oh—our first-born son—he'sonly a lad—gilbert—i'll try to be brave
after a while—just now i can't. it's allcome so suddenly. give me time." the doctor and his wife went out of the room.jem had gone—walter had gone—shirley got up to go. rilla and susan remained staringat each other across the deserted table. rilla had not yet cried—she was too stunned fortears. then she saw that susan was crying—susan, whom she had never seen shed a tear before. "oh, susan, will he really go?" she asked. "it—it—it is just ridiculous, that iswhat it is," said susan. she wiped away her tears, gulped resolutelyand got up. "i am going to wash the dishes. that has tobe done, even if everybody has gone crazy.
there now, dearie, do not you cry. jem willgo, most likely—but the war will be over long before he gets anywhere near it. letus take a brace and not worry your poor mother." "in the enterprise today it was reported thatlord kitchener says the war will last three years," said rilla dubiously. "i am not acquainted with lord kitchener,"said susan, composedly, "but i dare say he makes mistakes as often as other people. yourfather says it will be over in a few months and i have as much faith in his opinion asi have in lord anybody's. so just let us be calm and trust in the almighty and get thisplace tidied up. i am done with crying which is a waste of time and discourages everybody."
jem and jerry went to charlottetown that nightand two days later they came back in khaki. the glen hummed with excitement over it. lifeat ingleside had suddenly become a tense, strained, thrilling thing. mrs. blythe andnan were brave and smiling and wonderful. already mrs. blythe and miss cornelia wereorganizing a red cross. the doctor and mr. meredith were rounding up the men for a patrioticsociety. rilla, after the first shock, reacted to the romance of it all, in spite of herheartache. jem certainly looked magnificent in his uniform. it was splendid to think ofthe lads of canada answering so speedily and fearlessly and uncalculatingly to the callof their country. rilla carried her head high among the girls whose brothers had not soresponded. in her diary she wrote:
"he goes to do what i had donehad douglas's daughter been his son," and was sure she meant it. if she were a boyof course she would go, too! she hadn't the least doubt of that. she wondered if it was very dreadful of herto feel glad that walter hadn't got strong as soon as they had wished after the fever. "i couldn't bear to have walter go," she wrote."i love jem ever so much but walter means more to me than anyone in the world and iwould die if he had to go. he seems so changed these days. he hardly ever talks to me. isuppose he wants to go, too, and feels badly because he can't. he doesn't go about withjem and jerry at all. i shall never forget
susan's face when jem came home in his khaki.it worked and twisted as if she were going to cry, but all she said was, 'you look almostlike a man in that, jem.' jem laughed. he never minds because susan thinks him justa child still. everybody seems busy but me. i wish there was something i could do butthere doesn't seem to be anything. mother and nan and di are busy all the time and ijust wander about like a lonely ghost. what hurts me terribly, though, is that mother'ssmiles, and nan's, just seem put on from the outside. mother's eyes never laugh now. itmakes me feel that i shouldn't laugh either—that it's wicked to feel laughy. and it's so hardfor me to keep from laughing, even if jem is going to be a soldier. but when i laughi don't enjoy it either, as i used to do.
there's something behind it all that keepshurting me—especially when i wake up in the night. then i cry because i am afraidthat kitchener of khartoum is right and the war will last for years and jem may be—butno, i won't write it. it would make me feel as if it were really going to happen. theother day nan said, 'nothing can ever be quite the same for any of us again.' it made mefeel rebellious. why shouldn't things be the same again—when everything is over and jemand jerry are back? we'll all be happy and jolly again and these days will seem justlike a bad dream. "the coming of the mail is the most excitingevent of every day now. father just snatches the paper—i never saw father snatch before—andthe rest of us crowd round and look at the
headlines over his shoulder. susan vows shedoes not and will not believe a word the papers say but she always comes to the kitchen door,and listens and then goes back, shaking her head. she is terribly indignant all the time,but she cooks up all the things jem likes especially, and she did not make a singlebit of fuss when she found monday asleep on the spare-room bed yesterday right on topof mrs. rachel lynde's apple-leaf spread. 'the almighty only knows where your masterwill be having to sleep before long, you poor dumb beast,' she said as she put him quitegently out. but she never relents towards doc. she says the minute he saw jem in khakihe turned into mr. hyde then and there and she thinks that ought to be proof enough ofwhat he really is. susan is funny, but she
is an old dear. shirley says she is one halfangel and the other half good cook. but then shirley is the only one of us she never scolds. "faith meredith is wonderful. i think sheand jem are really engaged now. she goes about with a shining light in her eyes, but hersmiles are a little stiff and starched, just like mother's. i wonder if i could be as braveas she is if i had a lover and he was going to the war. it is bad enough when it is yourbrother. bruce meredith cried all night, mrs. meredith says, when he heard jem and jerrywere going. and he wanted to know if the 'k of k.' his father talked about was the kingof kings. he is the dearest kiddy. i just love him—though i don't really care muchfor children. i don't like babies one bit—though
when i say so people look at me as if i hadsaid something perfectly shocking. well, i don't, and i've got to be honest about it.i don't mind looking at a nice clean baby if somebody else holds it—but i wouldn'ttouch it for anything and i don't feel a single real spark of interest in it. gertrude oliversays she just feels the same. (she is the most honest person i know. she never pretendsanything.) she says babies bore her until they are old enough to talk and then she likesthem—but still a good ways off. mother and nan and di all adore babies and seem to thinki'm unnatural because i don't. "i haven't seen kenneth since the night ofthe party. he was here one evening after jem came back but i happened to be away. i don'tthink he mentioned me at all—at least nobody
told me he did and i was determined i wouldn'task—but i don't care in the least. all that matters absolutely nothing to me now. theonly thing that does matter is that jem has volunteered for active service and will begoing to valcartier in a few more days—my big, splendid brother jem. oh, i'm so proudof him! "i suppose kenneth would enlist too if itweren't for his ankle. i think that is quite providential. he is his mother's only sonand how dreadful she would feel if he went. only sons should never think of going!" walter came wandering through the valley asrilla sat there, with his head bent and his hands clasped behind him. when he saw rillahe turned abruptly away; then as abruptly
he turned and came back to her. "rilla-my-rilla, what are you thinking of?" "everything is so changed, walter," said rillawistfully. "even you—you're changed. a week ago we were all so happy—and—and—nowi just can't find myself at all. i'm lost." walter sat down on a neighbouring stone andtook rilla's little appealing hand. "i'm afraid our old world has come to an end,rilla. we've got to face that fact." "it's so terrible to think of jem," pleadedrilla. "sometimes i forget for a little while what it really means and feel excited andproud—and then it comes over me again like a cold wind."
"i envy jem!" said walter moodily. "envy jem! oh, walter you—you don't wantto go too." "no," said walter, gazing straight beforehim down the emerald vistas of the valley, "no, i don't want to go. that's just the trouble.rilla, i'm afraid to go. i'm a coward." "you're not!" rilla burst out angrily. "why,anybody would be afraid to go. you might be—why, you might be killed." "i wouldn't mind that if it didn't hurt,"muttered walter. "i don't think i'm afraid of death itself—it's of the pain that mightcome before death—it wouldn't be so bad to die and have it over—but to keep on dying!rilla, i've always been afraid of pain—you
know that. i can't help it—i shudder wheni think of the possibility of being mangled or—or blinded. rilla, i cannot face thatthought. to be blind—never to see the beauty of the world again—moonlight on four winds—thestars twinkling through the fir-trees—mist on the gulf. i ought to go—i ought to wantto go—but i don't—i hate the thought of it—i'm ashamed—ashamed." "but, walter, you couldn't go anyhow," saidrilla piteously. she was sick with a new terror that walter would go after all. "you're notstrong enough." "i am. i've felt as fit as ever i did thislast month. i'd pass any examination—i know it. everybody thinks i'm not strong yet—andi'm skulking behind that belief. i—i should
have been a girl," walter concluded in a burstof passionate bitterness. "even if you were strong enough, you oughtn'tto go," sobbed rilla. "what would mother do? she's breaking her heart over jem. it wouldkill her to see you both go." "oh, i'm not going—don't worry. i tell youi'm afraid to go—afraid. i don't mince the matter to myself. it's a relief to own upeven to you, rilla. i wouldn't confess it to anybody else—nan and di would despiseme. but i hate the whole thing—the horror, the pain, the ugliness. war isn't a khakiuniform or a drill parade—everything i've read in old histories haunts me. i lie awakeat night and see things that have happened—see the blood and filth and misery of it all.and a bayonet charge! if i could face the
other things i could never face that. it turnsme sick to think of it—sicker even to think of giving it than receiving it—to thinkof thrusting a bayonet through another man." walter writhed and shuddered. "i think ofthese things all the time—and it doesn't seem to me that jem and jerry ever think ofthem. they laugh and talk about 'potting huns'! but it maddens me to see them in the khaki.and they think i'm grumpy because i'm not fit to go." walter laughed bitterly. "it is not a nicething to feel yourself a coward." but rilla got her arms about him and cuddled her headon his shoulder. she was so glad he didn't want to go—for just one minute she had beenhorribly frightened. and it was so nice to
have walter confiding his troubles to her—toher, not di. she didn't feel so lonely and superfluous any longer. "don't you despise me, rilla-my-rilla?" askedwalter wistfully. somehow, it hurt him to think rilla might despise him—hurt him asmuch as if it had been di. he realized suddenly how very fond he was of this adoring kid sisterwith her appealing eyes and troubled, girlish face. "no, i don't. why, walter, hundreds of peoplefeel just as you do. you know what that verse of shakespeare in the old fifth reader says—'thebrave man is not he who feels no fear.'" "no—but it is 'he whose noble soul its fearsubdues.' i don't do that. we can't gloss
it over, rilla. i'm a coward." "you're not. think of how you fought dan reeselong ago." "one spurt of courage isn't enough for a lifetime." "walter, one time i heard father say thatthe trouble with you was a sensitive nature and a vivid imagination. you feel things beforethey really come—feel them all alone when there isn't anything to help you bear them—totake away from them. it isn't anything to be ashamed of. when you and jem got your handsburned when the grass was fired on the sand-hills two years ago jem made twice the fuss overthe pain that you did. as for this horrid old war, there'll be plenty to go withoutyou. it won't last long."
"i wish i could believe it. well, it's supper-time,rilla. you'd better run. i don't want anything." "neither do i. i couldn't eat a mouthful.let me stay here with you, walter. it's such a comfort to talk things over with someone.the rest all think that i'm too much of a baby to understand." so they two sat there in the old valley untilthe evening star shone through a pale-grey, gauzy cloud over the maple grove, and a fragrantdewy darkness filled their little sylvan dell. it was one of the evenings rilla was to treasurein remembrance all her life—the first one on which walter had ever talked to her asif she were a woman and not a child. they comforted and strengthened each other. walterfelt, for the time being at least, that it
was not such a despicable thing after allto dread the horror of war; and rilla was glad to be made the confidante of his struggles—tosympathize with and encourage him. she was of importance to somebody. when they went back to ingleside they foundcallers sitting on the veranda. mr. and mrs. meredith had come over from the manse, andmr. and mrs. norman douglas had come up from the farm. cousin sophia was there also, sittingwith susan in the shadowy background. mrs. blythe and nan and di were away, but dr. blythewas home and so was dr. jekyll, sitting in golden majesty on the top step. and of coursethey were all talking of the war, except dr. jekyll who kept his own counsel and lookedcontempt as only a cat can. when two people
foregathered in those days they talked ofthe war; and old highland sandy of the harbour head talked of it when he was alone and hurledanathemas at the kaiser across all the acres of his farm. walter slipped away, not caringto see or be seen, but rilla sat down on the steps, where the garden mint was dewy andpungent. it was a very calm evening with a dim, golden afterlight irradiating the glen.she felt happier than at any time in the dreadful week that had passed. she was no longer hauntedby the fear that walter would go. "i'd go myself if i was twenty years younger,"norman douglas was shouting. norman always shouted when he was excited. "i'd show thekaiser a thing or two! did i ever say there wasn't a hell? of course there's a hell—dozensof hells—hundreds of hells—where the kaiser
and all his brood are bound for." "i knew this war was coming," said mrs. normantriumphantly. "i saw it coming right along. i could have told all those stupid englishmenwhat was ahead of them. i told you, john meredith, years ago what the kaiser was up to but youwouldn't believe it. you said he would never plunge the world in war. who was right aboutthe kaiser, john? you—or i? tell me that." "you were, i admit," said mr. meredith. "it's too late to admit it now," said mrs.norman, shaking her head, as if to intimate that if john meredith had admitted it soonerthere might have been no war. "thank god, england's navy is ready," saidthe doctor.
"amen to that," nodded mrs. norman. "bat-blindas most of them were somebody had foresight enough to see to that." "maybe england'll manage not to get into troubleover it," said cousin sophia plaintively. "i dunno. but i'm much afraid." "one would suppose that england was in troubleover it already, up to her neck, sophia crawford," said susan. "but your ways of thinking arebeyond me and always were. it is my opinion that the british navy will settle germanyin a jiffy and that we are all getting worked up over nothing." susan spat out the words as if she wantedto convince herself more than anybody else.
she had her little store of homely philosophiesto guide her through life, but she had nothing to buckler her against the thunderbolts ofthe week that had just passed. what had an honest, hard-working, presbyterian old maidof glen st. mary to do with a war thousands of miles away? susan felt that it was indecentthat she should have to be disturbed by it. "the british army will settle germany," shoutednorman. "just wait till it gets into line and the kaiser will find that real war isa different thing from parading round berlin with your moustaches cocked up." "britain hasn't got an army," said mrs. normanemphatically. "you needn't glare at me, norman. glaring won't make soldiers out of timothystalks. a hundred thousand men will just be
a mouthful for germany's millions." "there'll be some tough chewing in the mouthful,i reckon," persisted norman valiantly. "germany'll break her teeth on it. don't you tell me onebritisher isn't a match for ten foreigners. i could polish off a dozen of 'em myself withboth hands tied behind my back!" "i am told," said susan, "that old mr. pryordoes not believe in this war. i am told that he says england went into it just becauseshe was jealous of germany and that she did not really care in the least what happenedto belgium." "i believe he's been talking some such rot,"said norman. "i haven't heard him. when i do, whiskers-on-the-moon won't know what happenedto him. that precious relative of mine, kitty
alec, holds forth to the same effect, i understand.not before me, though—somehow, folks don't indulge in that kind of conversation in mypresence. lord love you, they've a kind of presentiment, so to speak, that it wouldn'tbe healthy for their complaint." "i am much afraid that this war has been sentas a punishment for our sins," said cousin sophia, unclasping her pale hands from herlap and reclasping them solemnly over her stomach. "'the world is very evil—the timesare waxing late.'" "parson here's got something of the same idea,"chuckled norman. "haven't you, parson? that's why you preached t'other night on the text'without shedding of blood there is no remission of sins.' i didn't agree with you—wantedto get up in the pew and shout out that there
wasn't a word of sense in what you were saying,but ellen, here, she held me down. i never have any fun sassing parsons since i got married." "without shedding of blood there is no anything,"said mr. meredith, in the gentle dreamy way which had an unexpected trick of convincinghis hearers. "everything, it seems to me, has to be purchased by self-sacrifice. ourrace has marked every step of its painful ascent with blood. and now torrents of itmust flow again. no, mrs. crawford, i don't think the war has been sent as a punishmentfor sin. i think it is the price humanity must pay for some blessing—some advancegreat enough to be worth the price—which we may not live to see but which our children'schildren will inherit."
"if jerry is killed will you feel so fineabout it?" demanded norman, who had been saying things like that all his life and never couldbe made to see any reason why he shouldn't. "now, never mind kicking me in the shins,ellen. i want to see if parson meant what he said or if it was just a pulpit frill." mr. meredith's face quivered. he had had aterrible hour alone in his study on the night jem and jerry had gone to town. but he answeredquietly. "whatever i felt, it could not alter my belief—myassurance that a country whose sons are ready to lay down their lives in her defence willwin a new vision because of their sacrifice." "you do mean it, parson. i can always tellwhen people mean what they say. it's a gift
that was born in me. makes me a terror tomost parsons, that! but i've never caught you yet saying anything you didn't mean. i'malways hoping i will—that's what reconciles me to going to church. it'd be such a comfortto me—such a weapon to batter ellen here with when she tries to civilize me. well,i'm off over the road to see ab. crawford a minute. the gods be good to you all." "the old pagan!" muttered susan, as normanstrode away. she did not care if ellen douglas did hear her. susan could never understandwhy fire did not descend from heaven upon norman douglas when he insulted ministersthe way he did. but the astonishing thing was mr. meredith seemed really to like hisbrother-in-law.
rilla wished they would talk of somethingbesides war. she had heard nothing else for a week and she was really a little tired ofit. now that she was relieved from her haunting fear that walter would want to go it madeher quite impatient. but she supposed—with a sigh—that there would be three or fourmonths of it yet. chapter vi susan, rilla, and dog monday make a resolution the big living-room at ingleside was snowedover with drifts of white cotton. word had come from red cross headquarters that sheetsand bandages would be required. nan and di and rilla were hard at work. mrs. blythe andsusan were upstairs in the boys' room, engaged
in a more personal task. with dry, anguishedeyes they were packing up jem's belongings. he must leave for valcartier the next morning.they had been expecting the word but it was none the less dreadful when it came. rilla was basting the hem of a sheet for thefirst time in her life. when the word had come that jem must go she had her cry outamong the pines in rainbow valley and then she had gone to her mother. "mother, i want to do something. i'm onlya girl—i can't do anything to win the war—but i must do something to help at home." "the cotton has come up for the sheets," saidmrs. blythe. "you can help nan and di make
them up. and rilla, don't you think you couldorganize a junior red cross among the young girls? i think they would like it better anddo better work by themselves than if mixed up with the older people." "but, mother—i've never done anything likethat." "we will all have to do a great many thingsin the months ahead of us that we have never done before, rilla." "well"—rilla took the plunge—"i'll try,mother—if you'll tell me how to begin. i have been thinking it all over and i havedecided that i must be as brave and heroic and unselfish as i can possibly be."
mrs. blythe did not smile at rilla's italics.perhaps she did not feel like smiling or perhaps she detected a real grain of serious purposebehind rilla's romantic pose. so here was rilla hemming sheets and organizing a juniorred cross in her thoughts as she hemmed; moreover, she was enjoying it—the organizing thatis, not the hemming. it was interesting and rilla discovered a certain aptitude in herselffor it that surprised her. who would be president? not she. the older girls would not like that.irene howard? no, somehow irene was not quite as popular as she deserved to be. marjoriedrew? no, marjorie hadn't enough backbone. she was too prone to agree with the last speaker.betty mead—calm, capable, tactful betty—the very one! and una meredith for treasurer;and, if they were very insistent, they might
make her, rilla, secretary. as for the variouscommittees, they must be chosen after the juniors were organized, but rilla knew justwho should be put on which. they would meet around—and there must be no eats—rillaknew she would have a pitched battle with olive kirk over that—and everything shouldbe strictly business-like and constitutional. her minute book should be covered in whitewith a red cross on the cover—and wouldn't it be nice to have some kind of uniform whichthey could all wear at the concerts they would have to get up to raise money—somethingsimple but smart? "you have basted the top hem of that sheeton one side and the bottom hem on the other," said di.
rilla picked out her stitches and reflectedthat she hated sewing. running the junior reds would be much more interesting. mrs. blythe was saying upstairs, "susan, doyou remember that first day jem lifted up his little arms to me and called me 'mo'er'—thevery first word he ever tried to say?" "you could not mention anything about thatblessed baby that i do not and will not remember till my dying day," said susan drearily. "susan, i keep thinking today of once whenhe cried for me in the night. he was just a few months old. gilbert didn't want me togo to him—he said the child was well and warm and that it would be fostering bad habitsin him. but i went—and took him up—i can
feel that tight clinging of his little armsround my neck yet. susan, if i hadn't gone that night, twenty-one years ago, and takenmy baby up when he cried for me i couldn't face tomorrow morning." "i do not know how we are going to face itanyhow, mrs. dr. dear. but do not tell me that it will be the final farewell. he willbe back on leave before he goes overseas, will he not?" "we hope so but we are not very sure. i ammaking up my mind that he will not, so that there will be no disappointment to bear. susan,i am determined that i will send my boy off tomorrow with a smile. he shall not carryaway with him the remembrance of a weak mother
who had not the courage to send when he hadthe courage to go. i hope none of us will cry." "i am not going to cry, mrs. dr. dear, andthat you may tie to, but whether i shall manage to smile or not will be as providence ordainsand as the pit of my stomach feels. have you room there for this fruit-cake? and the shortbread?and the mince-pie? that blessed boy shall not starve, whether they have anything toeat in that quebec place or not. everything seems to be changing all at once, does itnot? even the old cat at the manse has passed away. he breathed his last at a quarter toten last night and bruce is quite heart-broken, they tell me."
"it's time that pussy went where good catsgo. he must be at least fifteen years old. he has seemed so lonely since aunt marthadied." "i should not have lamented, mrs. dr. dear,if that hyde-beast had died also. he has been mr. hyde most of the time since jem came homein khaki, and that has a meaning i will maintain. i do not know what monday will do when jemis gone. the creature just goes about with a human look in his eyes that takes all thegood out of me when i see it. ellen west used to be always railing at the kaiser and wethought her crazy, but now i see that there was a method in her madness. this tray ispacked, mrs. dr. dear, and i will go down and put in my best licks preparing supper.i wish i knew when i would cook another supper
for jem but such things are hidden from oureyes." jem blythe and jerry meredith left next morning.it was a dull day, threatening rain, and the clouds lay in heavy grey rolls over the sky;but almost everybody in the glen and four winds and harbour head and upper glen andover-harbour—except whiskers-on-the-moon—was there to see them off. the blythe family andthe meredith family were all smiling. even susan, as providence did ordain, wore a smile,though the effect was somewhat more painful than tears would have been. faith and nanwere very pale and very gallant. rilla thought she would get on very well if something inher throat didn't choke her, and if her lips didn't take such spells of trembling. dogmonday was there, too. jem had tried to say
good-bye to him at ingleside but monday imploredso eloquently that jem relented and let him go to the station. he kept close to jem'slegs and watched every movement of his beloved master. "i can't bear that dog's eyes," said mrs.meredith. "the beast has more sense than most humans,"said mary vance. "well, did we any of us ever think we'd live to see this day? i bawledall night to think of jem and jerry going like this. i think they're plumb deranged.miller got a maggot in his head about going but i soon talked him out of it—likewisehis aunt said a few touching things. for once in our lives kitty alec and i agree. it'sa miracle that isn't likely to happen again.
there's ken, rilla." rilla knew kenneth was there. she had beenacutely conscious of it from the moment he had sprung from leo west's buggy. now he cameup to her smiling. "doing the brave-smiling-sister-stunt, i see.what a crowd for the glen to muster! well, i'm off home in a few days myself." a queer little wind of desolation that evenjem's going had not caused blew over rilla's spirit. "why? you have another month of vacation." "yes—but i can't hang around four windsand enjoy myself when the world's on fire
like this. it's me for little old torontowhere i'll find some way of helping in spite of this bally ankle. i'm not looking at jemand jerry—makes me too sick with envy. you girls are great—no crying, no grim endurance.the boys'll go off with a good taste in their mouths. i hope persis and mother will be asgame when my turn comes." "oh, kenneth—the war will be over beforeyour turn cometh." there! she had lisped again. another greatmoment of life spoiled! well, it was her fate. and anyhow, nothing mattered. kenneth wasoff already—he was talking to ethel reese, who was dressed, at seven in the morning,in the gown she had worn to the dance, and was crying. what on earth had ethel to cryabout? none of the reeses were in khaki. rilla
wanted to cry, too—but she would not. whatwas that horrid old mrs. drew saying to mother, in that melancholy whine of hers? "i don'tknow how you can stand this, mrs. blythe. i couldn't if it was my pore boy." and mother—oh,mother could always be depended on! how her grey eyes flashed in her pale face. "it mighthave been worse, mrs. drew. i might have had to urge him to go." mrs. drew did not understandbut rilla did. she flung up her head. her brother did not have to be urged to go. rilla found herself standing alone and listeningto disconnected scraps of talk as people walked up and down past her. "i told mark to wait and see if they askedfor a second lot of men. if they did i'd let
him go—but they won't," said mrs. palmerburr. "i think i'll have it made with a crush girdleof velvet," said bessie clow. "i'm frightened to look at my husband's facefor fear i'll see in it that he wants to go too," said a little over-harbour bride. "i'm scared stiff," said whimsical mrs. jimhoward. "i'm scared jim will enlist—and i'm scared he won't." "the war will be over by christmas," saidjoe vickers. "let them european nations fight it out betweenthem," said abner reese. "when he was a boy i gave him many a goodtrouncing," shouted norman douglas, who seemed
to be referring to some one high in militarycircles in charlottetown. "yes, sir, i walloped him well, big gun as he is now." "the existence of the british empire is atstake," said the methodist minister. "there's certainly something about uniforms,"sighed irene howard. "it's a commercial war when all is said anddone and not worth one drop of good canadian blood," said a stranger from the shore hotel. "the blythe family are taking it easy," saidkate drew. "them young fools are just going for adventure,"growled nathan crawford. "i have absolute confidence in kitchener,"said the over-harbour doctor.
in these ten minutes rilla passed througha dizzying succession of anger, laughter, contempt, depression and inspiration. oh,people were—funny! how little they understood. "taking it easy," indeed—when even susanhadn't slept a wink all night! kate drew always was a minx. rilla felt as if she were in some fantasticnightmare. were these the people who, three weeks ago, were talking of crops and pricesand local gossip? there—the train was coming—mother washolding jem's hand—dog monday was licking it—everybody was saying good-bye—the trainwas in! jem kissed faith before everybody—old mrs. drew whooped hysterically—the men,led by kenneth, cheered—rilla felt jem seize
her hand—"good-bye, spider"—somebody kissedher cheek—she believed it was jerry but never was sure—they were off—the trainwas pulling out—jem and jerry were waving to everybody—everybody was waving back—motherand nan were smiling still, but as if they had just forgotten to take the smile off—mondaywas howling dismally and being forcibly restrained by the methodist minister from tearing afterthe train—susan was waving her best bonnet and hurrahing like a man—had she gone crazy?—thetrain rounded a curve. they had gone. rilla came to herself with a gasp. there wasa sudden quiet. nothing to do now but to go home—and wait. the doctor and mrs. blythewalked off together—so did nan and faith—so did john meredith and rosemary. walter anduna and shirley and di and carl and rilla
went in a group. susan had put her bonnetback on her head, hindside foremost, and stalked grimly off alone. nobody missed dog mondayat first. when they did shirley went back for him. he found dog monday curled up inone of the shipping-sheds near the station and tried to coax him home. dog monday wouldnot move. he wagged his tail to show he had no hard feelings but no blandishments availedto budge him. "guess monday has made up his mind to waitthere till jem comes back," said shirley, trying to laugh as he rejoined the rest. thiswas exactly what dog monday had done. his dear master had gone—he, monday, had beendeliberately and of malice aforethought prevented from going with him by a demon disguised inthe garb of a methodist minister. wherefore,
he, monday, would wait there until the smoking,snorting monster, which had carried his hero off, carried him back. ay, wait there, little faithful dog with thesoft, wistful, puzzled eyes. but it will be many a long bitter day before your boyishcomrade comes back to you. the doctor was away on a case that night andsusan stalked into mrs. blythe's room on her way to bed to see if her adored mrs. dr. dearwere "comfortable and composed." she paused solemnly at the foot of the bed and solemnlydeclared, "mrs. dr. dear, i have made up my mind tobe a heroine." "mrs. dr. dear" found herself violently inclinedto laugh—which was manifestly unfair, since
she had not laughed when rilla had announceda similar heroic determination. to be sure, rilla was a slim, white-robed thing, witha flower-like face and starry young eyes aglow with feeling; whereas susan was arrayed ina grey flannel nightgown of strait simplicity, and had a strip of red woollen worsted tiedaround her grey hair as a charm against neuralgia. but that should not make any vital difference.was it not the spirit that counted? yet mrs. blythe was hard put to it not to laugh. "i am not," proceeded susan firmly, "goingto lament or whine or question the wisdom of the almighty any more as i have been doinglately. whining and shirking and blaming providence do not get us anywhere. we have just got tograpple with whatever we have to do whether
it is weeding the onion patch, or runningthe government. i shall grapple. those blessed boys have gone to war; and we women, mrs.dr. dear, must tarry by the stuff and keep a stiff upper lip." chapter vii a war-baby and a soup tureen "liege and namur—and now brussels!" thedoctor shook his head. "i don't like it—i don't like it." "do not you lose heart, dr. dear; they werejust defended by foreigners," said susan superbly. "wait you till the germans come against thebritish; there will be a very different story
to tell and that you may tie to." the doctor shook his head again, but a littleless gravely; perhaps they all shared subconsciously in susan's belief that "the thin grey line"was unbreakable, even by the victorious rush of germany's ready millions. at any rate,when the terrible day came—the first of many terrible days—with the news that thebritish army was driven back they stared at each other in blank dismay. "it—it can't be true," gasped nan, takinga brief refuge in temporary incredulity. "i felt that there was to be bad news today,"said susan, "for that cat-creature turned into mr. hyde this morning without rhyme orreason for it, and that was no good omen."
"'a broken, a beaten, but not a demoralized,army,'" muttered the doctor, from a london dispatch. "can it be england's army of whichsuch a thing is said?" "it will be a long time now before the waris ended," said mrs. blythe despairingly. susan's faith, which had for a moment beentemporarily submerged, now reappeared triumphantly. "remember, mrs. dr. dear, that the britisharmy is not the british navy. never forget that. and the russians are on their way, too,though russians are people i do not know much about and consequently will not tie to." "the russians will not be in time to saveparis," said walter gloomily. "paris is the heart of france—and the road to it is open.oh, i wish"—he stopped abruptly and went
out. after a paralysed day the ingleside folk foundit was possible to "carry on" even in the face of ever-darkening bad news. susan workedfiercely in her kitchen, the doctor went out on his round of visits, nan and di returnedto their red cross activities; mrs. blythe went to charlottetown to attend a red crossconvention; rilla after relieving her feelings by a stormy fit of tears in rainbow valleyand an outburst in her diary, remembered that she had elected to be brave and heroic. and,she thought, it really was heroic to volunteer to drive about the glen and four winds oneday, collecting promised red cross supplies with abner crawford's old grey horse. oneof the ingleside horses was lame and the doctor
needed the other, so there was nothing forit but the crawford nag, a placid, unhasting, thick-skinned creature with an amiable habitof stopping every few yards to kick a fly off one leg with the foot of the other. rillafelt that this, coupled with the fact that the germans were only fifty miles from paris,was hardly to be endured. but she started off gallantly on an errand fraught with amazingresults. late in the afternoon she found herself, witha buggy full of parcels, at the entrance to a grassy, deep-rutted lane leading to theharbour shore, wondering whether it was worth while to call down at the anderson house.the andersons were desperately poor and it was not likely mrs. anderson had anythingto give. on the other hand, her husband, who
was an englishman by birth and who had beenworking in kingsport when the war broke out, had promptly sailed for england to enlistthere, without, it may be said, coming home or sending much hard cash to represent him.so possibly mrs. anderson might feel hurt if she were overlooked. rilla decided to call.there were times afterwards when she wished she hadn't, but in the long run she was verythankful that she did. the anderson house was a small and tumbledownaffair, crouching in a grove of battered spruces near the shore as if rather ashamed of itselfand anxious to hide. rilla tied her grey nag to the rickety fence and went to the door.it was open; and the sight she saw bereft her temporarily of the power of speech ormotion.
through the open door of the small bedroomopposite her, rilla saw mrs. anderson lying on the untidy bed; and mrs. anderson was dead.there was no doubt of that; neither was there any doubt that the big, frowzy, red-headed,red-faced, over-fat woman sitting near the door-way, smoking a pipe quite comfortably,was very much alive. she rocked idly back and forth amid her surroundings of squaliddisorder, and paid no attention whatever to the piercing wails proceeding from a cradlein the middle of the room. rilla knew the woman by sight and reputation.her name was mrs. conover; she lived down at the fishing village; she was a great-auntof mrs. anderson; and she drank as well as smoked.
rilla's first impulse was to turn and flee.but that would never do. perhaps this woman, repulsive as she was, needed help—thoughshe certainly did not look as if she were worrying over the lack of it. "come in," said mrs. conover, removing herpipe and staring at rilla with her little, rat-like eyes. "is—is mrs. anderson really dead?" askedrilla timidly, as she stepped over the sill. "dead as a door nail," responded mrs. conovercheerfully. "kicked the bucket half an hour ago. i've sent jen conover to 'phone for theundertaker and get some help up from the shore. you're the doctor's miss, ain't ye? have acheer?"
rilla did not see any chair which was notcluttered with something. she remained standing. "wasn't it—very sudden?" "well, she's been a-pining ever since thatworthless jim lit out for england—which i say it's a pity as he ever left. it's mybelief she was took for death when she heard the news. that young un there was born a fortnightago and since then she's just gone down and today she up and died, without a soul expectingit." "is there anything i can do to—to help?"hesitated rilla. "bless yez, no—unless ye've a knack withkids. i haven't. that young un there never lets up squalling, day or night. i've justgot that i take no notice of it."
rilla tiptoed gingerly over to the cradleand more gingerly still pulled down the dirty blanket. she had no intention of touchingthe baby—she had no "knack with kids" either. she saw an ugly midget with a red, distortedlittle face, rolled up in a piece of dingy old flannel. she had never seen an uglierbaby. yet a feeling of pity for the desolate, orphaned mite which had "come out of the everywhere"into such a dubious "here", took sudden possession of her. "what is going to become of the baby?" sheasked. "lord knows," said mrs. conover candidly."min worried awful over that before she died. she kept on a-saying 'oh, what will becomeof my pore baby' till it really got on my
nerves. i ain't a-going to trouble myselfwith it, i can tell yez. i brung up a boy that my sister left and he skinned out assoon as he got to be some good and won't give me a mite o' help in my old age, ungratefulwhelp as he is. i told min it'd have to be sent to an orphan asylum till we'd see ifjim ever came back to look after it. would yez believe it, she didn't relish the idee.but that's the long and short of it." "but who will look after it until it can betaken to the asylum?" persisted rilla. somehow the baby's fate worried her. "s'pose i'll have to," grunted mrs. conover.she put away her pipe and took an unblushing swig from a black bottle she produced froma shelf near her. "it's my opinion the kid
won't live long. it's sickly. min never hadno gimp and i guess it hain't either. likely it won't trouble any one long and good riddance,sez i." rilla drew the blanket down a little farther. "why, the baby isn't dressed!" she exclaimed,in a shocked tone. "who was to dress him i'd like to know," demandedmrs. conover truculently. "i hadn't time—took me all the time there was looking after min.'sides, as i told yez, i don't know nithing about kids. old mrs. billy crawford, she washere when it was born and she washed it and rolled it up in that flannel, and jen she'stended it a bit since. the critter is warm enough. this weather would melt a brass monkey."
rilla was silent, looking down at the cryingbaby. she had never encountered any of the tragedies of life before and this one smoteher to the core of her heart. the thought of the poor mother going down into the valleyof the shadow alone, fretting about her baby, with no one near but this abominable old woman,hurt her terribly. if she had only come a little sooner! yet what could she have done—whatcould she do now? she didn't know, but she must do something. she hated babies—butshe simply could not go away and leave that poor little creature with mrs. conover—whowas applying herself again to her black bottle and would probably be helplessly drunk beforeanybody came. "i can't stay," thought rilla. "mr. crawfordsaid i must be home by supper-time because
he wanted the pony this evening himself. oh,what can i do?" she made a sudden, desperate, impulsive resolution. "i'll take the baby home with me," she said."can i?" "sure, if yez wants to," said mrs. conoveramiably. "i hain't any objection. take it and welcome." "i—i can't carry it," said rilla. "i haveto drive the horse and i'd be afraid i'd drop it. is there a—a basket anywhere that icould put it in?" "not as i knows on. there ain't much hereof anything, i kin tell yez. min was pore and as shiftless as jim. ef ye opens thatdrawer over there yez'll find a few baby clo'es.
best take them along." rilla got the clothes—the cheap, sleazygarments the poor mother had made ready as best she could. but this did not solve thepressing problem of the baby's transportation. rilla looked helplessly round. oh, for mother—orsusan! her eyes fell on an enormous blue soup tureen at the back of the dresser. "may i have this to—to lay him in?" sheasked. "well, 'tain't mine but i guess yez kin takeit. don't smash it if yez can help—jim might make a fuss about it if he comes back alive—whichhe sure will, seein' he ain't any good. he brung that old tureen out from england withhim—said it'd always been in the family.
him and min never used it—never had enoughsoup to put in it—but jim thought the world of it. he was mighty perticuler about somethings but didn't worry him none that there weren't much in the way o' eatables to putin the dishes." for the first time in her life rilla blythetouched a baby—lifted it—rolled it in a blanket, trembling with nervousness lestshe drop it or—or—break it. then she put it in the soup tureen. "is there any fear of it smothering?" sheasked anxiously. "not much odds if it do," said mrs. conover. horrified rilla loosened the blanket roundthe baby's face a little. the mite had stopped
crying and was blinking up at her. it hadbig dark eyes in its ugly little face. "better not let the wind blow on it," admonishedmrs. conover. "take its breath if it do." rilla wrapped the tattered little quilt aroundthe soup tureen. "will you hand this to me after i get intothe buggy, please?" "sure i will," said mrs. conover, gettingup with a grunt. and so it was that rilla blythe, who had drivento the anderson house a self-confessed hater of babies, drove away from it carrying onein a soup tureen on her lap! rilla thought she would never get to ingleside.in the soup tureen there was an uncanny silence. in one way she was thankful the baby did notcry but she wished it would give an occasional
squeak to prove that it was alive. supposeit were smothered! rilla dared not unwrap it to see, lest the wind, which was now blowinga hurricane, should "take its breath," whatever dreadful thing that might be. she was a thankfulgirl when at last she reached harbour at ingleside. rilla carried the soup tureen to the kitchen,and set it on the table under susan's eyes. susan looked into the tureen and for oncein her life was so completely floored that she had not a word to say. "what in the world is this?" asked the doctor,coming in. rilla poured out her story. "i just had tobring it, father," she concluded. "i couldn't leave it there."
"what are you going to do with it?" askedthe doctor coolly. rilla hadn't exactly expected this kind ofquestion. "we—we can keep it here for awhile—can'twe—until something can be arranged?" she stammered confusedly. dr. blythe walked up and down the kitchenfor a moment or two while the baby stared at the white walls of the soup tureen andsusan showed signs of returning animation. presently the doctor confronted rilla. "a young baby means a great deal of additionalwork and trouble in a household, rilla. nan and di are leaving for redmond next week andneither your mother nor susan is able to assume
so much extra care under present conditions.if you want to keep that baby here you must attend to it yourself." "me!" rilla was dismayed into being ungrammatical."why—father—i—i couldn't!" "younger girls than you have had to look afterbabies. my advice and susan's is at your disposal. if you cannot, then the baby must go backto meg conover. its lease of life will be short if it does for it is evident that itis a delicate child and requires particular care. i doubt if it would survive even ifsent to an orphans' home. but i cannot have your mother and susan over-taxed." the doctor walked out of the kitchen, lookingvery stern and immovable. in his heart he
knew quite well that the small inhabitantof the big soup tureen would remain at ingleside, but he meant to see if rilla could not beinduced to rise to the occasion. rilla sat looking blankly at the baby. itwas absurd to think she could take care of it. but—that poor little, frail, dead motherwho had worried about it—that dreadful old meg conover. "susan, what must be done for a baby?" sheasked dolefully. "you must keep it warm and dry and wash itevery day, and be sure the water is neither too hot nor too cold, and feed it every twohours. if it has colic, you put hot things on its stomach," said susan, rather feeblyand flatly for her.
the baby began to cry again. "it must be hungry—it has to be fed anyhow,"said rilla desperately. "tell me what to get for it, susan, and i'll get it." under susan's directions a ration of milkand water was prepared, and a bottle obtained from the doctor's office. then rilla liftedthe baby out of the soup tureen and fed it. she brought down the old basket of her owninfancy from the attic and laid the now sleeping baby in it. she put the soup tureen away inthe pantry. then she sat down to think things over. the result of her thinking things over wasthat she went to susan when the baby woke.
"i'm going to see what i can do, susan. ican't let that poor little thing go back to mrs. conover. tell me how to wash and dressit." under susan's supervision rilla bathed thebaby. susan dared not help, other than by suggestion, for the doctor was in the living-roomand might pop in at any moment. susan had learned by experience that when dr. blytheput his foot down and said a thing must be, that thing was. rilla set her teeth and wentahead. in the name of goodness, how many wrinkles and kinks did a baby have? why, there wasn'tenough of it to take hold of. oh, suppose she let it slip into the water—it was sowobbly! if it would only stop howling like that! how could such a tiny morsel make suchan enormous noise. its shrieks could be heard
over ingleside from cellar to attic. "am i really hurting it much, susan, do yousuppose?" she asked piteously. "no, dearie. most new babies hate like poisonto be washed. you are real knacky for a beginner. keep your hand under its back, whatever youdo, and keep cool." keep cool! rilla was oozing perspiration atevery pore. when the baby was dried and dressed and temporarily quieted with another bottleshe was as limp as a rag. "what must i do with it tonight, susan?" a baby by day was dreadful enough; a babyby night was unthinkable. "set the basket on a chair by your bed andkeep it covered. you will have to feed it
once or twice in the night, so you would bettertake the oil heater upstairs. if you cannot manage it call me and i will go, doctor orno doctor." "but, susan, if it cries?" the baby, however, did not cry. it was surprisinglygood—perhaps because its poor little stomach was filled with proper food. it slept mostof the night but rilla did not. she was afraid to go to sleep for fear something would happento the baby. she prepared its three o'clock ration with a grim determination that shewould not call susan. oh, was she dreaming? was it really she, rilla blythe, who had gotinto this absurd predicament? she did not care if the germans were near paris—shedid not care if they were in paris—if only
the baby wouldn't cry or choke or smotheror have convulsions. babies did have convulsions, didn't they? oh, why had she forgotten toask susan what she must do if the baby had convulsions? she reflected rather bitterlythat father was very considerate of mother's and susan's health, but what about hers? didhe think she could continue to exist if she never got any sleep? but she was not goingto back down now—not she. she would look after this detestable little animal if itkilled her. she would get a book on baby hygiene and be beholden to nobody. she would nevergo to father for advice—she wouldn't bother mother—and she would only condescend tosusan in dire extremity. they would all see! thus it came about that mrs. blythe, whenshe returned home two nights later and asked
susan where rilla was, was electrified bysusan's composed reply. "she's upstairs, mrs. dr. dear, putting herbaby to bed." chapter viii rilla decides families and individuals alike soon becomeused to new conditions and accept them unquestioningly. by the time a week had elapsed it seemed asit the anderson baby had always been at ingleside. after the first three distracted nights rillabegan to sleep again, waking automatically to attend to her charge on schedule time.she bathed and fed and dressed it as skilfully as if she had been doing it all her life.she liked neither her job nor the baby any
the better; she still handled it as gingerlyas if it were some kind of a small lizard, and a breakable lizard at that; but she didher work thoroughly and there was not a cleaner, better-cared-for infant in glen st. mary.she even took to weighing the creature every day and jotting the result down in her diary;but sometimes she asked herself pathetically why unkind destiny had ever led her down theanderson lane on that fatal day. shirley, nan, and di did not tease her as much as shehad expected. they all seemed rather stunned by the mere fact of rilla adopting a war-baby;perhaps, too, the doctor had issued instructions. walter, of course, never had teased her overanything; one day he told her she was a brick. "it took more courage for you to tackle thatfive pounds of new infant, rilla-my-rilla,
than it would be for jem to face a mile ofgermans. i wish i had half your pluck," he said ruefully. rilla was very proud of walter's approval;nevertheless, she wrote gloomily in her diary that night:— "i wish i could like the baby a little bit.it would make things easier. but i don't. i've heard people say that when you took careof a baby you got fond of it—but you don't—i don't, anyway. and it's a nuisance—it interfereswith everything. it just ties me down—and now of all times when i'm trying to get thejunior reds started. and i couldn't go to alice clow's party last night and i was justdying to. of course father isn't really unreasonable
and i can always get an hour or two off inthe evening when it's necessary; but i knew he wouldn't stand for my being out half thenight and leaving susan or mother to see to the baby. i suppose it was just as well, becausethe thing did take colic—or something—about one o'clock. it didn't kick or stiffen out,so i knew that, according to morgan, it wasn't crying for temper; and it wasn't hungry andno pins were sticking in it. it screamed till it was black in the face; i got up and heatedwater and put the hot-water bottle on its stomach, and it howled worse than ever anddrew up its poor wee thin legs. i was afraid i had burnt it but i don't believe i did.then i walked the floor with it although 'morgan on infants' says that should never be done.i walked miles, and oh, i was so tired and
discouraged and mad—yes, i was. i couldhave shaken the creature if it had been big enough to shake, but it wasn't. father wasout on a case, and mother had had a headache and susan is squiffy because when she andmorgan differ i insist upon going by what morgan says, so i was determined i wouldn'tcall her unless i had to. "finally, miss oliver came in. she has roomswith nan now, not me, all because of the baby, and i am broken-hearted about it. i miss ourlong talks after we went to bed, so much. it was the only time i ever had her to myself.i hated to think the baby's yells had wakened her up, for she has so much to bear now. mr.grant is at valcartier, too, and miss oliver feels it dreadfully, though she is splendidabout it. she thinks he will never come back
and her eyes just break my heart—they areso tragic. she said it wasn't the baby that woke her—she hadn't been able to sleep becausethe germans are so near paris; she took the little wretch and laid it flat on its stomachacross her knee and thumped its back gently a few times, and it stopped shrieking andwent right off to sleep and slept like a lamb the rest of the night. i didn't—i was tooworn out. "i'm having a perfectly dreadful time gettingthe junior reds started. i succeeded in getting betty mead as president, and i am secretary,but they put jen vickers in as treasurer and i despise her. she is the sort of girl whocalls any clever, handsome, or distinguished people she knows slightly by their first names—behindtheir backs. and she is sly and two-faced.
una doesn't mind, of course. she is willingto do anything that comes to hand and never minds whether she has an office or not. sheis just a perfect angel, while i am only angelic in spots and demonic in other spots. i wishwalter would take a fancy to her, but he never seems to think about her in that way, althoughi heard him say once she was like a tea rose. she is too. and she gets imposed upon, justbecause she is so sweet and willing; but i don't allow people to impose on rilla blytheand 'that you may tie to,' as susan says. "just as i expected, olive was determinedwe should have lunch served at our meetings. we had a battle royal over it. the majoritywas against eats and now the minority is sulking. irene howard was on the eats side and shehas been very cool to me ever since and it
makes me feel miserable. i wonder if motherand mrs. elliott have problems in the senior society too. i suppose they have, but theyjust go on calmly in spite of everything. i go on—but not calmly—i rage and cry—buti do it all in private and blow off steam in this diary; and when it's over i vow i'llshow them. i never sulk. i detest people who sulk. anyhow, we've got the society startedand we're to meet once a week, and we're all going to learn to knit. "shirley and i went down to the station againto try to induce dog monday to come home but we failed. all the family have tried and failed.three days after jem had gone walter went down and brought monday home by main forcein the buggy and shut him up for three days.
then monday went on a hunger strike and howledlike a banshee night and day. we had to let him out or he would have starved to death. "so we have decided to let him alone and fatherhas arranged with the butcher near the station to feed him with bones and scraps. besides,one of us goes down nearly every day to take him something. he just lies curled up in theshipping-shed, and every time a train comes in he will rush over to the platform, wagginghis tail expectantly, and tear around to every one who comes off the train. and then, whenthe train goes and he realizes that jem has not come, he creeps dejectedly back to hisshed, with his disappointed eyes, and lies down patiently to wait for the next train.mr. gray, the station master, says there are
times when he can hardly help crying fromsheer sympathy. one day some boys threw stones at monday and old johnny mead, who never wasknown to take notice of anything before, snatched up a meat axe in the butcher's shop and chasedthem through the village. nobody has molested monday since. "kenneth ford has gone back to toronto. hecame up two evenings ago to say good-bye. i wasn't home—some clothes had to be madefor the baby and mrs. meredith offered to help me, so i was over at the manse, and ididn't see kenneth. not that it matters; he told nan to say good-bye to spider for himand tell me not to forget him wholly in my absorbing maternal duties. if he could leavesuch a frivolous, insulting message as that
for me it shows plainly that our beautifulhour on the sandshore meant nothing to him and i am not going to think about him or itagain. "fred arnold was at the manse and walked homewith me. he is the new methodist minister's son and very nice and clever, and would bequite handsome if it were not for his nose. it is a really dreadful nose. when he talksof commonplace things it does not matter so much, but when he talks of poetry and idealsthe contrast between his nose and his conversation is too much for me and i want to shriek withlaughter. it is really not fair, because everything he said was perfectly charming and if somebodylike kenneth had said it i would have been enraptured. when i listened to him with myeyes cast down i was quite fascinated; but
as soon as i looked up and saw his nose thespell was broken. he wants to enlist, too, but can't because he is only seventeen. mrs.elliott met us as we were walking through the village and could not have looked morehorrified if she caught me walking with the kaiser himself. mrs. elliott detests the methodistsand all their works. father says it is an obsession with her." about 1st september there was an exodus fromingleside and the manse. faith, nan, di and walter left for redmond; carl betook himselfto his harbour head school and shirley was off to queen's. rilla was left alone at inglesideand would have been very lonely if she had had time to be. she missed walter keenly;since their talk in rainbow valley they had
grown very near together and rilla discussedproblems with walter which she never mentioned to others. but she was so busy with the juniorreds and her baby that there was rarely a spare minute for loneliness; sometimes, aftershe went to bed, she cried a little in her pillow over walter's absence and jem at valcartierand kenneth's unromantic farewell message, but she was generally asleep before the tearsgot fairly started. "shall i make arrangements to have the babysent to hopetown?" the doctor asked one day two weeks after the baby's arrival at ingleside. for a moment rilla was tempted to say "yes."the baby could be sent to hopetown—it would be decently looked after—she could haveher free days and untrammelled nights back
again. but—but—that poor young motherwho hadn't wanted it to go to the asylum! rilla couldn't get that out of her thoughts.and that very morning she discovered that the baby had gained eight ounces since itscoming to ingleside. rilla had felt such a thrill of pride over this. "you—you said it mightn't live if it wentto hopetown," she said. "it mightn't. somehow, institutional care,no matter how good it may be, doesn't always succeed with delicate babies. but you knowwhat it means if you want it kept here, rilla." "i've taken care of it for a fortnight—andit has gained half a pound," cried rilla. "i think we'd better wait until we hear fromits father anyhow. he mightn't want to have
it sent to an orphan asylum, when he is fightingthe battles of his country." the doctor and mrs. blythe exchanged amused,satisfied smiles behind rilla's back; and nothing more was said about hopetown. then the smile faded from the doctor's face;the germans were twenty miles from paris. horrible tales were beginning to appear inthe papers of deeds done in martyred belgium. life was very tense at ingleside for the olderpeople. "we eat up the war news," gertrude olivertold mrs. meredith, trying to laugh and failing. "we study the maps and nip the whole hun armyin a few well-directed strategic moves. but papa joffre hasn't the benefit of our advice—andso paris—must—fall."
"will they reach it—will not some mightyhand yet intervene?" murmured john meredith. "i teach school like one in a dream," continuedgertrude; "then i come home and shut myself in my room and walk the floor. i am wearinga path right across nan's carpet. we are so horribly near this war." "them german men are at senlis. nothing nornobody can save paris now," wailed cousin sophia. cousin sophia had taken to readingthe newspapers and had learned more about the geography of northern france, if not aboutthe pronunciation of french names, in her seventy-first year than she had ever knownin her schooldays. "i have not such a poor opinion of the almighty,or of kitchener," said susan stubbornly. "i
see there is a bernstoff man in the stateswho says that the war is over and germany has won—and they tell me whiskers-on-the-moonsays the same thing and is quite pleased about it, but i could tell them both that it ischancy work counting chickens even the day before they are hatched, and bears have beenknown to live long after their skins were sold." "why ain't the british navy doing more?" persistedcousin sophia. "even the british navy cannot sail on dryland, sophia crawford. i have not given up hope, and i shall not, tomascow and mobbageand all such barbarous names to the contrary notwithstanding. mrs. dr. dear, can you tellme if r-h-e-i-m-s is rimes or reems or rames
or rems?" "i believe it's really more like 'rhangs,'susan." "oh, those french names," groaned susan. "they tell me the germans has about ruinedthe church there," sighed cousin sophia. "i always thought the germans was christians." "a church is bad enough but their doings inbelgium are far worse," said susan grimly. "when i heard the doctor reading about thembayonetting the babies, mrs. dr. dear, i just thought, 'oh, what if it were our little jem!'i was stirring the soup when that thought came to me and i just felt that if i couldhave lifted that saucepan full of that boiling
soup and thrown it at the kaiser i would nothave lived in vain." "tomorrow—tomorrow—will bring the newsthat the germans are in paris," said gertrude oliver, through her tense lips. she had oneof those souls that are always tied to the stake, burning in the suffering of the worldaround them. apart from her own personal interest in the war, she was racked by the thoughtof paris falling into the ruthless hands of the hordes who had burned louvain and ruinedthe wonder of rheims. but on the morrow and the next morrow camethe news of the miracle of the marne. rilla rushed madly home from the office waving theenterprise with its big red headlines. susan ran out with trembling hands to hoist theflag. the doctor stalked about muttering "thank
god." mrs. blythe cried and laughed and criedagain. "god just put out his hand and touched them—'thusfar—no farther'," said mr. meredith that evening. rilla was singing upstairs as she put thebaby to bed. paris was saved—the war was over—germany had lost—there would soonbe an end now—jem and jerry would be back. the black clouds had rolled by. "don't you dare have colic this joyful night,"she told the baby. "if you do i'll clap you back into your soup tureen and ship you offto hopetown—by freight—on the early train. you have got beautiful eyes—and you're notquite as red and wrinkled as you were—but
you haven't a speck of hair—and your handsare like little claws—and i don't like you a bit better than i ever did. but i hope yourpoor little white mother knows that you're tucked in a soft basket with a bottle of milkas rich as morgan allows instead of perishing by inches with old meg conover. and i hopeshe doesn't know that i nearly drowned you that first morning when susan wasn't thereand i let you slip right out of my hands into the water. why will you be so slippery? no,i don't like you and i never will but for all that i'm going to make a decent, upstandinginfant of you. you are going to get as fat as a self-respecting child should be, forone thing. i am not going to have people saying 'what a puny little thing that baby of rillablythe's is' as old mrs. drew said at the
senior red cross yesterday. if i can't loveyou i mean to be proud of you at least." chapter ix doc has a misadventure "the war will not be over before next springnow," said dr. blythe, when it became apparent that the long battle of the aisne had resultedin a stalemate. rilla was murmuring "knit four, purl one"under her breath, and rocking the baby's cradle with one foot. morgan disapproved of cradlesfor babies but susan did not, and it was worth while to make some slight sacrifice of principleto keep susan in good humour. she laid down
her knitting for a moment and said, "oh, howcan we bear it so long?"—then picked up her sock and went on. the rilla of two monthsbefore would have rushed off to rainbow valley and cried. miss oliver sighed and mrs. blythe claspedher hands for a moment. then susan said briskly, "well, we must just gird up our loins andpitch in. business as usual is england's motto, they tell me, mrs. dr. dear, and i have takenit for mine, not thinking i could easily find a better. i shall make the same kind of puddingtoday i always make on saturday. it is a good deal of trouble to make, and that is well,for it will employ my thoughts. i will remember that kitchener is at the helm and joffer isdoing very well for a frenchman. i shall get
that box of cake off to little jem and finishthat pair of socks today likewise. a sock a day is my allowance. old mrs. albert meadof harbour head manages a pair and a half a day but she has nothing to do but knit.you know, mrs. dr. dear, she has been bed-rid for years and she has been worrying terriblebecause she was no good to anybody and a dreadful expense, and yet could not die and be outof the way. and now they tell me she is quite chirked up and resigned to living becausethere is something she can do, and she knits for the soldiers from daylight to dark. evencousin sophia has taken to knitting, mrs. dr. dear, and it is a good thing, for shecannot think of quite so many doleful speeches to make when her hands are busy with her needlesinstead of being folded on her stomach. she
thinks we will all be germans this time nextyear but i tell her it will take more than a year to make a german out of me. do youknow that rick macallister has enlisted, mrs. dr. dear? and they say joe milgrave wouldtoo, only he is afraid that if he does that whiskers-on-the-moon will not let him havemiranda. whiskers says that he will believe the stories of german atrocities when he seesthem, and that it is a good thing that rangs cathedral has been destroyed because it wasa roman catholic church. now, i am not a roman catholic, mrs. dr. dear, being born and breda good presbyterian and meaning to live and die one, but i maintain that the catholicshave as good a right to their churches as we have to ours and that the huns had no kindof business to destroy them. just think, mrs.
dr. dear," concluded susan pathetically, "howwe would feel if a german shell knocked down the spire of our church here in the glen,and i'm sure it is every bit as bad to think of rangs cathedral being hammered to pieces." and, meanwhile, everywhere, the lads of theworld rich and poor, low and high, white and brown, were following the piper's call. "even billy andrews' boy is going—and jane'sonly son—and diana's little jack," said mrs. blythe. "priscilla's son has gone fromjapan and stella's from vancouver—and both the rev. jo's boys. philippa writes that herboys 'went right away, not being afflicted with her indecision.'"
"jem says that he thinks they will be leavingvery soon now, and that he will not be able to get leave to come so far before they go,as they will have to start at a few hours' notice," said the doctor, passing the letterto his wife. "that is not fair," said susan indignantly."has sir sam hughes no regard for our feelings? the idea of whisking that blessed boy awayto europe without letting us even have a last glimpse of him! if i were you, doctor dear,i would write to the papers about it." "perhaps it is as well," said the disappointedmother. "i don't believe i could bear another parting from him—now that i know the warwill not be over as soon as we hoped when he left first. oh, if only—but no, i won'tsay it! like susan and rilla," concluded mrs.
blythe, achieving a laugh, "i am determinedto be a heroine." "you're all good stuff," said the doctor,"i'm proud of my women folk. even rilla here, my 'lily of the field,' is running a red crosssociety full blast and saving a little life for canada. that's a good piece of work. rilla,daughter of anne, what are you going to call your war-baby?" "i'm waiting to hear from jim anderson," saidrilla. "he may want to name his own child." but as the autumn weeks went by no word camefrom jim anderson, who had never been heard from since he sailed from halifax, and towhom the fate of wife and child seemed a matter of indifference. eventually rilla decidedto call the baby james, and susan opined that
kitchener should be added thereto. so jameskitchener anderson became the possessor of a name somewhat more imposing than himself.the ingleside family promptly shortened it to jims, but susan obstinately called him"little kitchener" and nothing else. "jims is no name for a christian child, mrs.dr. dear," she said disapprovingly. "cousin sophia says it is too flippant, and for oncei consider she utters sense, though i would not please her by openly agreeing with her.as for the child, he is beginning to look something like a baby, and i must admit thatrilla is wonderful with him, though i would not pamper pride by saying so to her face.mrs. dr. dear, i shall never, no never, forget the first sight i had of that infant, lyingin that big soup tureen, rolled up in dirty
flannel. it is not often that susan bakeris flabbergasted, but flabbergasted i was then, and that you may tie to. for one awfulmoment i thought my mind had given way and that i was seeing visions. then thinks i,'no, i never heard of anyone having a vision of a soup tureen, so it must be real at least,'and i plucked up confidence. when i heard the doctor tell rilla that she must take careof the baby i thought he was joking, for i did not believe for a minute she would orcould do it. but you see what has happened and it is making a woman of her. when we haveto do a thing, mrs. dr. dear, we can do it." susan added another proof to this concludingdictum of hers one day in october. the doctor and his wife were away. rilla was presidingover jims' afternoon siesta upstairs, purling
four and knitting one with ceaseless vim.susan was seated on the back veranda, shelling beans, and cousin sophia was helping her.peace and tranquility brooded over the glen; the sky was fleeced over with silvery, shiningclouds. rainbow valley lay in a soft, autumnal haze of fairy purple. the maple grove wasa burning bush of colour and the hedge of sweet-briar around the kitchen yard was athing of wonder in its subtle tintings. it did not seem that strife could be in the world,and susan's faithful heart was lulled into a brief forgetfulness, although she had lainawake most of the preceding night thinking of little jem far out on the atlantic, wherethe great fleet was carrying canada's first army across the ocean. even cousin sophialooked less melancholy than usual and admitted
that there was not much fault to be foundin the day, although there was no doubt it was a weather-breeder and there would be anawful storm on its heels. "things is too calm to last," she said. as if in confirmation of her assertion, amost unearthly din suddenly arose behind them. it was quite impossible to describe the confusedmedley of bangs and rattles and muffled shrieks and yowls that proceeded from the kitchen,accompanied by occasional crashes. susan and cousin sophia stared at each other in dismay. "what upon airth has bruk loose in there?"gasped cousin sophia. "it must be that hyde-cat gone clean mad atlast," muttered susan. "i have always expected
it." rilla came flying out of the side door ofthe living-room. "what has happened?" she demanded. "it is beyond me to say, but that possessedbeast of yours is evidently at the bottom of it," said susan. "do not go near him, atleast. i will open the door and peep in. there goes some more of the crockery. i have alwayssaid that the devil was in him and that i will tie to." "it is my opinion that the cat has hydrophobia,"said cousin sophia solemnly. "i once heard of a cat that went mad and bit three people—andthey all died a most terrible death, and turned
black as ink." undismayed by this, susan opened the doorand looked in. the floor was littered with fragments of broken dishes, for it seemedthat the fatal tragedy had taken place on the long dresser where susan's array of cookingbowls had been marshalled in shining state. around the kitchen tore a frantic cat, withhis head wedged tightly in an old salmon can. blindly he careered about with shrieks andprofanity commingled, now banging the can madly against anything he encountered, nowtrying vainly to wrench it off with his paws. the sight was so funny that rilla doubledup with laughter. susan looked at her reproachfully. "i see nothing to laugh at. that beast hasbroken your ma's big blue mixing-bowl that
she brought from green gables when she wasmarried. that is no small calamity, in my opinion. but the thing to consider now ishow to get that can off hyde's head." "don't you dast go touching it," exclaimedcousin sophia, galvanized into animation. "it might be your death. shut the kitchenup and send for albert." "i am not in the habit of sending for albertduring family difficulties," said susan loftily. "that beast is in torment, and whatever myopinion of him may be, i cannot endure to see him suffering pain. you keep away, rilla,for little kitchener's sake, and i will see what i can do." susan stalked undauntedly into the kitchen,seized an old storm coat of the doctor's and
after a wild pursuit and several fruitlessdashes and pounces, managed to throw it over the cat and can. then she proceeded to sawthe can loose with a can-opener, while rilla held the squirming animal, rolled in the coat.anything like doc's shrieks while the process was going on was never heard at ingleside.susan was in mortal dread that the albert crawfords would hear it and conclude she wastorturing the creature to death. doc was a wrathful and indignant cat when he was freed.evidently he thought the whole thing was a put-up job to bring him low. he gave susana baleful glance by way of gratitude and rushed out of the kitchen to take sanctuary in thejungle of the sweet-briar hedge, where he sulked for the rest of the day. susan sweptup her broken dishes grimly.
"the huns themselves couldn't have workedmore havoc here," she said bitterly. "but when people will keep a satanic animal likethat, in spite of all warnings, they cannot complain when their wedding bowls get broken.things have come to a pretty pass when an honest woman cannot leave her kitchen fora few minutes without a fiend of a cat rampaging through it with his head in a salmon can." chapter x the troubles of rilla october passed out and the dreary days ofnovember and december dragged by. the world
shook with the thunder of contending armies;antwerp fell—turkey declared war—gallant little serbia gathered herself together andstruck a deadly blow at her oppressor; and in quiet, hill-girdled glen st. mary, thousandsof miles away, hearts beat with hope and fear over the varying dispatches from day to day. "a few months ago," said miss oliver, "wethought and talked in terms of glen st. mary. now, we think and talk in terms of militarytactics and diplomatic intrigue." there was just one great event every day—thecoming of the mail. even susan admitted that from the time the mail-courier's buggy rumbledover the little bridge between the station and the village until the papers were broughthome and read, she could not work properly.
"i must take up my knitting then and knithard till the papers come, mrs. dr. dear. knitting is something you can do, even whenyour heart is going like a trip-hammer and the pit of your stomach feels all gone andyour thoughts are catawampus. then when i see the headlines, be they good or be theybad, i calm down and am able to go about my business again. it is an unfortunate thingthat the mail comes in just when our dinner rush is on, and i think the government couldarrange things better. but the drive on calais has failed, as i felt perfectly sure it would,and the kaiser will not eat his christmas dinner in london this year. do you know, mrs.dr. dear,"—susan's voice lowered as a token that she was going to impart a very shockingpiece of information,—"i have been told
on good authority—or else you may be surei would not be repeating it when it concerns a minster—that the rev. mr. arnold goesto charlottetown every week and takes a turkish bath for his rheumatism. the idea of him doingthat when we are at war with turkey? one of his own deacons has always insisted that mr.arnold's theology was not sound and i am beginning to believe that there is some reason to fearit. well, i must bestir myself this afternoon and get little jem's christmas cake packedup for him. he will enjoy it, if the blessed boy is not drowned in mud before that time." jem was in camp on salisbury plain and waswriting gay, cheery letters home in spite of the mud. walter was at redmond and hisletters to rilla were anything but cheerful.
she never opened one without a dread tuggingat her heart that it would tell her he had enlisted. his unhappiness made her unhappy.she wanted to put her arm round him and comfort him, as she had done that day in rainbow valley.she hated everybody who was responsible for walter's unhappiness. "he will go yet," she murmured miserably toherself one afternoon, as she sat alone in rainbow valley, reading a letter from him,"he will go yet—and if he does i just can't bear it." walter wrote that some one had sent him anenvelope containing a white feather. "i deserved it, rilla. i felt that i oughtto put it on and wear it—proclaiming myself
to all redmond the coward i know i am. theboys of my year are going—going. every day two or three of them join up. some days ialmost make up my mind to do it—and then i see myself thrusting a bayonet through anotherman—some woman's husband or sweetheart or son—perhaps the father of little children—isee myself lying alone torn and mangled, burning with thirst on a cold, wet field, surroundedby dead and dying men—and i know i never can. i can't face even the thought of it.how could i face the reality? there are times when i wish i had never been born. life hasalways seemed such a beautiful thing to me—and now it is a hideous thing. rilla-my-rilla,if it weren't for your letters—your dear, bright, merry, funny, comical, believing letters—ithink i'd give up. and una's! una is really
a little brick, isn't she? there's a wonderfulfineness and firmness under all that shy, wistful girlishness of her. she hasn't yourknack of writing laugh-provoking epistles, but there's something in her letters—i don'tknow what—that makes me feel at least while i'm reading them, that i could even go tothe front. not that she ever says a word about my going—or hints that i ought to go—sheisn't that kind. it's just the spirit of them—the personality that is in them. well, i can'tgo. you have a brother and una has a friend who is a coward." "oh, i wish walter wouldn't write such things,"sighed rilla. "it hurts me. he isn't a coward—he isn't—he isn't!"
she looked wistfully about her—at the littlewoodland valley and the grey, lonely fallows beyond. how everything reminded her of walter!the red leaves still clung to the wild sweet-briars that overhung a curve of the brook; theirstems were gemmed with the pearls of the gentle rain that had fallen a little while before.walter had once written a poem describing them. the wind was sighing and rustling amongthe frosted brown bracken ferns, then lessening sorrowfully away down the brook. walter hadsaid once that he loved the melancholy of the autumn wind on a november day. the oldtree lovers still clasped each other in a faithful embrace, and the white lady, nowa great white-branched tree, stood out beautifully fine, against the grey velvet sky. walterhad named them long ago; and last november,
when he had walked with her and miss oliverin the valley, he had said, looking at the leafless lady, with a young silver moon hangingover her, "a white birch is a beautiful pagan maiden who has never lost the eden secretof being naked and unashamed." miss oliver had said, "put that into a poem, walter,"and he had done so, and read it to them the next day—just a short thing with goblinimagination in every line of it. oh, how happy they had been then! well—rilla scrambled to her feet—timewas up. jims would soon be awake—his lunch had to be prepared—his little slips hadto be ironed—there was a committee meeting of the junior reds that night—there washer new knitting bag to finish—it would
be the handsomest bag in the junior society—handsomereven than irene howard's—she must get home and get to work. she was busy these days frommorning till night. that little monkey of a jims took so much time. but he was growing—hewas certainly growing. and there were times when rilla felt sure that it was not merelya pious hope but an absolute fact that he was getting decidedly better looking. sometimesshe felt quite proud of him; and sometimes she yearned to spank him. but she never kissedhim or wanted to kiss him. "the germans captured lodz today," said missoliver, one december evening, when she, mrs. blythe, and susan were busy sewing or knittingin the cosy living-room. "this war is at least extending my knowledge of geography. schoolma'amthough i am, three months ago i didn't know
there was such a place in the world such aslodz. had i heard it mentioned i would have known nothing about it and cared as little.i know all about it now—its size, its standing, its military significance. yesterday the newsthat the germans have captured it in their second rush to warsaw made my heart sink intomy boots. i woke up in the night and worried over it. i don't wonder babies always crywhen they wake up in the night. everything presses on my soul then and no cloud has asilver lining." "when i wake up in the night and cannot goto sleep again," remarked susan, who was knitting and reading at the same time, "i pass themoments by torturing the kaiser to death. last night i fried him in boiling oil anda great comfort it was to me, remembering
those belgian babies." "if the kaiser were here and had a pain inhis shoulder you'd be the first to run for the liniment bottle to rub him down," laughedmiss oliver. "would i?" cried outraged susan. "would i,miss oliver? i would rub him down with coal oil, miss oliver—and leave it to blister.that is what i would do and that you may tie to. a pain in his shoulder, indeed! he willhave pains all over him before he is through with what he has started." "we are told to love our enemies, susan,"said the doctor solemnly. "yes, our enemies, but not king george's enemies,doctor dear," retorted susan crushingly. she
was so well pleased with herself over thisflattening out of the doctor completely that she even smiled as she polished her glasses.susan had never given in to glasses before, but she had done so at last in order to beable to read the war news—and not a dispatch got by her. "can you tell me, miss oliver,how to pronounce m-l-a-w-a and b-z-u-r-a and p-r-z-e-m-y-s-l?" "that last is a conundrum which nobody seemsto have solved yet, susan. and i can make only a guess at the others." "these foreign names are far from being decent,in my opinion," said disgusted susan. "i dare say the austrians and russians wouldthink saskatchewan and musquodoboit about
as bad, susan," said miss oliver. "the serbianshave done wonderfully of late. they have captured belgrade." "and sent the austrian creatures packing acrossthe danube with a flea in their ear," said susan with a relish, as she settled down toexamine a map of eastern europe, prodding each locality with the knitting needle tobrand it on her memory. "cousin sophia said awhile ago that serbia was done for, but itold her there was still such a thing as an over-ruling providence, doubt it who might.it says here that the slaughter was terrible. for all they were foreigners it is awful tothink of so many men being killed, mrs. dr. dear—for they are scarce enough as it is."
rilla was upstairs relieving her over-chargedfeelings by writing in her diary. "things have all 'gone catawampus,' as susansays, with me this week. part of it was my own fault and part of it wasn't, and i seemto be equally unhappy over both parts. "i went to town the other day to buy a newwinter hat. it was the first time nobody insisted on coming with me to help me select it, andi felt that mother had really given up thinking of me as a child. and i found the dearesthat—it was simply bewitching. it was a velvet hat, of the very shade of rich green thatwas made for me. it just goes with my hair and complexion beautifully, bringing out thered-brown shades and what miss oliver calls my 'creaminess' so well. only once beforein my life have i come across that precise
shade of green. when i was twelve i had alittle beaver hat of it, and all the girls in school were wild over it. well, as soonas i saw this hat i felt that i simply must have it—and have it i did. the price wasdreadful. i will not put it down here because i don't want my descendants to know i wasguilty of paying so much for a hat, in war-time, too, when everybody is—or should be—tryingto be economical. "when i got home and tried on the hat againin my room i was assailed by qualms. of course, it was very becoming; but somehow it seemedtoo elaborate and fussy for church going and our quiet little doings in the glen—tooconspicuous, in short. it hadn't seemed so at the milliner's but here in my little whiteroom it did. and that dreadful price tag!
and the starving belgians! when mother sawthe hat and the tag she just looked at me. mother is some expert at looking. father saysshe looked him into love with her years ago in avonlea school and i can well believe it—thoughi have heard a weird tale of her banging him over the head with a slate at the very beginningof their acquaintance. mother was a limb when she was a little girl, i understand, and evenup to the time when jem went away she was full of ginger. but let me return to my mutton—thatis to say, my new green velvet hat. "'do you think, rilla,' mother said quietly—fartoo quietly—'that it was right to spend so much for a hat, especially when the needof the world is so great?' "'i paid for it out of my own allowance, mother,'i exclaimed.
"'that is not the point. your allowance isbased on the principle of a reasonable amount for each thing you need. if you pay too muchfor one thing you must cut off somewhere else and that is not satisfactory. but if you thinkyou did right, rilla, i have no more to say. i leave it to your conscience.' "i wish mother would not leave things to myconscience! and anyway, what was i to do? i couldn't take that hat back—i had wornit to a concert in town—i had to keep it! i was so uncomfortable that i flew into atemper—a cold, calm, deadly temper. "'mother,' i said haughtily, 'i am sorry youdisapprove of my hat—' "'not of the hat exactly,' said mother, 'thoughi consider it in doubtful taste for so young
a girl—but of the price you paid for it.' "being interrupted didn't improve my temper,so i went on, colder and calmer and deadlier than ever, just as if mother had not spoken. "'—but i have to keep it now. however, ipromise you that i will not get another hat for three years or for the duration of thewar, if it lasts longer than that. even you'—oh, the sarcasm i put into the 'you'—'cannotsay that what i paid was too much when spread over at least three years.' "'you will be very tired of that hat beforethree years, rilla,' said mother, with a provoking grin, which, being interpreted, meant thati wouldn't stick it out.
"'tired or not, i will wear it that long,'i said: and then i marched upstairs and cried to think that i had been sarcastic to mother. "i hate that hat already. but three yearsor the duration of the war, i said, and three years or the duration of the war it shallbe. i vowed and i shall keep my vow, cost what it will. "that is one of the 'catawampus' things. theother is that i have quarrelled with irene howard—or she quarrelled with me—or, no,we both quarrelled. "the junior red cross met here yesterday.the hour of meeting was half-past two but irene came at half-past one, because she gotthe chance of a drive down from the upper
glen. irene hasn't been a bit nice to me sincethe fuss about the eats; and besides i feel sure she resents not being president. buti have been determined that things should go smoothly, so i have never taken any notice,and when she came yesterday she seemed so nice and sweet again that i hoped she hadgot over her huffiness and we could be the chums we used to be. "but as soon as we sat down irene began torub me the wrong way. i saw her cast a look at my new knitting-bag. all the girls havealways said irene was jealous-minded and i would never believe them before. but now ifeel that perhaps she is. "the first thing she did was to pounce onjims—irene pretends to adore babies—pick
him out of his cradle and kiss him all overhis face. now, irene knows perfectly well that i don't like to have jims kissed likethat. it is not hygienic. after she had worried him till he began to fuss, she looked at meand gave quite a nasty little laugh but she said, oh, so sweetly, "'why, rilla, darling, you look as if youthought i was poisoning the baby.' "'oh, no, i don't, irene,' i said—everybit as sweetly, 'but you know morgan says that the only place a baby should be kissedis on its forehead, for fear of germs, and that is my rule with jims.' "'dear me, am i so full of germs?' said ireneplaintively. i knew she was making fun of
me and i began to boil inside—but outsideno sign of a simmer. i was determined i would not scrap with irene. "then she began to bounce jims. now, morgansays bouncing is almost the worst thing that can be done to a baby. i never allow jimsto be bounced. but irene bounced him and that exasperating child liked it. he smiled—forthe very first time. he is four months old and he has never smiled once before. not evenmother or susan have been able to coax that thing to smile, try as they would. and herehe was smiling because irene howard bounced him! talk of gratitude! "i admit that smile made a big differencein him. two of the dearest dimples came out
in his cheeks and his big brown eyes seemedfull of laughter. the way irene raved over those dimples was silly, i consider. you wouldhave supposed she thought she had really brought them into existence. but i sewed steadilyand did not enthuse, and soon irene got tired of bouncing jims and put him back in his cradle.he did not like that after being played with, and he began to cry and was fussy the restof the afternoon, whereas if irene had only left him alone he would not have been a bitof trouble. "irene looked at him and said, 'does he oftencry like that?' as if she had never heard a baby crying before. "i explained patiently that children haveto cry so many minutes per day in order to
expand their lungs. morgan says so. "'if jims didn't cry at all i'd have to makehim cry for at least twenty minutes,' i said. "'oh, indeed!' said irene, laughing as ifshe didn't believe me. 'morgan on the care of infants' was upstairs or i would soon haveconvinced her. then she said jims didn't have much hair—she had never seen a four months'old baby so bald. "of course, i knew jims hadn't much hair—yet;but irene said it in a tone that seemed to imply it was my fault that he hadn't any hair.i said i had seen dozens of babies every bit as bald as jims, and irene said, oh very well,she hadn't meant to offend me—when i wasn't offended.
"it went on like that the rest of the hour—irenekept giving me little digs all the time. the girls have always said she was revengefullike that if she were peeved about anything; but i never believed it before; i used tothink irene just perfect, and it hurt me dreadfully to find she could stoop to this. but i corkedup my feelings and sewed away for dear life on a belgian child's nightgown. "then irene told me the meanest, most contemptiblething that someone had said about walter. i won't write it down—i can't. of course,she said it made her furious to hear it and all that—but there was no need for her totell me such a thing even if she did hear it. she simply did it to hurt me.
"i just exploded. 'how dare you come hereand repeat such a thing about my brother, irene howard?' i exclaimed. 'i shall neverforgive you—never. your brother hasn't enlisted—hasn't any idea of enlisting.' "'why rilla, dear, i didn't say it,' saidirene. 'i told you it was mrs. george burr. and i told her—' "'i don't want to hear what you told her.don't you ever speak to me again, irene howard.' "oh course, i shouldn't have said that. butit just seemed to say itself. then the other girls all came in a bunch and i had to calmdown and act the hostess' part as well as i could. irene paired off with olive kirkall the rest of the afternoon and went away
without so much as a look. so i suppose shemeans to take me at my word and i don't care, for i do not want to be friends with a girlwho could repeat such a falsehood about walter. but i feel unhappy over it for all that. we'vealways been such good chums and until lately irene was lovely to me; and now another illusionhas been stripped from my eyes and i feel as if there wasn't such a thing as real truefriendship in the world. "father got old joe mead to build a kennelfor dog monday in the corner of the shipping-shed today. we thought perhaps monday would comehome when the cold weather came but he wouldn't. no earthly influence can coax monday awayfrom that shed even for a few minutes. there he stays and meets every train. so we hadto do something to make him comfortable. joe
built the kennel so that monday could liein it and still see the platform, so we hope he will occupy it. "monday has become quite famous. a reporterof the enterprise came out from town and photographed him and wrote up the whole story of his faithfulvigil. it was published in the enterprise and copied all over canada. but that doesn'tmatter to poor little monday, jem has gone away—monday doesn't know where or why—buthe will wait until he comes back. somehow it comforts me: it's foolish, i suppose, butit gives me a feeling that jem will come back or else monday wouldn't keep on waiting forhim. "jims is snoring beside me in his cradle.it is just a cold that makes him snore—not
adenoids. irene had a cold yesterday and iknow she gave it to him, kissing him. he is not quite such a nuisance as he was; he hasgot some backbone and can sit up quite nicely, and he loves his bath now and splashes unsmilinglyin the water instead of twisting and shrieking. oh, shall i ever forget those first two months!i don't know how i lived through them. but here i am and here is jims and we both aregoing to 'carry on.' i tickled him a little bit tonight when i undressed him—i wouldn'tbounce him but morgan doesn't mention tickling—just to see if he would smile for me as well asirene. and he did—and out popped the dimples. what a pity his mother couldn't have seenthem! "i finished my sixth pair of socks today.with the first three i got susan to set the
heel for me. then i thought that was a bitof shirking, so i learned to do it myself. i hate it—but i have done so many thingsi hate since 4th of august that one more or less doesn't matter. i just think of jem jokingabout the mud on salisbury plain and i go at them." chapter xi dark and bright at christmas the college boys and girls camehome and for a little while ingleside was gay again. but all were not there—for thefirst time one was missing from the circle round the christmas table. jem, of the steadylips and fearless eyes, was far away, and
rilla felt that the sight of his vacant chairwas more than she could endure. susan had taken a stubborn freak and insisted on settingout jem's place for him as usual, with the twisted little napkin ring he had always hadsince a boy, and the odd, high green gables goblet that aunt marilla had once given himand from which he always insisted on drinking. "that blessed boy shall have his place, mrs.dr. dear," said susan firmly, "and do not you feel over it, for you may be sure he ishere in spirit and next christmas he will be here in the body. wait you till the bigpush comes in the spring and the war will be over in a jiffy." they tried to think so, but a shadow stalkedin the background of their determined merrymaking.
walter, too, was quiet and dull, all throughthe holidays. he showed rilla a cruel, anonymous letter he had received at redmond—a letterfar more conspicuous for malice than for patriotic indignation. "nevertheless, all it says is true, rilla." rilla had caught it from him and thrown itinto the fire. "there isn't one word of truth in it," shedeclared hotly. "walter, you've got morbid—as miss oliver says she gets when she broodstoo long over one thing." "i can't get away from it at redmond, rilla.the whole college is aflame over the war. a perfectly fit fellow, of military age, whodoesn't join up is looked upon as a shirker
and treated accordingly. dr. milne, the englishprofessor, who has always made a special pet of me, has two sons in khaki; and i can feelthe change in his manner towards me." "it's not fair—you're not fit." "physically i am. sound as a bell. the unfitnessis in the soul and it's a taint and a disgrace. there, don't cry, rilla. i'm not going ifthat's what you're afraid of. the piper's music rings in my ears day and night—buti cannot follow." "you would break mother's heart and mine ifyou did," sobbed rilla. "oh, walter, one is enough for any family." the holidays were an unhappy time for her.still, having nan and di and walter and shirley
home helped in the enduring of things. a letterand book came for her from kenneth ford, too; some sentences in the letter made her cheeksburn and her heart beat—until the last paragraph, which sent an icy chill over everything. "my ankle is about as good as new. i'll befit to join up in a couple of months more, rilla-my-rilla. it will be some feeling toget into khaki all right. little ken will be able to look the whole world in the facethen and owe not any man. it's been rotten lately, since i've been able to walk withoutlimping. people who don't know look at me as much as to say 'slacker!' well, they won'thave the chance to look it much longer." "i hate this war," said rilla bitterly, asshe gazed out into the maple grove that was
a chill glory of pink and gold in the wintersunset. "nineteen-fourteen has gone," said dr. blytheon new year's day. "its sun, which rose fairly, has set in blood. what will nineteen-fifteenbring?" "victory!" said susan, for once laconic. "do you really believe we'll win the war,susan?" said miss oliver drearily. she had come over from lowbridge to spend the dayand see walter and the girls before they went back to redmond. she was in a rather blueand cynical mood and inclined to look on the dark side. "'believe' we'll win the war!" exclaimed susan."no, miss oliver, dear, i do not believe—i
know. that does not worry me. what does worryme is the trouble and expense of it all. but then you cannot make omelets without breakingeggs, so we must just trust in god and make big guns." "sometimes i think the big guns are betterto trust in than god," said miss oliver defiantly. "no, no, dear, you do not. the germans hadthe big guns at the marne, had they not? but providence settled them. do not ever forgetthat. just hold on to that when you feel inclined to doubt. clutch hold of the sides of yourchair and sit tight and keep saying, 'big guns are good but the almighty is better,and he is on our side, no matter what the kaiser says about it.' i would have gone crazymany a day lately, miss oliver, dear, if i
had not sat tight and repeated that to myself.my cousin sophia is, like you, somewhat inclined to despond. 'oh, dear me, what will we doif the germans ever get here,' she wailed to me yesterday. 'bury them,' said i, justas off-hand as that. 'there is plenty of room for the graves.' cousin sophia said that iwas flippant but i was not flippant, miss oliver, dear, only calm and confident in thebritish navy and our canadian boys. i am like old mr. william pollock of the harbour head.he is very old and has been ill for a long time, and one night last week he was so lowthat his daughter-in-law whispered to some one that she thought he was dead. 'darn it,i ain't,' he called right out—only, miss oliver, dear, he did not use so mild a wordas 'darn'—'darn it, i ain't, and i don't
mean to die until the kaiser is well licked.'now, that, miss oliver, dear," concluded susan, "is the kind of spirit i admire." "i admire it but i can't emulate it," sighedgertrude. "before this, i have always been able to escape from the hard things of lifefor a little while by going into dreamland, and coming back like a giant refreshed. buti can't escape from this." "nor i," said mrs. blythe. "i hate going tobed now. all my life i've liked going to bed, to have a gay, mad, splendid half-hour ofimagining things before sleeping. now i imagine them still. but such different things." "i am rather glad when the time comes to goto bed," said miss oliver. "i like the darkness
because i can be myself in it—i needn'tsmile or talk bravely. but sometimes my imagination gets out of hand, too, and i see what youdo—terrible things—terrible years to come." "i am very thankful that i never had any imaginationto speak of," said susan. "i have been spared that. i see by this paper that the crown princeis killed again. do you suppose there is any hope of his staying dead this time? and ialso see that woodrow wilson is going to write another note. i wonder," concluded susan,with the bitter irony she had of late begun to use when referring to the poor president,"if that man's schoolmaster is alive." in january jims was five months old and rillacelebrated the anniversary by shortening him. "he weighs fourteen pounds," she announcedjubilantly. "just exactly what he should weigh
at five months, according to morgan." there was no longer any doubt in anybody'smind that jims was getting positively pretty. his little cheeks were round and firm andfaintly pink, his eyes were big and bright, his tiny paws had dimples at the root of everyfinger. he had even begun to grow hair, much to rilla's unspoken relief. there was a palegolden fuzz all over his head that was distinctly visible in some lights. he was a good infant,generally sleeping and digesting as morgan decreed. occasionally he smiled but he hadnever laughed, in spite of all efforts to make him. this worried rilla also, becausemorgan said that babies usually laughed aloud from the third to the fifth month. jims wasfive months and had no notion of laughing.
why hadn't he? wasn't he normal? one night rilla came home late from a recruitingmeeting at the glen where she had been giving patriotic recitations. rilla had never beenwilling to recite in public before. she was afraid of her tendency to lisp, which hada habit of reviving if she were doing anything that made her nervous. when she had firstbeen asked to recite at the upper glen meeting she had refused. then she began to worry overher refusal. was it cowardly? what would jem think if he knew? after two days of worryrilla phoned to the president of the patriotic society that she would recite. she did, andlisped several times, and lay awake most of the night in an agony of wounded vanity. thentwo nights after she recited again at harbour
head. she had been at lowbridge and over-harboursince then and had become resigned to an occasional lisp. nobody except herself seemed to mindit. and she was so earnest and appealing and shining-eyed! more than one recruit joinedup because rilla's eyes seemed to look right at him when she passionately demanded howcould men die better than fighting for the ashes of their fathers and the temples oftheir gods, or assured her audience with thrilling intensity that one crowded hour of gloriouslife was worth an age without a name. even stolid miller douglas was so fired one nightthat it took mary vance a good hour to talk him back to sense. mary vance said bitterlythat if rilla blythe felt as bad as she had pretended to feel over jem's going to thefront she wouldn't be urging other girls'
brothers and friends to go. on this particular night rilla was tired andcold and very thankful to creep into her warm nest and cuddle down between her blankets,though as usual with a sorrowful wonder how jem and jerry were faring. she was just gettingwarm and drowsy when jims suddenly began to cry—and kept on crying. rilla curled herself up in her bed and determinedshe would let him cry. she had morgan behind her for justification. jims was warm, physicallycomfortable—his cry wasn't the cry of pain—and had his little tummy as full as was good forhim. under such circumstances it would be simply spoiling him to fuss over him, andshe wasn't going to do it. he could cry until
he got good and tired and ready to go to sleepagain. then rilla's imagination began to tormenther. suppose, she thought, i was a tiny, helpless creature only five months old, with my fathersomewhere in france and my poor little mother, who had been so worried about me, in the graveyard.suppose i was lying in a basket in a big, black room, without one speck of light, andnobody within miles of me, for all i could see or know. suppose there wasn't a humanbeing anywhere who loved me—for a father who had never seen me couldn't love me verymuch, especially when he had never written a word to or about me. wouldn't i cry, too?wouldn't i feel just so lonely and forsaken and frightened that i'd have to cry?
rilla hopped out. she picked jims out of hisbasket and took him into her own bed. his hands were cold, poor mite. but he had promptlyceased to cry. and then, as she held him close to her in the darkness, suddenly jims laughed—areal, gurgly, chuckly, delighted, delightful laugh. "oh, you dear little thing!" exclaimed rilla."are you so pleased at finding you're not all alone, lost in a huge, big, black room?"then she knew she wanted to kiss him and she did. she kissed his silky, scented littlehead, she kissed his chubby little cheek, she kissed his little cold hands. she wantedto squeeze him—to cuddle him, just as she used to squeeze and cuddle her kittens. somethingdelightful and yearning and brooding seemed
to have taken possession of her. she had neverfelt like this before. in a few minutes jims was sound asleep; and,as rilla listened to his soft, regular breathing and felt the little body warm and contentedagainst her, she realized that—at last—she loved her war-baby. "he has got to be—such—a—darling," shethought drowsily, as she drifted off to slumberland herself. in february jem and jerry and robert grantwere in the trenches and a little more tension and dread was added to the ingleside life.in march "yiprez," as susan called it, had come to have a bitter significance. the dailylist of casualties had begun to appear in
the papers and no one at ingleside ever answeredthe telephone without a horrible cold shrinking—for it might be the station-master phoning upto say a telegram had come from overseas. no one at ingleside ever got up in the morningwithout a sudden piercing wonder over what the day might bring. "and i used to welcome the mornings so," thoughtrilla. yet the round of life and duty went steadilyon and every week or so one of the glen lads who had just the other day been a rollickingschoolboy went into khaki. "it is bitter cold out tonight, mrs. dr. dear,"said susan, coming in out of the clear starlit crispness of the canadian winter twilight."i wonder if the boys in the trenches are
warm." "how everything comes back to this war," criedgertrude oliver. "we can't get away from it—not even when we talk of the weather. i nevergo out these dark cold nights myself without thinking of the men in the trenches—notonly our men but everybody's men. i would feel the same if there were nobody i knewat the front. when i snuggle down in my comfortable bed i am ashamed of being comfortable. itseems as if it were wicked of me to be so when many are not." "i saw mrs. meredith down at the store," saidsusan, "and she tells me that they are really troubled over bruce, he takes things so muchto heart. he has cried himself to sleep for
a week, over the starving belgians. 'oh, mother,'he will say to her, so beseeching-like, 'surely the babies are never hungry—oh, not thebabies, mother! just say the babies are not hungry, mother.' and she cannot say it becauseit would not be true, and she is at her wits' end. they try to keep such things from himbut he finds them out and then they cannot comfort him. it breaks my heart to read aboutthem myself, mrs. dr. dear, and i cannot console myself with the thought that the tales arenot true. when i read a novel that makes me want to weep i just say severely to myself,'now, susan baker, you know that is all a pack of lies.' but we must carry on. jackcrawford says he is going to the war because he is tired of farming. i hope he will findit a pleasant change. and mrs. richard elliott
over-harbour is worrying herself sick becauseshe used to be always scolding her husband about smoking up the parlour curtains. nowthat he has enlisted she wishes she had never said a word to him. you know josiah cooperand william daley, mrs. dr. dear. they used to be fast friends but they quarrelled twentyyears ago and have never spoken since. well, the other day josiah went to william and saidright out, 'let us be friends. 'tain't any time to be holding grudges.' william was realglad and held out his hand, and they sat down for a good talk. and in less than half anhour they had quarrelled again, over how the war ought to be fought, josiah holding thatthe dardanelles expedition was rank folly and william maintaining that it was the onesensible thing the allies had done. and now
they are madder at each other than ever andwilliam says josiah is as bad a pro-german as whiskers-on-the-moon. whiskers-on-the-moonvows he is no pro-german but calls himself a pacifist, whatever that may be. it is nothingproper or whiskers would not be it and that you may tie to. he says that the big britishvictory at new chapelle cost more than it was worth and he has forbid joe milgrave tocome near the house because joe ran up his father's flag when the news came. have younoticed, mrs. dr. dear, that the czar has changed that prish name to premysl, whichproves that the man had good sense, russian though he is? joe vickers told me in the storethat he saw a very queer looking thing in the sky tonight over lowbridge way. do yousuppose it could have been a zeppelin, mrs.
dr. dear?" "i do not think it very likely, susan." "well, i would feel easier about it if whiskers-on-the-moonwere not living in the glen. they say he was seen going through strange manoeuvres witha lantern in his back yard one night lately. some people think he was signalling." "to whom—or what?" "ah, that is the mystery, mrs. dr. dear. inmy opinion the government would do well to keep an eye on that man if it does not wantus to be all murdered in our beds some night. now i shall just look over the papers a minutebefore going to write a letter to little jem.
two things i never did, mrs. dr. dear, werewrite letters and read politics. yet here i am doing both regular and i find there issomething in politics after all. whatever woodrow wilson means i cannot fathom but iam hoping i will puzzle it out yet." susan, in her pursuit of wilson and politics,presently came upon something that disturbed her and exclaimed in a tone of bitter disappointment, "that devilish kaiser has only a boil afterall." "don't swear, susan," said dr. blythe, pullinga long face. "'devilish' is not swearing, doctor, dear.i have always understood that swearing was taking the name of the almighty in vain?"
"well, it isn't—ahem—refined," said thedoctor, winking at miss oliver. "no, doctor, dear, the devil and the kaiser—ifso be that they are really two different people—are not refined. and you cannot refer to themin a refined way. so i abide by what i said, although you may notice that i am carefulnot to use such expressions when young rilla is about. and i maintain that the papers haveno right to say that the kaiser has pneumonia and raise people's hopes, and then come outand say he has nothing but a boil. a boil, indeed! i wish he was covered with them." susan stalked out to the kitchen and settleddown to write to jem; deeming him in need of some home comfort from certain passagesin his letter that day.
"we're in an old wine cellar tonight, dad,"he wrote, "in water to our knees. rats everywhere—no fire—a drizzling rain coming down—ratherdismal. but it might be worse. i got susan's box today and everything was in tip-top orderand we had a feast. jerry is up the line somewhere and he says the rations are rather worse thanaunt martha's ditto used to be. but here they're not bad—only monotonous. tell susan i'dgive a year's pay for a good batch of her monkey-faces; but don't let that inspire herto send any for they wouldn't keep. "we have been under fire since the last weekin february. one boy—he was a nova scotian—was killed right beside me yesterday. a shellburst near us and when the mess cleared away he was lying dead—not mangled at all—hejust looked a little startled. it was the
first time i'd been close to anything likethat and it was a nasty sensation, but one soon gets used to horrors here. we're in anabsolutely different world. the only things that are the same are the stars—and theyare never in their right places, somehow. "tell mother not to worry—i'm all right—fitas a fiddle—and glad i came. there's something across from us here that has got to be wipedout of the world, that's all—an emanation of evil that would otherwise poison life forever. it's got to be done, dad, however long it takes, and whatever it costs, and you tellthe glen people this for me. they don't realize yet what it is has broken loose—i didn'twhen i first joined up. i thought it was fun. well, it isn't! but i'm in the right placeall right—make no mistake about that. when
i saw what had been done here to homes andgardens and people—well, dad, i seemed to see a gang of huns marching through rainbowvalley and the glen, and the garden at ingleside. there were gardens over here—beautiful gardenswith the beauty of centuries—and what are they now? mangled, desecrated things! we arefighting to make those dear old places where we had played as children, safe for otherboys and girls—fighting for the preservation and safety of all sweet, wholesome things. "whenever any of you go to the station besure to give dog monday a double pat for me. fancy the faithful little beggar waiting therefor me like that! honestly, dad, on some of these dark cold nights in the trenches, itheartens and braces me up no end to think
that thousands of miles away at the old glenstation there is a small spotted dog sharing my vigil. "tell rilla i'm glad her war-baby is turningout so well, and tell susan that i'm fighting a good fight against both huns and cooties." "mrs. dr. dear," whispered susan solemnly,"what are cooties?" mrs. blythe whispered back and then said inreply to susan's horrified ejaculations, "it's always like that in the trenches, susan." susan shook her head and went away in grimsilence to re-open a parcel she had sewed up for jem and slip in a fine tooth comb.
chapter xii in the days of langemarck "how can spring come and be beautiful in sucha horror," wrote rilla in her diary. "when the sun shines and the fluffy yellow catkinsare coming out on the willow-trees down by the brook, and the garden is beginning tobe beautiful i can't realize that such dreadful things are happening in flanders. but theyare! "this past week has been terrible for us all,since the news came of the fighting around ypres and the battles of langemarck and st.julien. our canadian boys have done splendidly—general french says they 'saved the situation,' whenthe germans had all but broken through. but
i can't feel pride or exultation or anythingbut a gnawing anxiety over jem and jerry and mr. grant. the casualty lists are coming outin the papers every day—oh, there are so many of them. i can't bear to read them forfear i'd find jem's name—for there have been cases where people have seen their boys'names in the casualty lists before the official telegram came. as for the telephone, for aday or two i just refused to answer it, because i thought i could not endure the horriblemoment that came between saying 'hello' and hearing the response. that moment seemed ahundred years long, for i was always dreading to hear 'there is a telegram for dr. blythe.'then, when i had shirked for a while, i was ashamed of leaving it all for mother or susan,and now i make myself go. but it never gets
any easier. gertrude teaches school and readscompositions and sets examination papers just as she always has done, but i know her thoughtsare over in flanders all the time. her eyes haunt me. "and kenneth is in khaki now, too. he hasgot a lieutenant's commission and expects to go overseas in midsummer, so he wrote me.there wasn't much else in the letter—he seemed to be thinking of nothing but goingoverseas. i shall not see him again before he goes—perhaps i will never see him again.sometimes i ask myself if that evening at four winds was all a dream. it might as wellbe—it seems as if it happened in another life lived years ago—and everybody has forgottenit but me.
"walter and nan and di came home last nightfrom redmond. when walter stepped off the train dog monday rushed to meet him, franticwith joy. i suppose he thought jem would be there, too. after the first moment, he paidno attention to walter and his pats, but just stood there, wagging his tail nervously andlooking past walter at the other people coming out, with eyes that made me choke up, fori couldn't help thinking that, for all we knew, monday might never see jem come offthat train again. then, when all the people were out, monday looked up at walter, gavehis hand a little lick as if to say, 'i know it isn't your fault he didn't come—excuseme for feeling disappointed,' and then he trotted back to his shed, with that funnylittle sidelong waggle of his that always
makes it seem that his hind legs are travellingdirectly away from the point at which his forelegs are aiming. "we tried to coax him home with us—di evengot down and kissed him between the eyes and said, 'monday, old duck, won't you come upwith us just for the evening?' and monday said—he did!—'i am very sorry but i can't.i've got a date to meet jem here, you know, and there's a train goes through at eight.' "it's lovely to have walter back again thoughhe seems quiet and sad, just as he was at christmas. but i'm going to love him hardand cheer him up and make him laugh as he used to. it seems to me that every day ofmy life walter means more to me.
"the other evening susan happened to say thatthe mayflowers were out in rainbow valley. i chanced to be looking at mother when susanspoke. her face changed and she gave a queer little choked cry. most of the time motheris so spunky and gay you would never guess what she feels inside; but now and then somelittle thing is too much for her and we see under the surface. 'mayflowers!' she said.'jem brought me mayflowers last year!' and she got up and went out of the room. i wouldhave rushed off to rainbow valley and brought her an armful of mayflowers, but i knew thatwasn't what she wanted. and after walter got home last night he slipped away to the valleyand brought mother home all the mayflowers he could find. nobody had said a word to himabout it—he just remembered himself that
jem used to bring mother the first mayflowersand so he brought them in jem's place. it shows how tender and thoughtful he is. andyet there are people who send him cruel letters! "it seems strange that we can go in with ordinarylife just as if nothing were happening overseas that concerned us, just as if any day mightnot bring us awful news. but we can and do. susan is putting in the garden, and motherand she are housecleaning, and we junior reds are getting up a concert in aid of the belgians.we have been practising for a month and having no end of trouble and bother with cranky people.miranda pryor promised to help with a dialogue and when she had her part all learnt her fatherput his foot down and refused to allow her to help at all. i am not blaming miranda exactly,but i do think she might have a little more
spunk sometimes. if she put her foot downonce in a while she might bring her father to terms, for she is all the housekeeper hehas and what would he do if she 'struck'? if i were in miranda's shoes i'd find someway of managing whiskers-on-the-moon. i would horse-whip him, or bite him, if nothing elsewould serve. but miranda is a meek and obedient daughter whose days should be long in theland. "i couldn't get anyone else to take the part,because nobody liked it, so finally i had to take it myself. olive kirk is on the concertcommittee and goes against me in every single thing. but i got my way in asking mrs. channingto come out from town and sing for us, anyhow. she is a beautiful singer and will draw sucha crowd that we will make more than we will
have to pay her. olive kirk thought our localtalent good enough and minnie clow won't sing at all now in the choruses because she wouldbe so nervous before mrs. channing. and minnie is the only good alto we have! there are timeswhen i am so exasperated that i feel tempted to wash my hands of the whole affair; butafter i dance round my room a few times in sheer rage i cool down and have another whackat it. just at present i am racked with worry for fear the isaac reeses are taking whooping-cough.they have all got a dreadful cold and there are five of them who have important partsin the programme and if they go and develop whooping-cough what shall i do? dick reese'sviolin solo is to be one of our titbits and kit reese is in every tableau and the threesmall girls have the cutest flag-drill. i've
been toiling for weeks to train them in it,and now it seems likely that all my trouble will go for nothing. "jims cut his first tooth today. i am veryglad, for he is nearly nine months old and mary vance has been insinuating that he isawfully backward about cutting his teeth. he has begun to creep but doesn't crawl asmost babies do. he trots about on all fours and carries things in his mouth like a littledog. nobody can say he isn't up to schedule time in the matter of creeping anyway—awayahead of it indeed, since ten months is morgan's average for creeping. he is so cute, it willbe a shame if his dad never sees him. his hair is coming on nicely too, and i am notwithout hope that it will be curly.
"just for a few minutes, while i've been writingof jims and the concert, i've forgotten ypres and the poison gas and the casualty lists.now it all rushes back, worse than ever. oh, if we could just know that jem is all right!i used to be so furious with jem when he called me spider. and now, if he would just comewhistling through the hall and call out, 'hello, spider,' as he used to do, i would think itthe loveliest name in the world." rilla put away her diary and went out to thegarden. the spring evening was very lovely. the long, green, seaward-looking glen wasfilled with dusk, and beyond it were meadows of sunset. the harbour was radiant, purplehere, azure there, opal elsewhere. the maple grove was beginning to be misty green. rillalooked about her with wistful eyes. who said
that spring was the joy of the year? it wasthe heart-break of the year. and the pale-purply mornings and the daffodil stars and the windin the old pine were so many separate pangs of the heart-break. would life ever be freefrom dread again? "it's good to see p.e.i. twilight once more,"said walter, joining her. "i didn't really remember that the sea was so blue and theroads so red and the wood nooks so wild and fairy haunted. yes, the fairies still abidehere. i vow i could find scores of them under the violets in rainbow valley." rilla was momentarily happy. this soundedlike the walter of yore. she hoped he was forgetting certain things that had troubledhim.
"and isn't the sky blue over rainbow valley?"she said, responding to his mood. "blue—blue—you'd have to say 'blue' a hundred times beforeyou could express how blue it is." susan wandered by, her head tied up with ashawl, her hands full of garden implements. doc, stealthy and wild-eyed, was shadowingher steps among the spirea bushes. "the sky may be blue," said susan, "but thatcat has been hyde all day so we will likely have rain tonight and by the same token ihave rheumatism in my shoulder." "it may rain—but don't think rheumatism,susan—think violets," said walter gaily—rather too gaily, rilla thought. susan considered him unsympathetic.
"indeed, walter dear, i do not know what youmean by thinking violets," she responded stiffly, "and rheumatism is not a thing to be jokedabout, as you may some day realize for yourself. i hope i am not of the kind that is alwayscomplaining of their aches and pains, especially now when the news is so terrible. rheumatismis bad enough but i realize, and none better, that it is not to be compared to being gassedby the huns." "oh, my god, no!" exclaimed walter passionately.he turned and went back to the house. susan shook her head. she disapproved entirelyof such ejaculations. "i hope he will not let his mother hear him talking like that,"she thought as she stacked the hoes and rake away.
rilla was standing among the budding daffodilswith tear-filled eyes. her evening was spoiled; she detested susan, who had somehow hurt walter;and jem—had jem been gassed? had he died in torture? "i can't endure this suspense any longer,"said rilla desperately. but she endured it as the others did for anotherweek. then a letter came from jem. he was all right. "i've come through without a scratch, dad.don't know how i or any of us did it. you'll have seen all about it in the papers—i can'twrite of it. but the huns haven't got through—they won't get through. jerry was knocked stiffby a shell one time, but it was only the shock.
he was all right in a few days. grant is safe,too." nan had a letter from jerry meredith. "i cameback to consciousness at dawn," he wrote. "couldn't tell what had happened to me butthought that i was done for. i was all alone and afraid—terribly afraid. dead men wereall around me, lying on the horrible grey, slimy fields. i was woefully thirsty—andi thought of david and the bethlehem water—and of the old spring in rainbow valley underthe maples. i seemed to see it just before me—and you standing laughing on the otherside of it—and i thought it was all over with me. and i didn't care. honestly, i didn'tcare. i just felt a dreadful childish fear of loneliness and of those dead men aroundme, and a sort of wonder how this could have
happened to me. then they found me and cartedme off and before long i discovered that there wasn't really anything wrong with me. i'mgoing back to the trenches tomorrow. every man is needed there that can be got." "laughter is gone out of the world," saidfaith meredith, who had come over to report on her letters. "i remember telling old mrs.taylor long ago that the world was a world of laughter. but it isn't so any longer." "it's a shriek of anguish," said gertrudeoliver. "we must keep a little laughter, girls," saidmrs. blythe. "a good laugh is as good as a prayer sometimes—only sometimes," she addedunder her breath. she had found it very hard
to laugh during the three weeks she had justlived through—she, anne blythe, to whom laughter had always come so easily and freshly.and what hurt most was that rilla's laughter had grown so rare—rilla whom she used tothink laughed over-much. was all the child's girlhood to be so clouded? yet how strongand clever and womanly she was growing! how patiently she knitted and sewed and manipulatedthose uncertain junior reds! and how wonderful she was with jims. "she really could not do better for that childthan if she had raised a baker's dozen, mrs. dr. dear," susan had avowed solemnly. "littledid i ever expect it of her on the day she landed here with that soup tureen."
chapter xiii a slice of humble pie "i am very much afraid, mrs. dr. dear," saidsusan, who had been on a pilgrimage to the station with some choice bones for dog monday,"that something terrible has happened. whiskers-on-the-moon came off the train from charlottetown andhe was looking pleased. i do not remember that i ever saw him with a smile on in publicbefore. of course he may have just been getting the better of somebody in a cattle deal buti have an awful presentiment that the huns have broken through somewhere." perhaps susan was unjust in connecting mr.pryor's smile with the sinking of the lusitania,
news of which circulated an hour later whenthe mail was distributed. but the glen boys turned out that night in a body and brokeall his windows in a fine frenzy of indignation over the kaiser's doings. "i do not say they did right and i do notsay they did wrong," said susan, when she heard of it. "but i will say that i wouldn'thave minded throwing a few stones myself. one thing is certain—whiskers-on-the-moonsaid in the post office the day the news came, in the presence of witnesses, that folks whocould not stay home after they had been warned deserved no better fate. norman douglas isfairly foaming at the mouth over it all. 'if the devil doesn't get those men who sunk thelusitania then there is no use in there being
a devil,' he was shouting in carter's storelast night. norman douglas always has believed that anybody who opposed him was on the sideof the devil, but a man like that is bound to be right once in a while. bruce meredithis worrying over the babies who were drowned. and it seems he prayed for something veryspecial last friday night and didn't get it, and was feeling quite disgruntled over it.but when he heard about the lusitania he told his mother that he understood now why goddidn't answer his prayer—he was too busy attending to the souls of all the people whowent down on the lusitania. that child's brain is a hundred years older than his body, mrs.dr. dear. as for the lusitania, it is an awful occurrence, whatever way you look at it. butwoodrow wilson is going to write a note about
it, so why worry? a pretty president!" andsusan banged her pots about wrathfully. president wilson was rapidly becoming anathema in susan'skitchen. mary vance dropped in one evening to tellthe ingleside folks that she had withdrawn all opposition to miller douglas's enlisting. "this lusitania business was too much forme," said mary brusquely. "when the kaiser takes to drowning innocent babies it's hightime somebody told him where he gets off at. this thing must be fought to a finish. it'sbeen soaking into my mind slow but i'm on now. so i up and told miller he could go asfar as i was concerned. old kitty alec won't be converted though. if every ship in theworld was submarined and every baby drowned,
kitty wouldn't turn a hair. but i flattermyself that it was me kept miller back all along and not the fair kitty. i may have deceivedmyself—but we shall see." they did see. the next sunday miller douglaswalked into the glen church beside mary vance in khaki. and mary was so proud of him thather white eyes fairly blazed. joe milgrave, back under the gallery, looked at miller andmary and then at miranda pryor, and sighed so heavily that every one within a radiusof three pews heard him and knew what his trouble was. walter blythe did not sigh. butrilla, scanning his face anxiously, saw a look that cut into her heart. it haunted herfor the next week and made an undercurrent of soreness in her soul, which was externallybeing harrowed up by the near approach of
the red cross concert and the worries connectedtherewith. the reese cold had not developed into whooping-cough, so that tangle was straightenedout. but other things were hanging in the balance; and on the very day before the concertcame a regretful letter from mrs. channing saying that she could not come to sing. herson, who was in kingsport with his regiment, was seriously ill with pneumonia, and shemust go to him at once. the members of the concert committee lookedat each other in blank dismay. what was to be done? "this comes of depending on outside help,"said olive kirk, disagreeably. "we must do something," said rilla, too desperateto care for olive's manner. "we've advertised
the concert everywhere—and crowds are coming—there'seven a big party coming out from town—and we were short enough of music as it was. wemust get some one to sing in mrs. channing's place." "i don't know who you can get at this latedate," said olive. "irene howard could do it; but it is not likely she will after theway she was insulted by our society." "how did our society insult her?" asked rilla,in what she called her 'cold-pale tone.' its coldness and pallor did not daunt olive. "you insulted her," she answered sharply."irene told me all about it—she was literally heart-broken. you told her never to speakto you again—and irene told me she simply
could not imagine what she had said or doneto deserve such treatment. that was why she never came to our meetings again but joinedin with the lowbridge red cross. i do not blame her in the least, and i, for one, willnot ask her to lower herself by helping us out of this scrape." "you don't expect me to ask her?" giggledamy macallister, the other member of the committee. "irene and i haven't spoken for a hundredyears. irene is always getting 'insulted' by somebody. but she is a lovely singer, i'lladmit that, and people would just as soon hear her as mrs. channing." "it wouldn't do any good if you did ask her,"said olive significantly. "soon after we began
planning this concert, back in april, i metirene in town one day and asked her if she wouldn't help us out. she said she'd loveto but she really didn't see how she could when rilla blythe was running the programme,after the strange way rilla had behaved to her. so there it is and here we are, and anice failure our concert will be." rilla went home and shut herself up in herroom, her soul in a turmoil. she would not humiliate herself by apologizing to irenehoward! irene had been as much in the wrong as she had been; and she had told such mean,distorted versions of their quarrel everywhere, posing as a puzzled, injured martyr. rillacould never bring herself to tell her side of it. the fact that a slur at walter wasmixed up in it tied her tongue. so most people
believed that irene had been badly used, excepta few girls who had never liked her and sided with rilla. and yet—the concert over whichshe had worked so hard was going to be a failure. mrs. channing's four solos were the featureof the whole programme. "miss oliver, what do you think about it?"she asked in desperation. "i think irene is the one who should apologize,"said miss oliver. "but unfortunately my opinion will not fill the blanks in your programme." "if i went and apologized meekly to ireneshe would sing, i am sure," sighed rilla. "she really loves to sing in public. but iknow she'll be nasty about it—i feel i'd rather do anything than go. i suppose i shouldgo—if jem and jerry can face the huns surely
i can face irene howard, and swallow my prideto ask a favour of her for the good of the belgians. just at present i feel that i cannotdo it but for all that i have a presentiment that after supper you'll see me meekly trottingthrough rainbow valley on my way to the upper glen road." rilla's presentiment proved correct. aftersupper she dressed herself carefully in her blue, beaded crepe—for vanity is harderto quell than pride and irene always saw any flaw or shortcoming in another girl's appearance.besides, as rilla had told her mother one day when she was nine years old, "it is easierto behave nicely when you have your good clothes on."
rilla did her hair very becomingly and donneda long raincoat for fear of a shower. but all the while her thoughts were concernedwith the coming distasteful interview, and she kept rehearsing mentally her part in it.she wished it were over—she wished she had never tried to get up a belgian relief concert—shewished she had not quarreled with irene. after all, disdainful silence would have been muchmore effective in meeting the slur upon walter. it was foolish and childish to fly out asshe had done—well, she would be wiser in the future, but meanwhile a large and veryunpalatable slice of humble pie had to be eaten, and rilla blythe was no fonder of thatwholesome article of diet than the rest of us.
by sunset she was at the door of the howardhouse—a pretentious abode, with white scroll-work round the eaves and an eruption of bay-windowson all its sides. mrs. howard, a plump, voluble dame, met rilla gushingly and left her inthe parlour while she went to call irene. rilla threw off her rain-coat and looked atherself critically in the mirror over the mantel. hair, hat, and dress were satisfactory—nothingthere for miss irene to make fun of. rilla remembered how clever and amusing she usedto think irene's biting little comments about other girls. well, it had come home to hernow. presently, irene skimmed down, elegantly gowned,with her pale, straw-coloured hair done in the latest and most extreme fashion, and anover-luscious atmosphere of perfume enveloping
"why how do you do, miss blythe?" she saidsweetly. "this is a very unexpected pleasure." rilla had risen to take irene's chilly finger-tipsand now, as she sat down again, she saw something that temporarily stunned her. irene saw ittoo, as she sat down, and a little amused, impertinent smile appeared on her lips andhovered there during the rest of the interview. on one of rilla's feet was a smart littlesteel-buckled shoe and a filmy blue silk stocking. the other was clad in a stout and rather shabbyboot and black lisle! poor rilla! she had changed, or begun to changeher boots and stockings after she had put on her dress. this was the result of doingone thing with your hands and another with your brain. oh, what a ridiculous positionto be in—and before irene howard of all
people—irene, who was staring at rilla'sfeet as if she had never seen feet before! and once she had thought irene's manner perfection!everything that rilla had prepared to say vanished from her memory. vainly trying totuck her unlucky foot under her chair, she blurted out a blunt statement. "i have come to athk a favour of you, irene." there—lisping! oh, she had been preparedfor humiliation but not to this extent! really, there were limits! "yes?" said irene in a cool, questioning tone,lifting her shallowly-set, insolent eyes to rilla's crimson face for a moment and thendropping them again as if she could not tear
them from their fascinated gaze at the shabbyboot and the gallant shoe. rilla gathered herself together. she wouldnot lisp—she would be calm and composed. "mrs. channing cannot come because her sonis ill in kingsport, and i have come on behalf of the committee to ask you if you will beso kind as to sing for us in her place." rilla enunciated every word so precisely and carefullythat she seemed to be reciting a lesson. "it's something of a fiddler's invitation,isn't it?" said irene, with one of her disagreeable smiles. "olive kirk asked you to help when we firstthought of the concert and you refused," said "why, i could hardly help—then—could i?"asked irene plaintively. "after you ordered
me never to speak to you again? it would havebeen very awkward for us both, don't you think?" now for the humble pie. "i want to apologize to you for saying that,irene." said rilla steadily. "i should not have said it and i have been very sorry eversince. will you forgive me?" "and sing at your concert?" said irene sweetlyand insultingly. "if you mean," said rilla miserably, "thati would not be apologizing to you if it were not for the concert perhaps that is true.but it is also true that i have felt ever since it happened that i should not have saidwhat i did and that i have been sorry for it all winter. that is all i can say. if youfeel you can't forgive me i suppose there
is nothing more to be said." "oh, rilla dear, don't snap me up like that,"pleaded irene. "of course i'll forgive you—though i did feel awfully about it—how awfullyi hope you'll never know. i cried for weeks over it. and i hadn't said or done a thing!" rilla choked back a retort. after all, therewas no use in arguing with irene, and the belgians were starving. "don't you think you can help us with theconcert," she forced herself to say. oh, if only irene would stop looking at that boot!rilla could just hear her giving olive kirk an account of it.
"i don't see how i really can at the lastmoment like this," protested irene. "there isn't time to learn anything new." "oh, you have lots of lovely songs that nobodyin the glen ever heard before," said rilla, who knew irene had been going to town allwinter for lessons and that this was only a pretext. "they will all be new down there." "but i have no accompanist," protested irene. "una meredith can accompany you," said rilla. "oh, i couldn't ask her," sighed irene. "wehaven't spoken since last fall. she was so hateful to me the time of our sunday-schoolconcert that i simply had to give her up."
dear, dear, was irene at feud with everybody?as for una meredith being hateful to anybody, the idea was so farcical that rilla had muchado to keep from laughing in irene's very "miss oliver is a beautiful pianist and canplay any accompaniment at sight," said rilla desperately. "she will play for you and youcould run over your songs easily tomorrow evening at ingleside before the concert." "but i haven't anything to wear. my new evening-dressisn't home from charlottetown yet, and i simply cannot wear my old one at such a big affair.it is too shabby and old-fashioned." "our concert," said rilla slowly, "is in aidof belgian children who are starving to death. don't you think you could wear a shabby dressonce for their sake, irene?"
"oh, don't you think those accounts we getof the conditions of the belgians are very much exaggerated?" said irene. "i'm sure theycan't be actually starving you know, in the twentieth century. the newspapers always colourthings so highly." rilla concluded that she had humiliated herselfenough. there was such a thing as self-respect. no more coaxing, concert or no concert. shegot up, boot and all. "i am sorry you can't help us, irene, butsince you cannot we must do the best we can." now this did not suit irene at all. she desiredexceedingly to sing at that concert, and all her hesitations were merely by way of enhancingthe boon of her final consent. besides, she really wanted to be friends with rilla again.rilla's whole-hearted, ungrudging adoration
had been very sweet incense to her. and inglesidewas a very charming house to visit, especially when a handsome college student like walterwas home. she stopped looking at rilla's feet. "rilla, darling, don't be so abrupt. i reallywant to help you, if i can manage it. just sit down and let's talk it over." "i'm sorry, but i can't. i have to be homesoon—jims has to be settled for the night, you know." "oh, yes—the baby you are bringing up bythe book. it's perfectly sweet of you to do it when you hate children so. how cross youwere just because i kissed him! but we'll forget all that and be chums again, won'twe? now, about the concert—i dare say i
can run into town on the morning train aftermy dress, and out again on the afternoon one in plenty of time for the concert, if you'llask miss oliver to play for me. i couldn't—she's so dreadfully haughty and supercilious thatshe simply paralyses poor little me." rilla did not waste time or breath defendingmiss oliver. she coolly thanked irene, who had suddenly become very amiable and gushing,and got away. she was very thankful the interview was over. but she knew now that she and irenecould never be the friends they had been. friendly, yes—but friends, no. nor did shewish it. all winter she had felt under her other and more serious worries, a little feelingof regret for her lost chum. now it was suddenly gone. irene was not as mrs. elliott wouldsay, of the race that knew joseph. rilla did
not say or think that she had outgrown irene.had the thought occurred to her she would have considered it absurd when she was notyet seventeen and irene was twenty. but it was the truth. irene was just what she hadbeen a year ago—just what she would always be. rilla blythe's nature in that year hadchanged and matured and deepened. she found herself seeing through irene with a disconcertingclearness—discerning under all her superficial sweetness, her pettiness, her vindictiveness,her insincerity, her essential cheapness. irene had lost for ever her faithful worshipper. but not until rilla had traversed the upperglen road and found herself in the moon-dappled solitude of rainbow valley did she fully recoverher composure of spirit. then she stopped
under a tall wild plum that was ghostly whiteand fair in its misty spring bloom and laughed. "there is only one thing of importance justnow—and that is that the allies win the war," she said aloud. "therefore, it followswithout dispute that the fact that i went to see irene howard with odd shoes and stockingson is of no importance whatever. nevertheless, i, bertha marilla blythe, swear solemnly withthe moon as witness"—rilla lifted her hand dramatically to the said moon—"that i willnever leave my room again without looking carefully at both my feet." chapter xiv the valley of decision
susan kept the flag flying at ingleside allthe next day, in honour of italy's declaration of war. "and not before it was time, mrs. dr. dear,considering the way things have begun to go on the russian front. say what you will, thoserussians are kittle cattle, the grand duke nicholas to the contrary notwithstanding.it is a fortunate thing for italy that she has come in on the right side, but whetherit is as fortunate for the allies i will not predict until i know more about italians thani do now. however, she will give that old reprobate of a francis joseph something tothink about. a pretty emperor indeed—with one foot in the grave and yet plotting wholesalemurder"—and susan thumped and kneaded her
bread with as much vicious energy as she couldhave expended in punching francis joseph himself if he had been so unlucky as to fall intoher clutches. walter had gone to town on the early train,and nan offered to look after jims for the day and so set rilla free. rilla was wildlybusy all day, helping to decorate the glen hall and seeing to a hundred last things.the evening was beautiful, in spite of the fact that mr. pryor was reported to have saidthat he "hoped it would rain pitch forks points down," and to have wantonly kicked miranda'sdog as he said it. rilla, rushing home from the hall, dressed hurriedly. everything hadgone surprisingly well at the last; irene was even then downstairs practising her songswith miss oliver; rilla was excited and happy,
forgetful even of the western front for themoment. it gave her a sense of achievement and victory to have brought her efforts ofweeks to such a successful conclusion. she knew that there had not lacked people whothought and hinted that rilla blythe had not the tact or patience to engineer a concertprogramme. she had shown them! little snatches of song bubbled up from her lips as she dressed.she thought she was looking very well. excitement brought a faint, becoming pink into her roundcreamy cheeks, quite drowning out her few freckles, and her hair gleamed with red-brownlustre. should she wear crab-apple blossoms in it, or her little fillet of pearls? aftersome agonised wavering she decided on the crab-apple blossoms and tucked the white waxencluster behind her left ear. now for a final
look at her feet. yes, both slippers wereon. she gave the sleeping jims a kiss—what a dear little warm, rosy, satin face he had—andhurried down the hill to the hall. already it was filling—soon it was crowded. herconcert was going to be a brilliant success. the first three numbers were successfullyover. rilla was in the little dressing-room behind the platform, looking out on the moonlitharbour and rehearsing her own recitations. she was alone, the rest of the performersbeing in the larger room on the other side. suddenly she felt two soft bare arms slippinground her waist, then irene howard dropped a light kiss on her cheek. "rilla, you sweet thing, you're looking simplyangelic to-night. you have spunk—i thought
you would feel so badly over walter's enlistingthat you'd hardly be able to bear up at all, and here you are as cool as a cucumber. iwish i had half your nerve." rilla stood perfectly still. she felt no emotionwhatever—she felt nothing. the world of feeling had just gone blank. "walter—enlisting"—she heard herself saying—thenshe heard irene's affected little laugh. "why, didn't you know? i thought you did ofcourse, or i wouldn't have mentioned it. i am always putting my foot in it, aren't i?yes, that is what he went to town for to-day—he told me coming out on the train to-night,i was the first person he told. he isn't in khaki yet—they were out of uniforms—buthe will be in a day or two. i always said
walter had as much pluck as anybody. i assureyou i felt proud of him, rilla, when he told me what he'd done. oh, there's an end of rickmacallister's reading. i must fly. i promised i'd play for the next chorus—alice clowhas such a headache." she was gone—oh, thank god, she was gone!rilla was alone again, staring out at the unchanged, dream-like beauty of moonlit fourwinds. feeling was coming back to her—a pang of agony so acute as to be almost physicalseemed to rend her apart. "i cannot bear it," she said. and then camethe awful thought that perhaps she could bear it and that there might be years of this hideoussuffering before her. she must get away—she must rush home—shemust be alone. she could not go out there
and play for drills and give readings andtake part in dialogues now. it would spoil half the concert; but that did not matter—nothingmattered. was this she, rilla blythe—this tortured thing, who had been quite happy afew minutes ago? outside, a quartette was singing "we'll never let the old flag fall"—themusic seemed to be coming from some remote distance. why couldn't she cry, as she hadcried when jem told them he must go? if she could cry perhaps this horrible somethingthat seemed to have seized on her very life might let go. but no tears came! where wereher scarf and coat? she must get away and hide herself like an animal hurt to the death. was it a coward's part to run away like this?the question came to her suddenly as if someone
else had asked it. she thought of the shamblesof the flanders front—she thought of her brother and her playmate helping to hold thosefire-swept trenches. what would they think of her if she shirked her little duty here—thehumble duty of carrying the programme through for her red cross? but she couldn't stay—shecouldn't—yet what was it mother had said when jem went: "when our women fail in courageshall our men be fearless still?" but this—this was unbearable. still, she stopped half-way to the door andwent back to the window. irene was singing now; her beautiful voice—the only real thingabout her—soared clear and sweet through the building. rilla knew that the girls' fairydrill came next. could she go out there and
play for it? her head was aching now—herthroat was burning. oh, why had irene told her just then, when telling could do no good?irene had been very cruel. rilla remembered now that more than once that day she had caughther mother looking at her with an odd expression. she had been too busy to wonder what it meant.she understood now. mother had known why walter went to town but wouldn't tell her until theconcert was over. what spirit and endurance mother had! "i must stay here and see things through,"said rilla, clasping her cold hands together. the rest of the evening always seemed likea fevered dream to her. her body was crowded by people but her soul was alone in a torture-chamberof its own. yet she played steadily for the
drills and gave her readings without faltering.she even put on a grotesque old irish woman's costume and acted the part in the dialoguewhich miranda pryor had not taken. but she did not give her "brogue" the inimitable twistshe had given it in the practices, and her readings lacked their usual fire and appeal.as she stood before the audience she saw one face only—that of the handsome, dark-hairedlad sitting beside her mother—and she saw that same face in the trenches—saw it lyingcold and dead under the stars—saw it pining in prison—saw the light of its eyes blottedout—saw a hundred horrible things as she stood there on the beflagged platform of theglen hall with her own face whiter than the milky crab-blossoms in her hair. between hernumbers she walked restlessly up and down
the little dressing-room. would the concertnever end! it ended at last. olive kirk rushed up andtold her exultantly that they had made a hundred dollars. "that's good," rilla said mechanically.then she was away from them all—oh, thank god, she was away from them all—walter waswaiting for her at the door. he put his arm through hers silently and they went togetherdown the moonlit road. the frogs were singing in the marshes, the dim, ensilvered fieldsof home lay all around them. the spring night was lovely and appealing. rilla felt thatits beauty was an insult to her pain. she would hate moonlight for ever. "you know?" said walter.
"yes. irene told me," answered rilla chokingly. "we didn't want you to know till the eveningwas over. i knew when you came out for the drill that you had heard. little sister, ihad to do it. i couldn't live any longer on such terms with myself as i have been sincethe lusitania was sunk. when i pictured those dead women and children floating about inthat pitiless, ice-cold water—well, at first i just felt a sort of nausea with life. iwanted to get out of the world where such a thing could happen—shake its accurseddust from my feet for ever. then i knew i had to go." "there are—plenty—without you."
"that isn't the point, rilla-my-rilla. i'mgoing for my own sake—to save my soul alive. it will shrink to something small and meanand lifeless if i don't go. that would be worse than blindness or mutilation or anyof the things i've feared." "you may—be—killed," rilla hated herselffor saying it—she knew it was a weak and cowardly thing to say—but she had rathergone to pieces after the tension of the evening. "'comes he slow or comes he fastit is but death who comes at last.'" quoted walter. "it's not death i fear—itold you that long ago. one can pay too high a price for mere life, little sister. there'sso much hideousness in this war—i've got to go and help wipe it out of the world. i'mgoing to fight for the beauty of life, rilla-my-rilla—that
is my duty. there may be a higher duty, perhaps—butthat is mine. i owe life and canada that, and i've got to pay it. rilla, tonight forthe first time since jem left i've got back my self-respect. i could write poetry," walterlaughed. "i've never been able to write a line since last august. tonight i'm full ofit. little sister, be brave—you were so plucky when jem went." "this—is—different," rilla had to stopafter every word to fight down a wild outburst of sobs. "i loved—jem—of course—but—when—hewent—away—we thought—the war—would soon—be over—and you are—everythingto me, walter." "you must be brave to help me, rilla-my-rilla.i'm exalted tonight—drunk with the excitement
of victory over myself—but there will beother times when it won't be like this—i'll need your help then." "when—do—you—go?" she must know theworst at once. "not for a week—then we go to kingsportfor training. i suppose we'll go overseas about the middle of july—we don't know." one week—only one week more with walter!the eyes of youth did not see how she was to go on living. when they turned in at the ingleside gatewalter stopped in the shadows of the old pines and drew rilla close to him.
"rilla-my-rilla, there were girls as sweetand pure as you in belgium and flanders. you—even you—know what their fate was. we must makeit impossible for such things to happen again while the world lasts. you'll help me, won'tyou?" "i'll try, walter," she said. "oh, i willtry." as she clung to him with her face pressedagainst his shoulder she knew that it had to be. she accepted the fact then and there.he must go—her beautiful walter with his beautiful soul and dreams and ideals. andshe had known all along that it would come sooner or later. she had seen it coming toher—coming—coming—as one sees the shadow of a cloud drawing near over a sunny field,swiftly and inescapably. amid all her pain
she was conscious of an odd feeling of reliefin some hidden part of her soul, where a little dull, unacknowledged soreness had been lurkingall winter. no one—no one could ever call walter a slacker now. rilla did not sleep that night. perhaps noone at ingleside did except jims. the body grows slowly and steadily, but the soul growsby leaps and bounds. it may come to its full stature in an hour. from that night rillablythe's soul was the soul of a woman in its capacity for suffering, for strength, forendurance. when the bitter dawn came she rose and wentto her window. below her was a big apple-tree, a great swelling cone of rosy blossom. walterhad planted it years ago when he was a little
boy. beyond rainbow valley there was a cloudyshore of morning with little ripples of sunrise breaking over it. the far, cold beauty ofa lingering star shone above it. why, in this world of springtime loveliness, must heartsbreak? rilla felt arms go about her lovingly, protectingly.it was mother—pale, large-eyed mother. "oh, mother, how can you bear it?" she criedwildly. "rilla, dear, i've known for several days that walter meant to go. i've had timeto—to rebel and grow reconciled. we must give him up. there is a call greater and moreinsistent than the call of our love—he has listened to it. we must not add to the bitternessof his sacrifice." "our sacrifice is greater than his," criedrilla passionately. "our boys give only themselves.
we give them." before mrs. blythe could reply susan stuckher head in at the door, never troubling over such frills of etiquette as knocking. hereyes were suspiciously red but all she said was, "will i bring up your breakfast, mrs. dr.dear." "no, no, susan. we will all be down presently.do you know—that walter has joined up." "yes, mrs. dr. dear. the doctor told me lastnight. i suppose the almighty has his own reasons for allowing such things. we mustsubmit and endeavour to look on the bright side. it may cure him of being a poet, atleast"—susan still persisted in thinking
that poets and tramps were tarred with thesame brush—"and that would be something. but thank god," she muttered in a lower tone,"that shirley is not old enough to go." "isn't that the same thing as thanking himthat some other woman's son has to go in shirley's place?" asked the doctor, pausing on the threshold. "no, it is not, doctor dear," said susan defiantly,as she picked up jims, who was opening his big dark eyes and stretching up his dimpledpaws. "do not you put words in my mouth that i would never dream of uttering. i am a plainwoman and cannot argue with you, but i do not thank god that anybody has to go. i onlyknow that it seems they do have to go, unless we all want to be kaiserised—for i can assureyou that the monroe doctrine, whatever it
is, is nothing to tie to, with woodrow wilsonbehind it. the huns, dr. dear, will never be brought to book by notes. and now," concludedsusan, tucking jims in the crook of her gaunt arms and marching downstairs, "having criedmy cry and said my say i shall take a brace, and if i cannot look pleasant i will lookas pleasant as i can." chapter xv until the day break "the germans have recaptured premysl," saidsusan despairingly, looking up from her newspaper, "and now i suppose we will have to begin callingit by that uncivilised name again. cousin sophia was in when the mail came and whenshe heard the news she hove a sigh up from
the depths of her stomach, mrs. dr. dear,and said, 'ah yes, and they will get petrograd next i have no doubt.' i said to her, 'myknowledge of geography is not so profound as i wish it was but i have an idea that itis quite a walk from premysl to petrograd.' cousin sophia sighed again and said, 'thegrand duke nicholas is not the man i took him to be.' 'do not let him know that,' saidi. 'it might hurt his feelings and he has likely enough to worry him as it is. but youcannot cheer cousin sophia up, no matter how sarcastic you are, mrs. dr. dear. she sighedfor the third time and groaned out, 'but the russians are retreating fast,' and i said,'well, what of it? they have plenty of room for retreating, have they not?' but all thesame, mrs. dr. dear, though i would never
admit it to cousin sophia, i do not like thesituation on the eastern front." nobody else liked it either; but all summerthe russian retreat went on—a long-drawn-out agony. "i wonder if i shall ever again be able toawait the coming of the mail with feelings of composure—never to speak of pleasure,"said gertrude oliver. "the thought that haunts me night and day is—will the germans smashrussia completely and then hurl their eastern army, flushed with victory, against the westernfront?" "they will not, miss oliver dear," said susan,assuming the role of prophetess. "in the first place, the almighty will notallow it, in the second, grand duke nicholas,
though he may have been a disappointment tous in some respects, knows how to run away decently and in order, and that is a veryuseful knowledge when germans are chasing you. norman douglas declares he is just luringthem on and killing ten of them to one he loses. but i am of the opinion he cannot helphimself and is just doing the best he can under the circumstances, the same as the restof us. so do not go so far afield to borrow trouble, miss oliver dear, when there is plentyof it already camping on our very doorstep." walter had gone to kingsport the first ofjune. nan, di and faith had gone also to do red cross work in their vacation. in mid-julywalter came home for a week's leave before going overseas. rilla had lived through thedays of his absence on the hope of that week,
and now that it had come she drank every minuteof it thirstily, hating even the hours she had to spend in sleep, they seemed such awaste of precious moments. in spite of its sadness, it was a beautiful week, full ofpoignant, unforgettable hours, when she and walter had long walks and talks and silencestogether. he was all her own and she knew that he found strength and comfort in hersympathy and understanding. it was very wonderful to know she meant so much to him—the knowledgehelped her through moments that would otherwise have been unendurable, and gave her powerto smile—and even to laugh a little. when walter had gone she might indulge in the comfortof tears, but not while he was here. she would not even let herself cry at night, lest hereyes should betray her to him in the morning.
on his last evening at home they went togetherto rainbow valley and sat down on the bank of the brook, under the white lady, wherethe gay revels of olden days had been held in the cloudless years. rainbow valley wasroofed over with a sunset of unusual splendour that night; a wonderful grey dusk just touchedwith starlight followed it; and then came moonshine, hinting, hiding, revealing, lightingup little dells and hollows here, leaving others in dark, velvet shadow. "when i am 'somewhere in france,'" said walter,looking around him with eager eyes on all the beauty his soul loved, "i shall rememberthese still, dewy, moon-drenched places. the balsam of the fir-trees; the peace of thosewhite pools of moonshine; the 'strength of
the hills'—what a beautiful old biblicalphrase that is. rilla! look at those old hills around us—the hills we looked up at as children,wondering what lay for us in the great world beyond them. how calm and strong they are—howpatient and changeless—like the heart of a good woman. rilla-my-rilla, do you knowwhat you have been to me the past year? i want to tell you before i go. i could nothave lived through it if it had not been for you, little loving, believing heart." rilla dared not try to speak. she slippedher hand into walter's and pressed it hard. "and when i'm over there, rilla, in that hellupon earth which men who have forgotten god have made, it will be the thought of you thatwill help me most. i know you'll be as plucky
and patient as you have shown yourself tobe this past year—i'm not afraid for you. i know that no matter what happens, you'llbe rilla-my-rilla—no matter what happens." rilla repressed tear and sigh, but she couldnot repress a little shiver, and walter knew that he had said enough. after a moment ofsilence, in which each made an unworded promise to each other, he said, "now we won't be soberany more. we'll look beyond the years—to the time when the war will be over and jemand jerry and i will come marching home and we'll all be happy again." "we won't be—happy—in the same way," saidrilla. "no, not in the same way. nobody whom thiswar has touched will ever be happy again in
quite the same way. but it will be a betterhappiness, i think, little sister—a happiness we've earned. we were very happy before thewar, weren't we? with a home like ingleside, and a father and mother like ours we couldn'thelp being happy. but that happiness was a gift from life and love; it wasn't reallyours—life could take it back at any time. it can never take away the happiness we winfor ourselves in the way of duty. i've realised that since i went into khaki. in spite ofmy occasional funks, when i fall to living over things beforehand, i've been happy sincethat night in may. rilla, be awfully good to mother while i'm away. it must be a horriblething to be a mother in this war—the mothers and sisters and wives and sweethearts havethe hardest times. rilla, you beautiful little
thing, are you anybody's sweetheart? if youare, tell me before i go." "no," said rilla. then, impelled by a wishto be absolutely frank with walter in this talk that might be the last they would everhave, she added, blushing wildly in the moonlight, "but if—kenneth ford—wanted me to be—" "i see," said walter. "and ken's in khaki,too. poor little girlie, it's a bit hard for you all round. well, i'm not leaving any girlto break her heart about me—thank god for rilla glanced up at the manse on the hill.she could see a light in una meredith's window. she felt tempted to say something—then sheknew she must not. it was not her secret: and, anyway, she did not know—she only suspected.
walter looked about him lingeringly and lovingly.this spot had always been so dear to him. what fun they all had had here lang syne.phantoms of memory seemed to pace the dappled paths and peep merrily through the swingingboughs—jem and jerry, bare-legged, sunburned schoolboys, fishing in the brook and fryingtrout over the old stone fireplace; nan and di and faith, in their dimpled, fresh-eyedchildish beauty; una the sweet and shy, carl, poring over ants and bugs, little slangy,sharp-tongued, good-hearted mary vance—the old walter that had been himself lying onthe grass reading poetry or wandering through palaces of fancy. they were all there aroundhim—he could see them almost as plainly as he saw rilla—as plainly as he had onceseen the pied piper piping down the valley
in a vanished twilight. and they said to him,those gay little ghosts of other days, "we were the children of yesterday, walter—fighta good fight for the children of to-day and to-morrow." "where are you, walter," cried rilla, laughinga little. "come back—come back." walter came back with a long breath. he stoodup and looked about him at the beautiful valley of moonlight, as if to impress on his mindand heart every charm it possessed—the great dark plumes of the firs against the silverysky, the stately white lady, the old magic of the dancing brook, the faithful tree lovers,the beckoning, tricksy paths. "i shall see it so in my dreams," he said,as he turned away.
they went back to ingleside. mr. and mrs.meredith were there, with gertrude oliver, who had come from lowbridge to say good-bye.everybody was quite cheerful and bright, but nobody said much about the war being soonover, as they had said when jem went away. they did not talk about the war at all—andthey thought of nothing else. at last they gathered around the piano and sang the grandold hymn: "oh god, our help in ages pastour hope for years to come. our shelter from the stormy blastand our eternal home." "we all come back to god in these days ofsoul-sifting," said gertrude to john meredith. "there have been many days in the past wheni didn't believe in god—not as god—only
as the impersonal great first cause of thescientists. i believe in him now—i have to—there's nothing else to fall back onbut god—humbly, starkly, unconditionally." "'our help in ages past'—'the same yesterday,to-day and for ever,'" said the minister gently. "when we forget god—he remembers us." there was no crowd at the glen station thenext morning to see walter off. it was becoming a commonplace for a khaki clad boy to boardthat early morning train after his last leave. besides his own, only the manse folk werethere, and mary vance. mary had sent her miller off the week before, with a determined grin,and now considered herself entitled to give expert opinion on how such partings shouldbe conducted.
"the main thing is to smile and act as ifnothing was happening," she informed the ingleside group. "the boys all hate the sob act likepoison. miller told me i wasn't to come near the station if i couldn't keep from bawling.so i got through with my crying beforehand, and at the last i said to him, 'good luck,miller, and if you come back you'll find i haven't changed any, and if you don't comeback i'll always be proud you went, and in any case don't fall in love with a frenchgirl.' miller swore he wouldn't, but you never can tell about those fascinating foreign hussies.anyhow, the last sight he had of me i was smiling to my limit. gee, all the rest ofthe day my face felt as if it had been starched and ironed into a smile."
in spite of mary's advice and example mrs.blythe, who had sent jem off with a smile, could not quite manage one for walter. butat least no one cried. dog monday came out of his lair in the shipping-shed and sat downclose to walter, thumping his tail vigorously on the boards of the platform whenever walterspoke to him, and looking up with confident eyes, as if to say, "i know you'll find jemand bring him back to me." "so long, old fellow," said carl meredithcheerfully, when the good-byes had to be said. "tell them over there to keep their spiritsup—i am coming along presently." "me too," said shirley laconically, profferinga brown paw. susan heard him and her face turned very grey.
una shook hands quietly, looking at him withwistful, sorrowful, dark-blue eyes. but then una's eyes had always been wistful. walterbent his handsome black head in its khaki cap and kissed her with the warm, comradelykiss of a brother. he had never kissed her before, and for a fleeting moment una's facebetrayed her, if anyone had noticed. but nobody did; the conductor was shouting "all aboard";everybody was trying to look very cheerful. walter turned to rilla; she held his handsand looked up at him. she would not see him again until the day broke and the shadowsvanished—and she knew not if that daybreak would be on this side of the grave or beyondit. "good-bye," she said.
on her lips it lost all the bitterness ithad won through the ages of parting and bore instead all the sweetness of the old lovesof all the women who had ever loved and prayed for the beloved. "write me often and bring jims up faithfully,according to the gospel of morgan," walter said lightly, having said all his seriousthings the night before in rainbow valley. but at the last moment he took her face betweenhis hands and looked deep into her gallant eyes. "god bless you, rilla-my-rilla," hesaid softly and tenderly. after all it was not a hard thing to fight for a land thatbore daughters like this. he stood on the rear platform and waved tothem as the train pulled out. rilla was standing
by herself, but una meredith came to her andthe two girls who loved him most stood together and held each other's cold hands as the trainrounded the curve of the wooded hill. rilla spent an hour in rainbow valley thatmorning about which she never said a word to anyone; she did not even write in her diaryabout it; when it was over she went home and made rompers for jims. in the evening shewent to a junior red cross committee meeting and was severely businesslike. "you would never suppose," said irene howardto olive kirk afterwards, "that walter had left for the front only this morning. butsome people really have no depth of feeling. i often wish i could take things as lightlyas rilla blythe."
chapter xvi realism and romance "warsaw has fallen," said dr. blythe witha resigned air, as he brought the mail in one warm august day. gertrude and mrs. blythe looked dismally ateach other, and rilla, who was feeding jims a morganized diet from a carefully sterilizedspoon, laid the said spoon down on his tray, utterly regardless of germs, and said, "oh,dear me," in as tragic a tone as if the news had come as a thunderbolt instead of beinga foregone conclusion from the preceding week's dispatches. they had thought they were quiteresigned to warsaw's fall but now they knew
they had, as always, hoped against hope. "now, let us take a brace," said susan. "itis not the terrible thing we have been thinking. i read a dispatch three columns long in themontreal herald yesterday that proved that warsaw was not important from a military pointof view at all. so let us take the military point of view, doctor dear." "i read that dispatch, too, and it has encouragedme immensely," said gertrude. "i knew then and i know now that it was a lie from beginningto end. but i am in that state of mind where even a lie is a comfort, providing it is acheerful lie." "in that case, miss oliver dear, the germanofficial reports ought to be all you need,"
said susan sarcastically. "i never read themnow because they make me so mad i cannot put my thoughts properly on my work after a doseof them. even this news about warsaw has taken the edge off my afternoon's plans. misfortunesnever come singly. i spoiled my baking of bread today—and now warsaw has fallen—andhere is little kitchener bent on choking himself to death." jims was evidently trying to swallow his spoon,germs and all. rilla rescued him mechanically and was about to resume the operation of feedinghim when a casual remark of her father's sent such a shock and thrill over her that forthe second time she dropped that doomed spoon. "kenneth ford is down at martin west's over-harbour,"the doctor was saying. "his regiment was on
its way to the front but was held up in kingsportfor some reason, and ken got leave of absence to come over to the island." "i hope he will come up to see us," exclaimedmrs. blythe. "he only has a day or two off, i believe,"said the doctor absently. nobody noticed rilla's flushed face and tremblinghands. even the most thoughtful and watchful of parents do not see everything that goeson under their very noses. rilla made a third attempt to give the long-suffering jims hisdinner, but all she could think of was the question—would ken come to see her beforehe went away? she had not heard from him for a long while. had he forgotten her completely?if he did not come she would know that he
had. perhaps there was even—some other girlback there in toronto. of course there was. she was a little fool to be thinking abouthim at all. she would not think about him. if he came, well and good. it would only becourteous of him to make a farewell call at ingleside where he had often been a guest.if he did not come—well and good, too. it did not matter very much. nobody was goingto fret. that was all settled comfortably—she was quite indifferent—but meanwhile jimswas being fed with a haste and recklessness that would have filled the soul of morganwith horror. jims himself didn't like it, being a methodical baby, accustomed to swallowingspoonfuls with a decent interval for breath between each. he protested, but his protestsavailed him nothing. rilla, as far as the
care and feeding of infants was concerned,was utterly demoralized. then the telephone-bell rang. there was nothingunusual about the telephone ringing. it rang on an average every ten minutes at ingleside.but rilla dropped jims' spoon again—on the carpet this time—and flew to the 'phoneas if life depended on her getting there before anybody else. jims, his patience exhausted,lifted up his voice and wept. "hello, is this ingleside?" "yes." "that you, rilla?" "yeth—yeth." oh, whycouldn't jims stop howling for just one little minute? why didn't somebody come in and chokehim?
"know who's speaking?" oh, didn't she know! wouldn't she know thatvoice anywhere—at any time? "it's ken—isn't it?" "sure thing. i'm here for a look-in. can icome up to ingleside tonight and see you?" "of courthe." had he used "you" in the singular or pluralsense? presently she would wring jims' neck—oh, what was ken saying? "see here, rilla, can you arrange that therewon't be more than a few dozen people round? understand? i can't make my meaning clearerover this bally rural line. there are a dozen
receivers down." did she understand! yes, she understood. "i'll try," she said. "i'll be up about eight then. by-by." rilla hung up the 'phone and flew to jims.but she did not wring that injured infant's neck. instead she snatched him bodily outof his chair, crushed him against her face, kissed him rapturously on his milky mouth,and danced wildly around the room with him in her arms. after this jims was relievedto find that she returned to sanity, gave him the rest of his dinner properly, and tuckedhim away for his afternoon nap with the little
lullaby he loved best of all. she sewed atred cross shirts for the rest of the afternoon and built a crystal castle of dreams, alla-quiver with rainbows. ken wanted to see her—to see her alone. that could be easilymanaged. shirley wouldn't bother them, father and mother were going to the manse, miss olivernever played gooseberry, and jims always slept the clock round from seven to seven. she wouldentertain ken on the veranda—it would be moonlight—she would wear her white georgettedress and do her hair up—yes, she would—at least in a low knot at the nape of her neck.mother couldn't object to that, surely. oh, how wonderful and romantic it would be! wouldken say anything—he must mean to say something or why should he be so particular about seeingher alone? what if it rained—susan had been
complaining about mr. hyde that morning! whatif some officious junior red called to discuss belgians and shirts? or, worst of all, whatif fred arnold dropped in? he did occasionally. the evening came at last and was all thatcould be desired in an evening. the doctor and his wife went to the manse, shirley andmiss oliver went they alone knew where, susan went to the store for household supplies,and jims went to dreamland. rilla put on her georgette gown, knotted up her hair and bounda little double string of pearls around it. then she tucked a cluster of pale pink babyroses at her belt. would ken ask her for a rose for a keepsake? she knew that jem hadcarried to the trenches in flanders a faded rose that faith meredith had kissed and givenhim the night before he left.
rilla looked very sweet when she met ken inthe mingled moonlight and vine shadows of the big veranda. the hand she gave him wascold and she was so desperately anxious not to lisp that her greeting was prim and precise.how handsome and tall kenneth looked in his lieutenant's uniform! it made him seem older,too—so much so that rilla felt rather foolish. hadn't it been the height of absurdity forher to suppose that this splendid young officer had anything special to say to her, littlerilla blythe of glen st. mary? likely she hadn't understood him after all—he had onlymeant that he didn't want a mob of folks around making a fuss over him and trying to lionizehim, as they had probably done over-harbour. yes, of course, that was all he meant—andshe, little idiot, had gone and vainly imagined
that he didn't want anybody but her. and hewould think she had manoeuvred everybody away so that they could be alone together, andhe would laugh to himself at her. "this is better luck than i hoped for," saidken, leaning back in his chair and looking at her with very unconcealed admiration inhis eloquent eyes. "i was sure someone would be hanging about and it was just you i wantedto see, rilla-my-rilla." rilla's dream castle flashed into the landscapeagain. this was unmistakable enough certainly—not much doubt as to his meaning here. "there aren't—so many of us—to poke aroundas there used to be," she said softly. "no, that's so," said ken gently. "jem andwalter and the girls away—it makes a big
blank, doesn't it? but—" he leaned forwarduntil his dark curls almost brushed her hair—"doesn't fred arnold try to fill the blank occasionally.i've been told so." at this moment, before rilla could make anyreply, jims began to cry at the top of his voice in the room whose open window was justabove them—jims, who hardly ever cried in the evening. moreover, he was crying, as rillaknew from experience, with a vim and energy that betokened that he had been already whimperingsoftly unheard for some time and was thoroughly exasperated. when jims started in crying likethat he made a thorough job of it. rilla knew that there was no use to sit still and pretendto ignore him. he wouldn't stop; and conversation of any kind was out of the question when suchshrieks and howls were floating over your
head. besides, she was afraid kenneth wouldthink she was utterly unfeeling if she sat still and let a baby cry like that. he wasnot likely acquainted with morgan's invaluable volume. she got up. "jims has had a nightmare, i think.he sometimes has one and he is always badly frightened by it. excuse me for a moment." rilla flew upstairs, wishing quite franklythat soup tureens had never been invented. but when jims, at sight of her, lifted hislittle arms entreatingly and swallowed several sobs, with tears rolling down his cheeks,resentment went out of her heart. after all, the poor darling was frightened. she pickedhim up gently and rocked him soothingly until
his sobs ceased and his eyes closed. thenshe essayed to lay him down in his crib. jims opened his eyes and shrieked a protest. thisperformance was repeated twice. rilla grew desperate. she couldn't leave ken down therealone any longer—she had been away nearly half an hour already. with a resigned airshe marched downstairs, carrying jims, and sat down on the veranda. it was, no doubt,a ridiculous thing to sit and cuddle a contrary war-baby when your best young man was makinghis farewell call, but there was nothing else to be done. jims was supremely happy. he kicked his littlepink-soled feet rapturously out under his white nighty and gave one of his rare laughs.he was beginning to be a very pretty baby;
his golden hair curled in silken ringletsall over his little round head and his eyes were beautiful. "he's a decorative kiddy all right, isn'the?" said ken. "his looks are very well," said rilla, bitterly,as if to imply that they were much the best of him. jims, being an astute infant, sensedtrouble in the atmosphere and realized that it was up to him to clear it away. he turnedhis face up to rilla, smiled adorably and said, clearly and beguilingly, "will—will." it was the very first time he had spoken aword or tried to speak. rilla was so delighted that she forgot her grudge against him. sheforgave him with a hug and kiss. jims, understanding
that he was restored to favour, cuddled downagainst her just where a gleam of light from the lamp in the living-room struck acrosshis hair and turned it into a halo of gold against her breast. kenneth sat very still and silent, lookingat rilla—at the delicate, girlish silhouette of her, her long lashes, her dented lip, heradorable chin. in the dim moonlight, as she sat with her head bent a little over jims,the lamplight glinting on her pearls until they glistened like a slender nimbus, he thoughtshe looked exactly like the madonna that hung over his mother's desk at home. he carriedthat picture of her in his heart to the horror of the battlefields of france. he had hada strong fancy for rilla blythe ever since
the night of the four winds dance; but itwas when he saw her there, with little jims in her arms, that he loved her and realizedit. and all the while, poor rilla was sitting, disappointed and humiliated, feeling thather last evening with ken was spoiled and wondering why things always had to go so contrarilyoutside of books. she felt too absurd to try to talk. evidently ken was completely disgusted,too, since he was sitting there in such stony silence. hope revived momentarily when jims went sothoroughly asleep that she thought it would be safe to lay him down on the couch in theliving-room. but when she came out again susan was sitting on the veranda, loosening herbonnet strings with the air of one who meant
to stay where she was for some time. "have you got your baby to sleep?" she askedkindly. your baby! really, susan might have more tact. "yes," said rilla shortly. susan laid her parcels on the reed table,as one determined to do her duty. she was very tired but she must help rilla out. herewas kenneth ford who had come to call on the family and they were all unfortunately out,and "the poor child" had had to entertain him alone. but susan had come to her rescue—susanwould do her part no matter how tired she was.
"dear me, how you have grown up," she said,looking at ken's six feet of khaki uniform without the least awe. susan had grown usedto khaki now, and at sixty-four even a lieutenant's uniform is just clothes and nothing else."it is an amazing thing how fast children do grow up. rilla here, now, is almost fifteen." "i'm going on seventeen, susan," cried rillaalmost passionately. she was a whole month past sixteen. it was intolerable of susan. "it seems just the other day that you wereall babies," said susan, ignoring rilla's protest. "you were really the prettiest babyi ever saw, ken, though your mother had an awful time trying to cure you of sucking yourthumb. do you remember the day i spanked you?"
"no," said ken. "oh well, i suppose you would be too young—youwere only about four and you were here with your mother and you insisted on teasing nanuntil she cried. i had tried several ways of stopping you but none availed, and i sawthat a spanking was the only thing that would serve. so i picked you up and laid you acrossmy knee and lambasted you well. you howled at the top of your voice but you left nanalone after that." rilla was writhing. hadn't susan any realizationthat she was addressing an officer of the canadian army? apparently she had not. oh,what would ken think? "i suppose you do not remember the time your mother spanked youeither," continued susan, who seemed to be
bent on reviving tender reminiscences thatevening. "i shall never, no never, forget it. she was up here one night with you whenyou were about three, and you and walter were playing out in the kitchen yard with a kitten.i had a big puncheon of rainwater by the spout which i was reserving for making soap. andyou and walter began quarrelling over the kitten. walter was at one side of the puncheonstanding on a chair, holding the kitten, and you were standing on a chair at the otherside. you leaned across that puncheon and grabbed the kitten and pulled. you were alwaysa great hand for taking what you wanted without too much ceremony. walter held on tight andthe poor kitten yelled but you dragged walter and the kitten half over and then you bothlost your balance and tumbled into that puncheon,
kitten and all. if i had not been on the spotyou would both have been drowned. i flew to the rescue and hauled you all three out beforemuch harm was done, and your mother, who had seen it all from the upstairs window, camedown and picked you up, dripping as you were, and gave you a beautiful spanking. ah," saidsusan with a sigh, "those were happy old days at ingleside." "must have been," said ken. his voice soundedqueer and stiff. rilla supposed he was hopelessly enraged. the truth was he dared not trusthis voice lest it betray his frantic desire to laugh. "rilla here, now," said susan, looking affectionatelyat that unhappy damsel, "never was much spanked.
she was a real well-behaved child for themost part. but her father did spank her once. she got two bottles of pills out of his officeand dared alice clow to see which of them could swallow all the pills first, and ifher father had not happened in the nick of time those two children would have been corpsesby night. as it was, they were both sick enough shortly after. but the doctor spanked rillathen and there and he made such a thorough job of it that she never meddled with anythingin his office afterwards. we hear a great deal nowadays of something that is called'moral persuasion,' but in my opinion a good spanking and no nagging afterwards is a muchbetter thing." rilla wondered viciously whether susan meantto relate all the family spankings. but susan
had finished with the subject and branchedoff to another cheerful one. "i remember little tod macallister over-harbourkilled himself that very way, eating up a whole box of fruitatives because he thoughtthey were candy. it was a very sad affair. he was," said susan earnestly, "the very cutestlittle corpse i ever laid my eyes on. it was very careless of his mother to leave the fruitativeswhere he could get them, but she was well-known to be a heedless creature. one day she founda nest of five eggs as she was going across the fields to church with a brand new bluesilk dress on. so she put them in the pocket of her petticoat and when she got to churchshe forgot all about them and sat down on them and her dress was ruined, not to speakof the petticoat. let me see—would not tod
be some relation of yours? your great grandmotherwest was a macallister. her brother amos was a macdonaldite in religion. i am told he usedto take the jerks something fearful. but you look more like your great grandfather westthan the macallisters. he died of a paralytic stroke quite early in life." "did you see anybody at the store?" askedrilla desperately, in the faint hope of directing susan's conversation into more agreeable channels. "nobody except mary vance," said susan, "andshe was stepping round as brisk as the irishman's flea." what terrible similes susan used! would kenneththink she acquired them from the family!
"to hear mary talk about miller douglas youwould think he was the only glen boy who had enlisted," susan went on. "but of course shealways did brag and she has some good qualities i am willing to admit, though i did not thinkso that time she chased rilla here through the village with a dried codfish till thepoor child fell, heels over head, into the puddle before carter flagg's store." rilla went cold all over with wrath and shame.were there any more disgraceful scenes in her past that susan could rake up? as forken, he could have howled over susan's speeches, but he would not so insult the duenna of hislady, so he sat with a preternaturally solemn face which seemed to poor rilla a haughtyand offended one.
"i paid eleven cents for a bottle of ink tonight,"complained susan. "ink is twice as high as it was last year. perhaps it is because woodrowwilson has been writing so many notes. it must cost him considerable. my cousin sophiasays woodrow wilson is not the man she expected him to be—but then no man ever was. beingan old maid, i do not know much about men and have never pretended to, but my cousinsophia is very hard on them, although she married two of them, which you might thinkwas a fair share. albert crawford's chimney blew down in that big gale we had last week,and when sophia heard the bricks clattering on the roof she thought it was a zeppelinraid and went into hysterics. and mrs. albert crawford says that of the two things she wouldhave preferred the zeppelin raid."
rilla sat limply in her chair like one hypnotized.she knew susan would stop talking when she was ready to stop and that no earthly powercould make her stop any sooner. as a rule, she was very fond of susan but just now shehated her with a deadly hatred. it was ten o'clock. ken would soon have to go—the otherswould soon be home—and she had not even had a chance to explain to ken that fred arnoldfilled no blank in her life nor ever could. her rainbow castle lay in ruins round her. kenneth got up at last. he realized that susanwas there to stay as long as he did, and it was a three mile walk to martin west's over-harbour.he wondered if rilla had put susan up to this, not wanting to be left alone with him, lesthe say something fred arnold's sweetheart
did not want to hear. rilla got up, too, andwalked silently the length of the veranda with him. they stood there for a moment, kenon the lower step. the step was half sunk into the earth and mint grew thickly aboutand over its edge. often crushed by so many passing feet it gave out its essence freely,and the spicy odour hung round them like a soundless, invisible benediction. ken lookedup at rilla, whose hair was shining in the moonlight and whose eyes were pools of allurement.all at once he felt sure there was nothing in that gossip about fred arnold. "rilla," he said in a sudden, intense whisper,"you are the sweetest thing." rilla flushed and looked at susan. ken looked,too, and saw that susan's back was turned.
he put his arm about rilla and kissed her.it was the first time rilla had ever been kissed. she thought perhaps she ought to resentit but she didn't. instead, she glanced timidly into kenneth's seeking eyes and her glancewas a kiss. "rilla-my-rilla," said ken, "will you promisethat you won't let anyone else kiss you until i come back?" "yes," said rilla, trembling and thrilling. susan was turning round. ken loosened hishold and stepped to the walk. "good-bye," he said casually. rilla heardherself saying it just as casually. she stood and watched him down the walk, out of thegate, and down the road. when the fir wood
hid him from her sight she suddenly said "oh,"in a choked way and ran down to the gate, sweet blossomy things catching at her skirtsas she ran. leaning over the gate she saw kenneth walking briskly down the road, overthe bars of tree shadows and moonlight, his tall, erect figure grey in the white radiance.as he reached the turn he stopped and looked back and saw her standing amid the tall whitelilies by the gate. he waved his hand—she waved hers—he was gone around the turn. rilla stood there for a little while, gazingacross the fields of mist and silver. she had heard her mother say that she loved turnsin roads—they were so provocative and alluring. rilla thought she hated them. she had seenjem and jerry vanish from her around a bend
in the road—then walter—and now ken. brothersand playmate and sweetheart—they were all gone, never, it might be, to return. yet stillthe piper piped and the dance of death went on. when rilla walked slowly back to the housesusan was still sitting by the veranda table and susan was sniffing suspiciously. "i have been thinking, rilla dear, of theold days in the house of dreams, when kenneth's mother and father were courting and jem wasa little baby and you were not born or thought of. it was a very romantic affair and sheand your mother were such chums. to think i should have lived to see her son going tothe front. as if she had not had enough trouble
in her early life without this coming uponher! but we must take a brace and see it through." all rilla's anger against susan had evaporated.with ken's kiss still burning on her lips, and the wonderful significance of the promisehe had asked thrilling heart and soul, she could not be angry with anyone. she put herslim white hand into susan's brown, work-hardened one and gave it a squeeze. susan was a faithfulold dear and would lay down her life for any one of them. "you are tired, rilla dear, and had bettergo to bed," susan said, patting her hand. "i noticed you were too tired to talk tonight.i am glad i came home in time to help you out. it is very tiresome trying to entertainyoung men when you are not accustomed to it."
rilla carried jims upstairs and went to bed,but not before she had sat for a long time at her window reconstructing her rainbow castle,with several added domes and turrets. "i wonder," she said to herself, "if i am,or am not, engaged to kenneth ford." chapter xvii the weeks wear by rilla read her first love letter in her rainbowvalley fir-shadowed nook, and a girl's first love letter, whatever blase, older peoplemay think of it, is an event of tremendous importance in the teens. after kenneth's regimenthad left kingsport there came a fortnight of dully-aching anxiety and when the congregationsang in church on sunday evenings,
"oh, hear us when we cry to theefor those in peril on the sea," rilla's voice always failed her; for withthe words came a horribly vivid mind picture of a submarined ship sinking beneath pitilesswaves amid the struggles and cries of drowning men. then word came that kenneth's regimenthad arrived safely in england; and now, at last, here was his letter. it began with somethingthat made rilla supremely happy for the moment and ended with a paragraph that crimsonedher cheeks with the wonder and thrill and delight of it. between beginning and endingthe letter was just such a jolly, newsy epistle as ken might have written to anyone; but forthe sake of that beginning and ending rilla slept with the letter under her pillow forweeks, sometimes waking in the night to slip
her fingers under and just touch it, and lookedwith secret pity on other girls whose sweethearts could never have written them anything halfso wonderful and exquisite. kenneth was not the son of a famous novelist for nothing.he "had a way" of expressing things in a few poignant, significant words that seemed tosuggest far more than they uttered, and never grew stale or flat or foolish with ever somany scores of readings. rilla went home from rainbow valley as if she flew rather thanwalked. but such moments of uplift were rare thatautumn. to be sure, there was one day in september when great news came of a big allied victoryin the west and susan ran out to hoist the flag—the first time she had hoisted it sincethe russian line broke and the last time she
was to hoist it for many dismal moons. "likely the big push has begun at last, mrs.dr. dear," she exclaimed, "and we will soon see the finish of the huns. our boys willbe home by christmas now. hurrah!" susan was ashamed of herself for hurrahingthe minute she had done it, and apologized meekly for such an outburst of juvenility."but indeed, mrs. dr. dear, this good news has gone to my head after this awful summerof russian slumps and gallipoli setbacks." "good news!" said miss oliver bitterly. "iwonder if the women whose men have been killed for it will call it good news. just becauseour own men are not on that part of the front we are rejoicing as if the victory had costno lives."
"now, miss oliver dear, do not take that viewof it," deprecated susan. "we have not had much to rejoice over of late and yet men werebeing killed just the same. do not let yourself slump like poor cousin sophia. she said, whenthe word came, 'ah, it is nothing but a rift in the clouds. we are up this week but wewill be down the next.' 'well, sophia crawford,' said i,—for i will never give in to her,mrs. dr. dear—'god himself cannot make two hills without a hollow between them, as ihave heard it said, but that is no reason why we should not take the good of the hillswhen we are on them.' but cousin sophia moaned on. 'here is the gallipolly expedition a failureand the grand duke nicholas sent off, and everyone knows the czar of rooshia is a pro-germanand the allies have no ammunition and bulgaria
is going against us. and the end is not yet,for england and france must be punished for their deadly sins until they repent in sackclothand ashes.' 'i think myself,' i said, 'that they will do their repenting in khaki andtrench mud, and it seems to me that the huns should have a few sins to repent of also.''they are instruments in the hands of the almighty, to purge the garner,' said sophia.and then i got mad, mrs. dr. dear, and told her i did not and never would believe thatthe almighty ever took such dirty instruments in hand for any purpose whatever, and thati did not consider it decent for her to be using the words of holy writ as glibly asshe was doing in ordinary conversation. she was not, i told her, a minister or even anelder. and for the time being i squelched
her, mrs. dr. dear. cousin sophia has no spirit.she is very different from her niece, mrs. dean crawford over-harbour. you know the deancrawfords had five boys and now the new baby is another boy. all the connection and especiallydean crawford were much disappointed because their hearts had been set on a girl; but mrs.dean just laughed and said, 'everywhere i went this summer i saw the sign "men wanted"staring me in the face. do you think i could go and have a girl under such circumstances?'there is spirit for you, mrs. dr. dear. but cousin sophia would say the child was justso much more cannon fodder." cousin sophia had full range for her pessimismthat gloomy autumn, and even susan, incorrigible old optimist as she was, was hard put to itfor cheer. when bulgaria lined up with germany
susan only remarked scornfully, "one morenation anxious for a licking," but the greek tangle worried her beyond her powers of philosophyto endure calmly. "constantine of greece has a german wife,mrs. dr. dear, and that fact squelches hope. to think that i should have lived to carewhat kind of a wife constantine of greece had! the miserable creature is under his wife'sthumb and that is a bad place for any man to be. i am an old maid and an old maid hasto be independent or she will be squashed out. but if i had been a married woman, mrs.dr. dear, i would have been meek and humble. it is my opinion that this sophia of greeceis a minx." susan was furious when the news came thatvenizelos had met with defeat. "i could spank
constantine and skin him alive afterwards,that i could," she exclaimed bitterly. "oh, susan, i'm surprised at you," said thedoctor, pulling a long face. "have you no regard for the proprieties? skin him aliveby all means but omit the spanking." "if he had been well spanked in his youngerdays he might have more sense now," retorted susan. "but i suppose princes are never spanked,more is the pity. i see the allies have sent him an ultimatum. i could tell them that itwill take more than ultimatums to skin a snake like constantine. perhaps the allied blockadewill hammer sense into his head; but that will take some time i am thinking, and inthe meantime what is to become of poor serbia?" they saw what became of serbia, and duringthe process susan was hardly to be lived with.
in her exasperation she abused everythingand everybody except kitchener, and she fell upon poor president wilson tooth and claw. "if he had done his duty and gone into thewar long ago we should not have seen this mess in serbia," she avowed. "it would be a serious thing to plunge a greatcountry like the united states, with its mixed population, into the war, susan," said thedoctor, who sometimes came to the defence of the president, not because he thought wilsonneeded it especially, but from an unholy love of baiting susan. "maybe, doctor dear—maybe! but that makesme think of the old story of the girl who
told her grandmother she was going to be married.'it is a solemn thing to be married,' said the old lady. 'yes, but it is a solemner thingnot to be,' said the girl. and i can testify to that out of my own experience, doctor dear.and i think it is a solemner thing for the yankees that they have kept out of the warthan it would have been if they had gone into it. however, though i do not know much aboutthem, i am of the opinion that we will see them starting something yet, woodrow wilsonor no woodrow wilson, when they get it into their heads that this war is not a correspondenceschool. they will not," said susan, energetically waving a saucepan with one hand and a soupladle with the other, "be too proud to fight then."
on a pale-yellow, windy evening in octobercarl meredith went away. he had enlisted on his eighteenth birthday. john meredith sawhim off with a set face. his two boys were gone—there was only little bruce left now.he loved bruce and bruce's mother dearly; but jerry and carl were the sons of the brideof his youth and carl was the only one of all his children who had cecilia's very eyes.as they looked lovingly out at him above carl's uniform the pale minister suddenly rememberedthe day when for the first and last time he had tried to whip carl for his prank withthe eel. that was the first time he had realised how much carl's eyes were like cecilia's.now he realised it again once more. would he ever again see his dead wife's eyes lookingat him from his son's face? what a bonny,
clean, handsome lad he was! it was—hard—tosee him go. john meredith seemed to be looking at a torn plain strewed with the bodies of"able-bodied men between the ages of eighteen and forty-five." only the other day carl hadbeen a little scrap of a boy, hunting bugs in rainbow valley, taking lizards to bed withhim, and scandalizing the glen by carrying frogs to sunday school. it seemed hardly—right—somehowthat he should be an "able-bodied man" in khaki. yet john meredith had said no wordto dissuade him when carl had told him he must go. rilla felt carl's going keenly. they had alwaysbeen cronies and playmates. he was only a little older than she was and they had beenchildren in rainbow valley together. she recalled
all their old pranks and escapades as shewalked slowly home alone. the full moon peeped through the scudding clouds with sudden floodsof weird illumination, the telephone wires sang a shrill weird song in the wind, andthe tall spikes of withered, grey-headed golden-rod in the fence corners swayed and beckoned wildlyto her like groups of old witches weaving unholy spells. on such a night as this, longago, carl would come over to ingleside and whistle her out to the gate. "let's go ona moon-spree, rilla," he would say, and the two of them would scamper off to rainbow valley.rilla had never been afraid of his beetles and bugs, though she drew a hard and fastline at snakes. they used to talk together of almost everything and were teased abouteach other at school; but one evening when
they were about ten years of age they hadsolemnly promised, by the old spring in rainbow valley, that they would never marry each other.alice clow had "crossed out" their names on her slate in school that day, and it cameout that "both married." they did not like the idea at all, hence the mutual vow in rainbowvalley. there was nothing like an ounce of prevention. rilla laughed over the old memory—andthen sighed. that very day a dispatch from some london paper had contained the cheerfulannouncement that "the present moment is the darkest since the war began." it was darkenough, and rilla wished desperately that she could do something besides waiting andserving at home, as day after day the glen boys she had known went away. if she wereonly a boy, speeding in khaki by carl's side
to the western front! she had wished thatin a burst of romance when jem had gone, without, perhaps, really meaning it. she meant it now.there were moments when waiting at home, in safety and comfort, seemed an unendurablething. the moon burst triumphantly through an especiallydark cloud and shadow and silver chased each other in waves over the glen. rilla rememberedone moonlit evening of childhood when she had said to her mother, "the moon just lookslike a sorry, sorry face." she thought it looked like that still—an agonised, care-wornface, as though it looked down on dreadful sights. what did it see on the western front?in broken serbia? on shell-swept gallipoli? "i am tired," miss oliver had said that day,in a rare outburst of impatience, "of this
horrible rack of strained emotions, when everyday brings a new horror or the dread of it. no, don't look reproachfully at me, mrs. blythe.there's nothing heroic about me today. i've slumped. i wish england had left belgium toher fate—i wish canada had never sent a man—i wish we'd tied our boys to our apronstrings and not let one of them go. oh—i shall be ashamed of myself in half an hour—butat this very minute i mean every word of it. will the allies never strike?" "patience is a tired mare but she jogs on,"said susan. "while the steeds of armageddon thunder, tramplingover our hearts," retorted miss oliver. "susan, tell me—don't you ever—didn't you ever—takespells of feeling that you must scream—or
swear—or smash something—just becauseyour torture reaches a point when it becomes unbearable?" "i have never sworn or desired to swear, missoliver dear, but i will admit," said susan, with the air of one determined to make a cleanbreast of it once and for all, "that i have experienced occasions when it was a reliefto do considerable banging." "don't you think that is a kind of swearing,susan? what is the difference between slamming a door viciously and saying d——" "miss oliver dear," interrupted susan, desperatelydetermined to save gertrude from herself, if human power could do it, "you are all tiredout and unstrung—and no wonder, teaching
those obstreperous youngsters all day andcoming home to bad war news. but just you go upstairs and lie down and i will bringyou up a cup of hot tea and a bite of toast and very soon you will not want to slam doorsor swear." "susan, you're a good soul—a very pearlof susans! but, susan, it would be such a relief—to say just one soft, low, littletiny d—-" "i will bring you a hot-water bottle for thesoles of your feet, also," interposed susan resolutely, "and it would not be any reliefto say that word you are thinking of, miss oliver, and that you may tie to." "well, i'll try the hot-water bottle first,"said miss oliver, repenting herself on teasing
susan and vanishing upstairs, to susan's intenserelief. susan shook her head ominously as she filled the hot-water bottle. the war wascertainly relaxing the standards of behaviour woefully. here was miss oliver admittedlyon the point of profanity. "we must draw the blood from her brain," saidsusan, "and if this bottle is not effective i will see what can be done with a mustardplaster." gertrude rallied and carried on. lord kitchenerwent to greece, whereat susan foretold that constantine would soon experience a changeof heart. lloyd george began to heckle the allies regarding equipment and guns and susansaid you would hear more of lloyd george yet. the gallant anzacs withdrew from gallipoliand susan approved the step, with reservations.
the siege of kut-el-amara began and susanpored over maps of mesopotamia and abused the turks. henry ford started for europe andsusan flayed him with sarcasm. sir john french was superseded by sir douglas haig and susandubiously opined that it was poor policy to swap horses crossing a stream, "though, tobe sure, haig was a good name and french had a foreign sound, say what you might." nota move on the great chess-board of king or bishop or pawn escaped susan, who had onceread only glen st. mary notes. "there was a time," she said sorrowfully, "when i didnot care what happened outside of p.e. island, and now a king cannot have a toothache inrussia or china but it worries me. it may be broadening to the mind, as the doctor said,but it is very painful to the feelings."
when christmas came again susan did not setany vacant places at the festive board. two empty chairs were too much even for susanwho had thought in september that there would not be one. "this is the first christmas that walter wasnot home," rilla wrote in her diary that night. "jem used to be away for christmases up inavonlea, but walter never was. i had letters from ken and him today. they are still inengland but expect to be in the trenches very soon. and then—but i suppose we'll be ableto endure it somehow. to me, the strangest of all the strange things since 1914 is howwe have all learned to accept things we never thought we could—to go on with life as amatter of course. i know that jem and jerry
are in the trenches—that ken and walterwill be soon—that if one of them does not come back my heart will break—yet i go onand work and plan—yes, and even enjoy life by times. there are moments when we have realfun because, just for the moment, we don't think about things and then—we remember—andthe remembering is worse than thinking of it all the time would have been. "today was dark and cloudy and tonight iswild enough, as gertrude says, to please any novelist in search of suitable matter fora murder or elopement. the raindrops streaming over the panes look like tears running downa face, and the wind is shrieking through the maple grove.
"this hasn't been a nice christmas day inany way. nan had toothache and susan had red eyes, and assumed a weird and gruesome flippancyof manner to deceive us into thinking she hadn't; and jims had a bad cold all day andi'm afraid of croup. he has had croup twice since october. the first time i was nearlyfrightened to death, for father and mother were both away—father always is away, itseems to me, when any of this household gets sick. but susan was cool as a fish and knewjust what to do, and by morning jims was all right. that child is a cross between a duckand an imp. he's a year and four months old, trots about everywhere, and says quite a fewwords. he has the cutest little way of calling me "willa-will." it always brings back thatdreadful, ridiculous, delightful night when
ken came to say good-bye, and i was so furiousand happy. jims is pink and white and big-eyed and curly-haired and every now and then idiscover a new dimple in him. i can never quite believe he is really the same creatureas that scrawny, yellow, ugly little changeling i brought home in the soup tureen. nobodyhas ever heard a word from jim anderson. if he never comes back i shall keep jims always.everybody here worships and spoils him—or would spoil him if morgan and i didn't standremorselessly in the way. susan says jims is the cleverest child she ever saw and canrecognize old nick when he sees him—this because jims threw poor doc out of an upstairswindow one day. doc turned into mr. hyde on his way down and landed in a currant bush,spitting and swearing. i tried to console
his inner cat with a saucer of milk but hewould have none of it, and remained mr. hyde the rest of the day. jims's latest exploitwas to paint the cushion of the big arm-chair in the sun parlour with molasses; and beforeanybody found it out mrs. fred clow came in on red cross business and sat down on it.her new silk dress was ruined and nobody could blame her for being vexed. but she went intoone of her tempers and said nasty things and gave me such slams about 'spoiling' jims thati nearly boiled over, too. but i kept the lid on till she had waddled away and theni exploded. "'the fat, clumsy, horrid old thing,' i said—andoh, what a satisfaction it was to say it. "'she has three sons at the front,' mothersaid rebukingly.
"'i suppose that covers all her shortcomingsin manners,' i retorted. but i was ashamed—for it is true that all her boys have gone andshe was very plucky and loyal about it too; and she is a perfect tower of strength inthe red cross. it's a little hard to remember all the heroines. just the same, it was hersecond new silk dress in one year and that when everybody is—or should be—tryingto 'save and serve.' "i had to bring out my green velvet hat againlately and begin wearing it. i hung on to my blue straw sailor as long as i could. howi hate the green velvet hat! it is so elaborate and conspicuous. i don't see how i could everhave liked it. but i vowed to wear it and wear it i will.
"shirley and i went down to the station thismorning to take little dog monday a bang-up christmas dinner. dog monday waits and watchesthere still, with just as much hope and confidence as ever. sometimes he hangs around the stationhouse and talks to people and the rest of his time he sits at his little kennel doorand watches the track unwinkingly. we never try to coax him home now: we know it is ofno use. when jem comes back, monday will come home with him; and if jem—never comes back—mondaywill wait there for him as long as his dear dog heart goes on beating. "fred arnold was here last night. he was eighteenin november and is going to enlist just as soon as his mother is over an operation shehas to have. he has been coming here very
often lately and though i like him so muchit makes me uncomfortable, because i am afraid he is thinking that perhaps i could care somethingfor him. i can't tell him about ken—because, after all, what is there to tell? and yeti don't like to behave coldly and distantly when he will be going away so soon. it isvery perplexing. i remember i used to think it would be such fun to have dozens of beaux—andnow i'm worried to death because two are too many. "i am learning to cook. susan is teachingme. i tried to learn long ago—but no, let me be honest—susan tried to teach me, whichis a very different thing. i never seemed to succeed with anything and i got discouraged.but since the boys have gone away i wanted
to be able to make cake and things for themmyself and so i started in again and this time i'm getting on surprisingly well. susansays it is all in the way i hold my mouth and father says my subconscious mind is desirousof learning now, and i dare say they're both right. anyhow, i can make dandy short-breadand fruitcake. i got ambitious last week and attempted cream puffs, but made an awful failureof them. they came out of the oven flat as flukes. i thought maybe the cream would fillthem up again and make them plump but it didn't. i think susan was secretly pleased. she ispast mistress in the art of making cream puffs and it would break her heart if anyone elsehere could make them as well. i wonder if susan tampered—but no, i won't suspect herof such a thing.
"miranda pryor spent an afternoon here a fewdays ago, helping me cut out certain red cross garments known by the charming name of 'verminshirts.' susan thinks that name is not quite decent, so i suggested she call them 'cootiesarks,' which is old highland sandy's version of it. but she shook her head and i heardher telling mother later that, in her opinion, 'cooties' and 'sarks' were not proper subjectsfor young girls to talk about. she was especially horrified when jem wrote in his last letterto mother, 'tell susan i had a fine cootie hunt this morning and caught fifty-three!'susan positively turned pea-green. 'mrs. dr. dear,' she said, 'when i was young, if decentpeople were so unfortunate as to get—those insects—they kept it a secret if possible.i do not want to be narrow-minded, mrs. dr.
dear, but i still think it is better not tomention such things.' "miranda grew confidential over our verminshirts and told me all her troubles. she is desperately unhappy. she is engaged to joemilgrave and joe joined up in october and has been training in charlottetown ever since.her father was furious when he joined and forbade miranda ever to have any dealing orcommunication with him again. poor joe expects to go overseas any day and wants miranda tomarry him before he goes, which shows that there have been 'communications' in spiteof whiskers-on-the-moon. miranda wants to marry him but cannot, and she declares itwill break her heart. "'why don't you run away and marry him?' isaid. it didn't go against my conscience in
the least to give her such advice. joe milgraveis a splendid fellow and mr. pryor fairly beamed on him until the war broke out andi know mr. pryor would forgive miranda very quickly, once it was over and he wanted hishousekeeper back. but miranda shook her silvery head dolefully. "'joe wants me to but i can't. mother's lastwords to me, as she lay on her dying-bed, were, "never, never run away, miranda," andi promised.' "miranda's mother died two years ago, andit seems, according to miranda, that her mother and father actually ran away to be marriedthemselves. to picture whiskers-on-the-moon as the hero of an elopement is beyond my power.but such was the case and mrs. pryor at least
lived to repent it. she had a hard life ofit with mr. pryor, and she thought it was a punishment on her for running away. so shemade miranda promise she would never, for any reason whatever, do it. "of course, you cannot urge a girl to breaka promise made to a dying mother, so i did not see what miranda could do unless she gotjoe to come to the house when her father was away and marry her there. but miranda saidthat couldn't be managed. her father seemed to suspect she might be up to something ofthe sort and he never went away for long at a time, and, of course, joe couldn't get leaveof absence at an hour's notice. "'no, i shall just have to let joe go, andhe will be killed—i know he will be killed—and
my heart will break,' said miranda, her tearsrunning down and copiously bedewing the vermin shirts! "i am not writing like this for lack of anyreal sympathy with poor miranda. i've just got into the habit of giving things a comicaltwist if i can, when i'm writing to jem and walter and ken, to make them laugh. i reallyfelt sorry for miranda who is as much in love with joe as a china-blue girl can be withanyone and who is dreadfully ashamed of her father's pro-german sentiments. i think sheunderstood that i did, for she said she had wanted to tell me all about her worries becausei had grown so sympathetic this past year. i wonder if i have. i know i used to be aselfish, thoughtless creature—how selfish
and thoughtless i am ashamed to remember now,so i can't be quite so bad as i was. "i wish i could help miranda. it would bevery romantic to contrive a war-wedding and i should dearly love to get the better ofwhiskers-on-the-moon. but at present the oracle has not spoken." chapter xviii a war-wedding "i can tell you this dr. dear," said susan,pale with wrath, "that germany is getting to be perfectly ridiculous." they were all in the big ingleside kitchen.susan was mixing biscuits for supper. mrs.
blythe was making shortbread for jem, andrilla was compounding candy for ken and walter—it had once been "walter and ken" in her thoughtsbut somehow, quite unconsciously, this had changed until ken's name came naturally first.cousin sophia was also there, knitting. all the boys were going to be killed in the longrun, so cousin sophia felt in her bones, but they might better die with warm feet thancold ones, so cousin sophia knitted faithfully and gloomily. into this peaceful scene erupted the doctor,wrathful and excited over the burning of the parliament buildings in ottawa. and susanbecame automatically quite as wrathful and excited.
"what will those huns do next?" she demanded."coming over here and burning our parliament building! did anyone ever hear of such anoutrage?" "we don't know that the germans are responsiblefor this," said the doctor—much as if he felt quite sure they were. "fires do startwithout their agency sometimes. and uncle mark macallister's barn was burnt last week.you can hardly accuse the germans of that, susan." "indeed, dr. dear, i do not know." susan noddedslowly and portentously. "whiskers-on-the-moon was there that very day. the fire broke outhalf an hour after he was gone. so much is a fact—but i shall not accuse a presbyterianelder of burning anybody's barn until i have
proof. however, everybody knows, dr. dear,that both uncle mark's boys have enlisted, and that uncle mark himself makes speechesat all the recruiting meetings. so no doubt germany is anxious to get square with him." "i could never speak at a recruiting meeting,"said cousin sophia solemnly. "i could never reconcile it to my conscience to ask anotherwoman's son to go, to murder and be murdered." "could you not?" said susan. "well, sophiacrawford, i felt as if i could ask anyone to go when i read last night that there wereno children under eight years of age left alive in poland. think of that, sophia crawford"—susanshook a floury finger at sophia—"not—one—child—under—eight—years—of—age!" "i suppose the germans has et 'em all," sighedcousin sophia.
"well, no-o-o," said susan reluctantly, asif she hated to admit that there was any crime the huns couldn't be accused of. "the germanshave not turned cannibal yet—as far as i know. they have died of starvation and exposure,the poor little creatures. there is murdering for you, cousin sophia crawford. the thoughtof it poisons every bite and sup i take." "i see that fred carson of lowbridge has beenawarded a distinguished conduct medal," remarked the doctor, over his local paper. "i heard that last week," said susan. "heis a battalion runner and he did something extra brave and daring. his letter, tellinghis folks about it, came when his old grandmother carson was on her dying-bed. she had onlya few minutes more to live and the episcopal
minister, who was there, asked her if shewould not like him to pray. 'oh yes, yes, you can pray,' she said impatient-like—shewas a dean, dr. dear, and the deans were always high-spirited—'you can pray, but for pity'ssake pray low and don't disturb me. i want to think over this splendid news and i havenot much time left to do it.' that was almira carson all over. fred was the apple of hereye. she was seventy-five years of age and had not a grey hair in her head, they tellme." "by the way, that reminds me—i found a greyhair this morning—my very first," said mrs. blythe. "i have noticed that grey hair for some time,mrs. dr. dear, but i did not speak of it.
thought i to myself, 'she has enough to bear.'but now that you have discovered it let me remind you that grey hairs are honourable." "i must be getting old, gilbert." mrs. blythelaughed a trifle ruefully. "people are beginning to tell me i look so young. they never tellyou that when you are young. but i shall not worry over my silver thread. i never likedred hair. gilbert, did i ever tell you of that time, years ago at green gables, wheni dyed my hair? nobody but marilla and i knew about it." "was that the reason you came out once withyour hair shingled to the bone?" "yes. i bought a bottle of dye from a germanjew pedlar. i fondly expected it would turn
my hair black—and it turned it green. soit had to be cut off." "you had a narrow escape, mrs. dr. dear,"exclaimed susan. "of course you were too young then to know what a german was. it was a specialmercy of providence that it was only green dye and not poison." "it seems hundreds of years since those greengables days," sighed mrs. blythe. "they belonged to another world altogether. life has beencut in two by the chasm of war. what is ahead i don't know—but it can't be a bit likethe past. i wonder if those of us who have lived half our lives in the old world willever feel wholly at home in the new." "have you noticed," asked miss oliver, glancingup from her book, "how everything written
before the war seems so far away now, too?one feels as if one was reading something as ancient as the iliad. this poem of wordsworth's—thesenior class have it in their entrance work—i've been glancing over it. its classic calm andrepose and the beauty of the lines seem to belong to another planet, and to have as littleto do with the present world-welter as the evening star." "the only thing that i find much comfort inreading nowadays is the bible," remarked susan, whisking her biscuits into the oven. "thereare so many passages in it that seem to me exactly descriptive of the huns. old highlandsandy declares that there is no doubt that the kaiser is the anti-christ spoken of inrevelations, but i do not go as far as that.
it would, in my humble opinion, mrs. dr. dear,be too great an honour for him." early one morning, several days later, mirandapryor slipped up to ingleside, ostensibly to get some red cross sewing, but in realityto talk over with sympathetic rilla troubles that were past bearing alone. she broughther dog with her—an over-fed, bandy-legged little animal very dear to her heart becausejoe milgrave had given it to her when it was a puppy. mr. pryor regarded all dogs withdisfavour; but in those days he had looked kindly upon joe as a suitor for miranda'shand and so he had allowed her to keep the puppy. miranda was so grateful that she endeavouredto please her father by naming her dog after his political idol, the great liberal chieftain,sir wilfrid laurier—though his title was
soon abbreviated to wilfy. sir wilfrid grewand flourished and waxed fat; but miranda spoiled him absurdly and nobody else likedhim. rilla especially hated him because of his detestable trick of lying flat on hisback and entreating you with waving paws to tickle his sleek stomach. when she saw thatmiranda's pale eyes bore unmistakable testimony of her having cried all night, rilla askedher to come up to her room, knowing miranda had a tale of woe to tell, but she orderedsir wilfrid to remain below. "oh, can't he come, too?" said miranda wistfully."poor wilfy won't be any bother—and i wiped his paws so carefully before i brought himin. he is always so lonesome in a strange place without me—and very soon he'll be—all—i'llhave left—to remind me—of joe."
rilla yielded, and sir wilfrid, with his tailcurled at a saucy angle over his brindled back, trotted triumphantly up the stairs beforethem. "oh, rilla," sobbed miranda, when they hadreached sanctuary. "i'm so unhappy. i can't begin to tell you how unhappy i am. truly,my heart is breaking." rilla sat down on the lounge beside her. sirwilfrid squatted on his haunches before them, with his impertinent pink tongue stuck out,and listened. "what is the trouble, miranda?" "joe is coming home tonight on his last leave.i had a letter from him on saturday—he sends my letters in care of bob crawford, you know,because of father—and, oh, rilla, he will only have four days—he has to go away fridaymorning—and i may never see him again."
"does he still want you to marry him?" askedrilla. "oh, yes. he implored me in his letter torun away and be married. but i cannot do that, rilla, not even for joe. my only comfort isthat i will be able to see him for a little while tomorrow afternoon. father has to goto charlottetown on business. at least we will have one good farewell talk. but oh—afterwards—why,rilla, i know father won't even let me go to the station friday morning to see joe off." "why in the world don't you and joe get marriedtomorrow afternoon at home?" demanded rilla. miranda swallowed a sob in such amazementthat she almost choked. "why—why—that is impossible, rilla."
"why?" briefly demanded the organizer of thejunior red cross and the transporter of babies in soup tureens. "why—why—we never thought of such a thing—joehasn't a license—i have no dress—i couldn't be married in black—i—i—we—you—you—"miranda lost herself altogether and sir wilfrid, seeing that she was in dire distress threwback his head and emitted a melancholy yelp. rilla blythe thought hard and rapidly fora few minutes. then she said, "miranda, if you will put yourself into my hands i'll haveyou married to joe before four o'clock tomorrow afternoon." "oh, you couldn't."
"i can and i will. but you'll have to do exactlyas i tell you." "oh—i—don't think—oh, father will killme—" "nonsense. he'll be very angry i suppose.but are you more afraid of your father's anger than you are of joe's never coming back toyou?" "no," said miranda, with sudden firmness,"i'm not." "will you do as i tell you then?" "yes, i will." "then get joe on the long-distance at onceand tell him to bring out a license and ring tonight."
"oh, i couldn't," wailed the aghast miranda,"it—it would be so—so indelicate." rilla shut her little white teeth togetherwith a snap. "heaven grant me patience," she said under her breath. "i'll do it then,"she said aloud, "and meanwhile, you go home and make what preparations you can. when i'phone down to you to come up and help me sew come at once." as soon as miranda, pallid, scared, but desperatelyresolved, had gone, rilla flew to the telephone and put in a long-distance call for charlottetown.she got through with such surprising quickness that she was convinced providence approvedof her undertaking, but it was a good hour before she could get in touch with joe milgraveat his camp. meanwhile, she paced impatiently
about, and prayed that when she did get joethere would be no listeners on the line to carry news to whiskers-on-the-moon. "is that you, joe? rilla blythe is speaking—rilla—rilla—oh,never mind. listen to this. before you come home tonight get a marriage license—a marriagelicense—yes, a marriage license—and a wedding-ring. did you get that? and will youdo it? very well, be sure you do it—it is your only chance." flushed with triumph—for her only fear wasthat she might not be able to locate joe in time—rilla rang the pryor ring. this timeshe had not such good luck for she drew whiskers-on-the-moon. "is that miranda? oh—mr. pryor! well, mr.pryor, will you kindly ask miranda if she
can come up this afternoon and help me withsome sewing. it is very important, or i would not trouble her. oh—thank you." mr. pryor had consented somewhat grumpily,but he had consented—he did not want to offend dr. blythe, and he knew that if herefused to allow miranda to do any red cross work public opinion would make the glen toohot for comfort. rilla went out to the kitchen, shut all the doors with a mysterious expressionwhich alarmed susan, and then said solemnly, "susan can you make a wedding-cake this afternoon?" "a wedding-cake!" susan stared. rilla had,without any warning, brought her a war-baby once upon a time. was she now, with equalsuddenness, going to produce a husband?
"yes, a wedding-cake—a scrumptious wedding-cake,susan—a beautiful, plummy, eggy, citron-peely wedding-cake. and we must make other thingstoo. i'll help you in the morning. but i can't help you in the afternoon for i have to makea wedding-dress and time is the essence of the contract, susan." susan felt that she was really too old tobe subjected to such shocks. "who are you going to marry, rilla?" she askedfeebly. "susan, darling, i am not the happy bride.miranda pryor is going to marry joe milgrave tomorrow afternoon while her father is awayin town. a war-wedding, susan—isn't that thrilling and romantic? i never was so excitedin my life."
the excitement soon spread over ingleside,infecting even mrs. blythe and susan. "i'll go to work on that cake at once," vowedsusan, with a glance at the clock. "mrs. dr. dear, will you pick over the fruit and beatup the eggs? if you will i can have that cake ready for the oven by the evening. tomorrowmorning we can make salads and other things. i will work all night if necessary to getthe better of whiskers-on-the-moon." miranda arrived, tearful and breathless. "we must fix over my white dress for you towear," said rilla. "it will fit you very nicely with a little alteration." to work went the two girls, ripping, fitting,basting, sewing for dear life. by dint of
unceasing effort they got the dress done byseven o'clock and miranda tried it on in rilla's room. "it's very pretty—but oh, if i could justhave a veil," sighed miranda. "i've always dreamed of being married in a lovely whiteveil." some good fairy evidently waits on the wishesof war-brides. the door opened and mrs. blythe came in, her arms full of a filmy burden. "miranda dear," she said, "i want you to wearmy wedding-veil tomorrow. it is twenty-four years since i was a bride at old green gables—thehappiest bride that ever was—and the wedding-veil of a happy bride brings good luck, they say."
"oh, how sweet of you, mrs. blythe," saidmiranda, the ready tears starting to her eyes. the veil was tried on and draped. susan droppedin to approve but dared not linger. "i've got that cake in the oven," she said,"and i am pursuing a policy of watchful waiting. the evening news is that the grand duke hascaptured erzerum. that is a pill for the turks. i wish i had a chance to tell the czar justwhat a mistake he made when he turned nicholas down." susan disappeared downstairs to the kitchen,whence a dreadful thud and a piercing shriek presently sounded. everybody rushed to thekitchen—the doctor and miss oliver, mrs. blythe, rilla, miranda in her wedding-veil.susan was sitting flatly in the middle of
the kitchen floor with a dazed, bewilderedlook on her face, while doc, evidently in his hyde incarnation, was standing on thedresser, with his back up, his eyes blazing, and his tail the size of three tails. "susan, what has happened?" cried mrs. blythein alarm. "did you fall? are you hurt?" susan picked herself up. "no," she said grimly, "i am not hurt, thoughi am jarred all over. do not be alarmed. as for what has happened—i tried to kick thatdarned cat with both feet, that is what happened." everybody shrieked with laughter. the doctorwas quite helpless. "oh, susan, susan," he gasped. "that i shouldlive to hear you swear."
"i am sorry," said susan in real distress,"that i used such an expression before two young girls. but i said that beast was darned,and darned it is. it belongs to old nick." "do you expect it will vanish some of thesedays with a bang and the odour of brimstone, susan?" "it will go to its own place in due time andthat you may tie to," said susan dourly, shaking out her raddled bones and going to her oven."i suppose my plunking down like that has shaken my cake so that it will be as heavyas lead." but the cake was not heavy. it was all a bride'scake should be, and susan iced it beautifully. next day she and rilla worked all the forenoon,making delicacies for the wedding-feast, and
as soon as miranda phoned up that her fatherwas safely off everything was packed in a big hamper and taken down to the pryor house.joe soon arrived in his uniform and a state of violent excitement, accompanied by hisbest man, sergeant malcolm crawford. there were quite a few guests, for all the manseand ingleside folk were there, and a dozen or so of joe's relatives, including his mother,"mrs. dead angus milgrave," so called, cheerfully, to distinguish her from another lady whoseangus was living. mrs. dead angus wore a rather disapproving expression, not caring over-muchfor this alliance with the house of whiskers-on-the-moon. so miranda pryor was married to private josephmilgrave on his last leave. it should have been a romantic wedding but it was not. therewere too many factors working against romance,
as even rilla had to admit. in the first place,miranda, in spite of her dress and veil, was such a flat-faced, commonplace, uninterestinglittle bride. in the second place, joe cried bitterly all through the ceremony, and thisvexed miranda unreasonably. long afterwards she told rilla, "i just felt like saying tohim then and there, 'if you feel so bad over having to marry me you don't have to.' butit was just because he was thinking all the time of how soon he would have to leave me." in the third place, jims, who was usuallyso well-behaved in public, took a fit of shyness and contrariness combined and began to cryat the top of his voice for "willa." nobody wanted to take him out, because everybodywanted to see the marriage, so rilla who was
a bridesmaid, had to take him and hold himduring the ceremony. in the fourth place, sir wilfrid laurier tooka fit. sir wilfrid was entrenched in a corner ofthe room behind miranda's piano. during his seizure he made the weirdest, most unearthlynoises. he would begin with a series of choking, spasmodic sounds, continuing into a gruesomegurgle, and ending up with a strangled howl. nobody could hear a word mr. meredith wassaying, except now and then, when sir wilfrid stopped for breath. nobody looked at the brideexcept susan, who never dragged her fascinated eyes from miranda's face—all the otherswere gazing at the dog. miranda had been trembling with nervousness but as soon as sir wilfridbegan his performance she forgot it. all that
she could think of was that her dear dog wasdying and she could not go to him. she never remembered a word of the ceremony. rilla, who in spite of jims, had been tryingher best to look rapt and romantic, as beseemed a war bridesmaid, gave up the hopeless attempt,and devoted her energies to choking down untimely merriment. she dared not look at anybody inthe room, especially mrs. dead angus, for fear all her suppressed mirth should suddenlyexplode in a most un-young-ladylike yell of laughter. but married they were, and then they had awedding-supper in the dining-room which was so lavish and bountiful that you would havethought it was the product of a month's labour.
everybody had brought something. mrs. deadangus had brought a large apple-pie, which she placed on a chair in the dining-room andthen absently sat down on it. neither her temper nor her black silk wedding garmentwas improved thereby, but the pie was never missed at the gay bridal feast. mrs. deadangus eventually took it home with her again. whiskers-on-the-moon's pacifist pig shouldnot get it, anyhow. that evening mr. and mrs. joe, accompaniedby the recovered sir wilfrid, departed for the four winds lighthouse, which was keptby joe's uncle and in which they meant to spend their brief honeymoon. una meredithand rilla and susan washed the dishes, tidied up, left a cold supper and miranda's pitifullittle note on the table for mr. pryor, and
walked home, while the mystic veil of dreamy,haunted winter twilight wrapped itself over the glen. "i would really not have minded being a war-bridemyself," remarked susan sentimentally. but rilla felt rather flat—perhaps as areaction to all the excitement and rush of the past thirty-six hours. she was disappointedsomehow—the whole affair had been so ludicrous, and miranda and joe so lachrymose and commonplace. "if miranda hadn't given that wretched dogsuch an enormous dinner he wouldn't have had that fit," she said crossly. "i warned her—butshe said she couldn't starve the poor dog—he would soon be all she had left, etc. i couldhave shaken her."
"the best man was more excited than joe was,"said susan. "he wished miranda many happy returns of the day. she did not look veryhappy, but perhaps you could not expect that under the circumstances." "anyhow," thought rilla, "i can write a perfectlykilling account of it all to the boys. how jem will howl over sir wilfrid's part in it!" but if rilla was rather disappointed in thewar wedding she found nothing lacking on friday morning when miranda said good-bye to herbridegroom at the glen station. the dawn was white as a pearl, clear as a diamond. behindthe station the balsamy copse of young firs was frost-misted. the cold moon of dawn hungover the westering snow fields but the golden
fleeces of sunrise shone above the maplesup at ingleside. joe took his pale little bride in his arms and she lifted her faceto his. rilla choked suddenly. it did not matter that miranda was insignificant andcommonplace and flat-featured. it did not matter that she was the daughter of whiskers-on-the-moon.all that mattered was that rapt, sacrificial look in her eyes—that ever-burning, sacredfire of devotion and loyalty and fine courage that she was mutely promising joe she andthousands of other women would keep alive at home while their men held the western front.rilla walked away, realising that she must not spy on such a moment. she went down tothe end of the platform where sir wilfrid and dog monday were sitting, looking at eachother.
sir wilfrid remarked condescendingly: "whydo you haunt this old shed when you might lie on the hearthrug at ingleside and liveon the fat of the land? is it a pose? or a fixed idea?" whereat dog monday, laconically: "i have atryst to keep." when the train had gone rilla rejoined thelittle trembling miranda. "well, he's gone," said miranda, "and he may never come back—buti'm his wife, and i'm going to be worthy of him. i'm going home." "don't you think you had better come withme now?" asked rilla doubtfully. nobody knew yet how mr. pryor had taken the matter.
"no. if joe can face the huns i guess i canface father," said miranda daringly. "a soldier's wife can't be a coward. come on, wilfy. i'llgo straight home and meet the worst." there was nothing very dreadful to face, however.perhaps mr. pryor had reflected that housekeepers were hard to get and that there were manymilgrave homes open to miranda—also, that there was such a thing as a separation allowance.at all events, though he told her grumpily that she had made a nice fool of herself,and would live to regret it, he said nothing worse, and mrs. joe put on her apron and wentto work as usual, while sir wilfrid laurier, who had a poor opinion of lighthouses forwinter residences, went to sleep in his pet nook behind the woodbox, a thankful dog thathe was done with war-weddings.
chapter xix "they shall not pass" one cold grey morning in february gertrudeoliver wakened with a shiver, slipped into rilla's room, and crept in beside her. "rilla—i'm frightened—frightened as ababy—i've had another of my strange dreams. something terrible is before us—i know." "what was it?" asked rilla. "i was standing again on the veranda steps—justas i stood in that dream on the night before the lighthouse dance, and in the sky a hugeblack, menacing thunder cloud rolled up from
the east. i could see its shadow racing beforeit and when it enveloped me i shivered with icy cold. then the storm broke—and it wasa dreadful storm—blinding flash after flash and deafening peal after peal, driving torrentsof rain. i turned in panic and tried to run for shelter, and as i did so a man—a soldierin the uniform of a french army officer—dashed up the steps and stood beside me on the thresholdof the door. his clothes were soaked with blood from a wound in his breast, he seemedspent and exhausted; but his white face was set and his eyes blazed in his hollow face.'they shall not pass,' he said, in low, passionate tones which i heard distinctly amid all theturmoil of the storm. then i awakened. rilla, i'm frightened—the spring will not bringthe big push we've all been hoping for—instead
it is going to bring some dreadful blow tofrance. i am sure of it. the germans will try to smash through somewhere." "but he told you that they would not pass,"said rilla, seriously. she never laughed at gertrude's dreams as the doctor did. "i do not know if that was prophecy or desperation,rilla, the horror of that dream holds me yet in an icy grip. we shall need all our couragebefore long." dr. blythe did laugh at the breakfast table—buthe never laughed at miss oliver's dreams again; for that day brought news of the opening ofthe verdun offensive, and thereafter through all the beautiful weeks of spring the inglesidefamily, one and all, lived in a trance of
dread. there were days when they waited indespair for the end as foot by foot the germans crept nearer and nearer to the grim barrierof desperate france. susan's deeds were in her spotless kitchenat ingleside, but her thoughts were on the hills around verdun. "mrs. dr. dear," shewould stick her head in at mrs. blythe's door the last thing at night to remark, "i do hopethe french have hung onto the crow's wood today," and she woke at dawn to wonder ifdead man's hill—surely named by some prophet—was still held by the "poyloos." susan could havedrawn a map of the country around verdun that would have satisfied a chief of staff. "if the germans capture verdun the spiritof france will be broken," miss oliver said
bitterly. "but they will not capture it," staunchlysaid susan, who could not eat her dinner that day for fear lest they do that very thing."in the first place, you dreamed they would not—you dreamed the very thing the frenchare saying before they ever said it—'they shall not pass.' i declare to you, miss oliver,dear, when i read that in the paper, and remembered your dream, i went cold all over with awe.it seemed to me like biblical times when people dreamed things like that quite frequently. "i know—i know," said gertrude, walkingrestlessly about. "i cling to a persistent faith in my dream, too—but every time badnews comes it fails me. then i tell myself
'mere coincidence'—'subconscious memory'and so forth." "i do not see how any memory could remembera thing before it was ever said at all," persisted susan, "though of course i am not educatedlike you and the doctor. i would rather not be, if it makes anything as simple as thatso hard to believe. but in any case we need not worry over verdun, even if the huns getit. joffre says it has no military significance." "that old sop of comfort has been served uptoo often already when reverses came," retorted gertrude. "it has lost its power to charm." "was there ever a battle like this in theworld before?" said mr. meredith, one evening in mid-april.
"it's such a titanic thing we can't graspit," said the doctor. "what were the scraps of a few homeric handfuls compared to this?the whole trojan war might be fought around a verdun fort and a newspaper correspondentwould give it no more than a sentence. i am not in the confidence of the occult powers"—thedoctor threw gertrude a twinkle—"but i have a hunch that the fate of the whole war hangson the issue of verdun. as susan and joffre say, it has no real military significance;but it has the tremendous significance of an idea. if germany wins there she will winthe war. if she loses, the tide will set against her." "lose she will," said mr. meredith: emphatically."the idea cannot be conquered. france is certainly
very wonderful. it seems to me that in heri see the white form of civilization making a determined stand against the black powersof barbarism. i think our whole world realizes this and that is why we all await the issueso breathlessly. it isn't merely the question of a few forts changing hands or a few milesof blood-soaked ground lost and won." "i wonder," said gertrude dreamily, "if somegreat blessing, great enough for the price, will be the meed of all our pain? is the agonyin which the world is shuddering the birth-pang of some wondrous new era? or is it merelya futile struggle of antsin the gleam of a million million of suns? we think very lightly, mr. meredith, of acalamity which destroys an ant-hill and half
its inhabitants. does the power that runsthe universe think us of more importance than we think ants?" "you forget," said mr. meredith, with a flashof his dark eyes, "that an infinite power must be infinitely little as well as infinitelygreat. we are neither, therefore there are things too little as well as too great forus to apprehend. to the infinitely little an ant is of as much importance as a mastodon.we are witnessing the birth-pangs of a new era—but it will be born a feeble, wailinglife like everything else. i am not one of those who expect a new heaven and a new earthas the immediate result of this war. that is not the way god works. but work he does,miss oliver, and in the end his purpose will
be fulfilled." "sound and orthodox—sound and orthodox,"muttered susan approvingly in the kitchen. susan liked to see miss oliver sat upon bythe minister now and then. susan was very fond of her but she thought miss oliver likedsaying heretical things to ministers far too well, and deserved an occasional reminderthat these matters were quite beyond her province. in may walter wrote home that he had beenawarded a d.c. medal. he did not say what for, but the other boys took care that theglen should know the brave thing walter had done. "in any war but this," wrote jerry meredith,"it would have meant a v.c. but they can't make v.c.'s as common as the brave thingsdone every day here."
"he should have had the v.c.," said susan,and was very indignant over it. she was not quite sure who was to blame for his not gettingit, but if it were general haig she began for the first time to entertain serious doubtsas to his fitness for being commander-in-chief. rilla was beside herself with delight. itwas her dear walter who had done this thing—walter, to whom someone had sent a white feather atredmond—it was walter who had dashed back from the safety of the trench to drag in awounded comrade who had fallen on no-man's-land. oh, she could see his white beautiful faceand wonderful eyes as he did it! what a thing to be the sister of such a hero! and he hadn'tthought it worth while writing about. his letter was full of other things—little intimatethings that they two had known and loved together
in the dear old cloudless days of a centuryago. "i've been thinking of the daffodils in thegarden at ingleside," he wrote. "by the time you get this they will be out, blowing thereunder that lovely rosy sky. are they really as bright and golden as ever, rilla? it seemsto me that they must be dyed red with blood—like our poppies here. and every whisper of springwill be falling as a violet in rainbow valley. "there is a young moon tonight—a slender,silver, lovely thing hanging over these pits of torment. will you see it tonight over themaple grove? "i'm enclosing a little scrap of verse, rilla.i wrote it one evening in my trench dug-out by the light of a bit of candle—or ratherit came to me there—i didn't feel as if
i were writing it—something seemed to useme as an instrument. i've had that feeling once or twice before, but very rarely andnever so strongly as this time. that was why i sent it over to the london spectator. itprinted it and the copy came today. i hope you'll like it. it's the only poem i've writtensince i came overseas." the poem was a short, poignant little thing.in a month it had carried walter's name to every corner of the globe. everywhere it wascopied—in metropolitan dailies and little village weeklies—in profound reviews and"agony columns," in red cross appeals and government recruiting propaganda. mothersand sisters wept over it, young lads thrilled to it, the whole great heart of humanity caughtit up as an epitome of all the pain and hope
and pity and purpose of the mighty conflict,crystallized in three brief immortal verses. a canadian lad in the flanders trenches hadwritten the one great poem of the war. "the piper," by pte. walter blythe, was a classicfrom its first printing. rilla copied it in her diary at the beginningof an entry in which she poured out the story of the hard week that had just passed. "it has been such a dreadful week," she wrote,"and even though it is over and we know that it was all a mistake that does not seem todo away with the bruises left by it. and yet it has in some ways been a very wonderfulweek and i have had some glimpses of things i never realized before—of how fine andbrave people can be even in the midst of horrible
suffering. i am sure i could never be as splendidas miss oliver was. "just a week ago today she had a letter frommr. grant's mother in charlottetown. and it told her that a cable had just come sayingthat major robert grant had been killed in action a few days before. "oh, poor gertrude! at first she was crushed.then after just a day she pulled herself together and went back to her school. she did not cry—inever saw her shed a tear—but oh, her face and her eyes! "'i must go on with my work,' she said. 'thatis my duty just now.' "i could never have risen to such a height.
"she never spoke bitterly except once, whensusan said something about spring being here at last, and gertrude said, "'can the spring really come this year?' "then she laughed—such a dreadful littlelaugh, just as one might laugh in the face of death, i think, and said, "'observe my egotism. because i, gertrudeoliver, have lost a friend, it is incredible that the spring can come as usual. the springdoes not fail because of the million agonies of others—but for mine—oh, can the universego on?' "'don't feel bitter with yourself, dear,'mother said gently. 'it is a very natural
thing to feel as if things couldn't go onjust the same when some great blow has changed the world for us. we all feel like that.' "then that horrid old cousin sophia of susan'spiped up. she was sitting there, knitting and croaking like an old 'raven of bode andwoe' as walter used to call her. "'you ain't as bad off as some, miss oliver,'she said, 'and you shouldn't take it so hard. there's some as has lost their husbands; that'sa hard blow; and there's some as has lost their sons. you haven't lost either husbandor son.' "'no,' said gertrude, more bitterly still.'it's true i haven't lost a husband—i have only lost the man who would have been my husband.i have lost no son—only the sons and daughters
who might have been born to me—who willnever be born to me now.' "'it isn't ladylike to talk like that,' saidcousin sophia in a shocked tone; and then gertrude laughed right out, so wildly thatcousin sophia was really frightened. and when poor tortured gertrude, unable to endure itany longer, hurried out of the room, cousin sophia asked mother if the blow hadn't affectedmiss oliver's mind. "'i suffered the loss of two good kind partners,'she said, 'but it did not affect me like that.' "i should think it wouldn't! those poor menmust have been thankful to die. "i heard gertrude walking up and down herroom most of the night. she walked like that every night. but never so long as that night.and once i heard her give a dreadful sudden
little cry as if she had been stabbed. i couldn'tsleep for suffering with her; and i couldn't help her. i thought the night would neverend. but it did; and then 'joy came in the morning' as the bible says. only it didn'tcome exactly in the morning but well along in the afternoon. the telephone rang and ianswered it. it was old mrs. grant speaking from charlottetown, and her news was thatit was all a mistake—robert wasn't killed at all; he had only been slightly woundedin the arm and was safe in the hospital out of harm's way for a time anyhow. they hadn'tlearned yet how the mistake had happened but supposed there must have been another robertgrant. "i hung up the telephone and flew to rainbowvalley. i'm sure i did fly—i can't remember
my feet ever touching the ground. i met gertrudeon her way home from school in the glade of spruces where we used to play, and i justgasped out the news to her. i ought to have had more sense, of course. but i was so crazywith joy and excitement that i never stopped to think. gertrude just dropped there amongthe golden young ferns as if she had been shot. the fright it gave me ought to makeme sensible—in this respect at least—for the rest of my life. i thought i had killedher—i remembered that her mother had died very suddenly from heart failure when quitea young woman. it seemed years to me before i discovered that her heart was still beating.a pretty time i had! i never saw anybody faint before, and i knew there was nobody up atthe house to help, because everybody else
had gone to the station to meet di and nancoming home from redmond. but i knew—theoretically—how people in a faint should be treated, and nowi know it practically. luckily the brook was handy, and after i had worked franticallyover her for a while gertrude came back to life. she never said one word about my newsand i didn't dare to refer to it again. i helped her walk up through the maple groveand up to her room, and then she said, 'rob—is—living,' as if the words were torn out of her, andflung herself on her bed and cried and cried and cried. i never saw anyone cry so before.all the tears that she hadn't shed all that week came then. she cried most of last night,i think, but her face this morning looked as if she had seen a vision of some kind,and we were all so happy that we were almost
afraid. "di and nan are home for a couple of weeks.then they go back to red cross work in the training camp at kingsport. i envy them. fathersays i'm doing just as good work here, with jims and my junior reds. but it lacks theromance theirs must have. "kut has fallen. it was almost a relief whenit did fall, we had been dreading it so long. it crushed us flat for a day and then we pickedup and put it behind us. cousin sophia was as gloomy as usual and came over and groanedthat the british were losing everywhere. "'they're good losers,' said susan grimly.'when they lose a thing they keep on looking till they find it again! anyhow, my king andcountry need me now to cut potato sets for
the back garden, so get you a knife and helpme, sophia crawford. it will divert your thoughts and keep you from worrying over a campaignthat you are not called upon to run.' "susan is an old brick, and the way she flattensout poor cousin sophia is beautiful to behold. "as for verdun, the battle goes on and on,and we see-saw between hope and fear. but i know that strange dream of miss oliver'sforetold the victory of france. 'they shall not pass.'" chapter xx norman douglas speaks out in meeting "where are you wandering, anne o' mine?" askedthe doctor, who even yet, after twenty-four
years of marriage, occasionally addressedhis wife thus when nobody was about. anne was sitting on the veranda steps, gazing absentlyover the wonderful bridal world of spring blossom, beyond the white orchard was a copseof dark young firs and creamy wild cherries, where the robins were whistling madly; forit was evening and the fire of early stars was burning over the maple grove. anne came back with a little sigh. "i was just taking relief from intolerablerealities in a dream, gilbert—a dream that all our children were home again—and allsmall again—playing in rainbow valley. it is always so silent now—but i was imaginingi heard clear voices and gay, childish sounds
coming up as i used to. i could hear jem'swhistle and walter's yodel, and the twins' laughter, and for just a few blessed minutesi forgot about the guns on the western front, and had a little false, sweet happiness." the doctor did not answer. sometimes his worktricked him into forgetting for a few moments the western front, but not often. there wasa good deal of grey now in his still thick curls that had not been there two years ago.yet he smiled down into the starry eyes he loved—the eyes that had once been so fullof laughter, and now seemed always full of unshed tears. susan wandered by with a hoe in her hand andher second best bonnet on her head.
"i have just finished reading a piece in theenterprise which told of a couple being married in an aeroplane. do you think it would belegal, doctor dear?" she inquired anxiously. "i think so," said the doctor gravely. "well," said susan dubiously, "it seems tome that a wedding is too solemn for anything so giddy as an aeroplane. but nothing is thesame as it used to be. well, it is half an hour yet before prayer-meeting time, so iam going around to the kitchen garden to have a little evening hate with the weeds. butall the time i am strafing them i will be thinking about this new worry in the trentino.i do not like this austrian caper, mrs. dr. dear."
"nor i," said mrs. blythe ruefully. "all theforenoon i preserved rhubarb with my hands and waited for the war news with my soul.when it came i shrivelled. well, i suppose i must go and get ready for the prayer-meeting,too." every village has its own little unwrittenhistory, handed down from lip to lip through the generations, of tragic, comic, and dramaticevents. they are told at weddings and festivals, and rehearsed around winter firesides. andin these oral annals of glen st. mary the tale of the union prayer-meeting held thatnight in the methodist church was destined to fill an imperishable place. the union prayer-meeting was mr. arnold'sidea. the county battalion, which had been
training all winter in charlottetown, wasto leave shortly for overseas. the four winds harbour boys belonging to it from the glenand over-harbour and harbour head and upper glen were all home on their last leave, andmr. arnold thought, properly enough, that it would be a fitting thing to hold a unionprayer-meeting for them before they went away. mr. meredith having agreed, the meeting wasannounced to be held in the methodist church. glen prayer-meetings were not apt to be toowell attended, but on this particular evening the methodist church was crowded. everybodywho could go was there. even miss cornelia came—and it was the first time in her lifethat miss cornelia had ever set foot inside a methodist church. it took no less than aworld conflict to bring that about.
"i used to hate methodists," said miss corneliacalmly, when her husband expressed surprise over her going, "but i don't hate them now.there is no sense in hating methodists when there is a kaiser or a hindenburg in the world." so miss cornelia went. norman douglas andhis wife went too. and whiskers-on-the-moon strutted up the aisle to a front pew, as ifhe fully realized what a distinction he conferred upon the building. people were somewhat surprisedthat he should be there, since he usually avoided all assemblages connected in any waywith the war. but mr. meredith had said that he hoped his session would be well represented,and mr. pryor had evidently taken the request to heart. he wore his best black suit andwhite tie, his thick, tight, iron-grey curls
were neatly arranged, and his broad, red roundface looked, as susan most uncharitably thought, more "sanctimonious" than ever. "the minute i saw that man coming into thechurch, looking like that, i felt that mischief was brewing, mrs. dr. dear," she said afterwards."what form it would take i could not tell, but i knew from face of him that he had comethere for no good." the prayer-meeting opened conventionally andcontinued quietly. mr. meredith spoke first with his usual eloquence and feeling. mr.arnold followed with an address which even miss cornelia had to confess was irreproachablein taste and subject-matter. and then mr. arnold asked mr. pryor to leadin prayer.
miss cornelia had always averred that mr.arnold had no gumption. miss cornelia was not apt to err on the side of charity in herjudgment of methodist ministers, but in this case she did not greatly overshoot the mark.the rev. mr. arnold certainly did not have much of that desirable, indefinable qualityknown as gumption, or he would never have asked whiskers-on-the-moon to lead in prayerat a khaki prayer-meeting. he thought he was returning the compliment to mr. meredith,who, at the conclusion of his address, had asked a methodist deacon to lead. some people expected mr. pryor to refuse grumpily—andthat would have made enough scandal. but mr. pryor bounded briskly to his feet, unctuouslysaid, "let us pray," and forthwith prayed.
in a sonorous voice which penetrated to everycorner of the crowded building mr. pryor poured forth a flood of fluent words, and was wellon in his prayer before his dazed and horrified audience awakened to the fact that they werelistening to a pacifist appeal of the rankest sort. mr. pryor had at least the courage ofhis convictions; or perhaps, as people afterwards said, he thought he was safe in a church andthat it was an excellent chance to air certain opinions he dared not voice elsewhere, forfear of being mobbed. he prayed that the unholy war might cease—that the deluded armiesbeing driven to slaughter on the western front might have their eyes opened to their iniquityand repent while yet there was time—that the poor young men present in khaki, who hadbeen hounded into a path of murder and militarism,
should yet be rescued— mr. pryor had got this far without let orhindrance; and so paralysed were his hearers, and so deeply imbued with their born-and-bredconviction that no disturbance must ever be made in a church, no matter what the provocation,that it seemed likely that he would continue unchecked to the end. but one man at leastin that audience was not hampered by inherited or acquired reverence for the sacred edifice.norman douglas was, as susan had often vowed crisply, nothing more or less than a "pagan."but he was a rampantly patriotic pagan, and when the significance of what mr. pryor wassaying fully dawned on him, norman douglas suddenly went berserk. with a positive roarhe bounded to his feet in his side pew, facing
the audience, and shouted in tones of thunder: "stop—stop—stop that abominable prayer!what an abominable prayer!" every head in the church flew up. a boy inkhaki at the back gave a faint cheer. mr. meredith raised a deprecating hand, but normanwas past caring for anything like that. eluding his wife's restraining grasp, he gave onemad spring over the front of the pew and caught the unfortunate whiskers-on-the-moon by hiscoat collar. mr. pryor had not "stopped" when so bidden, but he stopped now, perforce, fornorman, his long red beard literally bristling with fury, was shaking him until his bonesfairly rattled, and punctuating his shakes with a lurid assortment of abusive epithets.
"you blatant beast!"—shake—"you malignantcarrion"—shake—"you pig-headed varmint!"—shake—"you putrid pup"—shake—"you pestilential parasite"—shake—"you—hunnishscum"—shake—"you indecent reptile—you—you—" norman choked for a moment. everybody believedthat the next thing he would say, church or no church, would be something that would haveto be spelt with asterisks; but at that moment norman encountered his wife's eye and he fellback with a thud on holy writ. "you whited sepulchre!" he bellowed, with a final shake,and cast whiskers-on-the-moon from him with a vigour which impelled that unhappy pacifistto the very verge of the choir entrance door. mr. pryor's once ruddy face was ashen. buthe turned at bay. "i'll have the law on you for this," he gasped.
"do—do," roared norman, making another rush.but mr. pryor was gone. he had no desire to fall a second time into the hands of an avengingmilitarist. norman turned to the platform for one graceless, triumphant moment. "don't look so flabbergasted, parsons," heboomed. "you couldn't do it—nobody would expect it of the cloth—but somebody hadto do it. you know you're glad i threw him out—he couldn't be let go on yammering andyodelling and yawping sedition and treason. sedition and treason—somebody had to dealwith it. i was born for this hour—i've had my innings in church at last. i can sit quietfor another sixty years now! go ahead with your meeting, parsons. i reckon you won'tbe troubled with any more pacifist prayers."
but the spirit of devotion and reverence hadfled. both ministers realized it and realized that the only thing to do was to close themeeting quietly and let the excited people go. mr. meredith addressed a few earnest wordsto the boys in khaki—which probably saved mr. pryor's windows from a second onslaught—andmr. arnold pronounced an incongruous benediction, at least he felt it was incongruous, for hecould not at once banish from his memory the sight of gigantic norman douglas shaking thefat, pompous little whiskers-on-the-moon as a huge mastiff might shake an overgrown puppy.and he knew that the same picture was in everybody's mind. altogether the union prayer-meetingcould hardly be called an unqualified success. but it was remembered in glen st. mary whenscores of orthodox and undisturbed assemblies
were totally forgotten. "you will never, no, never, mrs. dr. dear,hear me call norman douglas a pagan again," said susan when she reached home. "if ellendouglas is not a proud woman this night she should be." "norman douglas did a wholly indefensiblething," said the doctor. "pryor should have been let severely alone until the meetingwas over. then later on, his own minister and session should deal with him. that wouldhave been the proper procedure. norman's performance was utterly improper and scandalous and outrageous;but, by george,"—the doctor threw back his head and chuckled, "by george, anne-girl,it was satisfying."
chapter xxi "love affairs are horrible" ingleside20th june 1916 "we have been so busy, and day after day hasbrought such exciting news, good and bad, that i haven't had time and composure to writein my diary for weeks. i like to keep it up regularly, for father says a diary of theyears of the war should be a very interesting thing to hand down to one's children. thetrouble is, i like to write a few personal things in this blessed old book that mightnot be exactly what i'd want my children to read. i feel that i shall be a far greaterstickler for propriety in regard to them than
i am for myself! "the first week in june was another dreadfulone. the austrians seemed just on the point of overrunning italy: and then came the firstawful news of the battle of jutland, which the germans claimed as a great victory. susanwas the only one who carried on. 'you need never tell me that the kaiser has defeatedthe british navy,' she said, with a contemptuous sniff. 'it is all a german lie and that youmay tie to.' and when a couple of days later we found out that she was right and that ithad been a british victory instead of a british defeat, we had to put up with a great many'i told you so's,' but we endured them very comfortably.
"it took kitchener's death to finish susan.for the first time i saw her down and out. we all felt the shock of it but susan plumbedthe depths of despair. the news came at night by 'phone but susan wouldn't believe it untilshe saw the enterprise headline the next day. she did not cry or faint or go into hysterics;but she forgot to put salt in the soup, and that is something susan never did in my recollection.mother and miss oliver and i cried but susan looked at us in stony sarcasm and said, 'thekaiser and his six sons are all alive and thriving. so the world is not left whollydesolate. why cry, mrs. dr. dear?' susan continued in this stony, hopeless condition for twenty-fourhours, and then cousin sophia appeared and began to condole with her.
"'this is terrible news, ain't it, susan?we might as well prepare for the worst for it is bound to come. you said once—and welldo i remember the words, susan baker—that you had complete confidence in god and kitchener.ah well, susan baker, there is only god left now.' "whereat cousin sophia put her handkerchiefto her eyes pathetically as if the world were indeed in terrible straits. as for susan,cousin sophia was the salvation of her. she came to life with a jerk. "'sophia crawford, hold your peace!' she saidsternly. 'you may be an idiot but you need not be an irreverent idiot. it is no morethan decent to be weeping and wailing because
the almighty is the sole stay of the alliesnow. as for kitchener, his death is a great loss and i do not dispute it. but the outcomeof this war does not depend on one man's life and now that the russians are coming on againyou will soon see a change for the better.' "susan said this so energetically that sheconvinced herself and cheered up immediately. but cousin sophia shook her head. "'albert's wife wants to call the baby afterbrusiloff,' she said, 'but i told her to wait and see what becomes of him first. them russianshas such a habit of petering out.' "the russians are doing splendidly, however,and they have saved italy. but even when the daily news of their sweeping advance comeswe don't feel like running up the flag as
we used to do. as gertrude says, verdun hasslain all exultation. we would all feel more like rejoicing if the victories were on thewestern front. 'when will the british strike?' gertrude sighed this morning. 'we have waitedso long—so long.' "our greatest local event in recent weekswas the route march the county battalion made through the county before it left for overseas.they marched from charlottetown to lowbridge, then round the harbour head and through theupper glen and so down to the st. mary station. everybody turned out to see them, except oldaunt fannie clow, who is bedridden and mr. pryor, who hadn't been seen out even in churchsince the night of the union prayer meeting the previous week.
"it was wonderful and heartbreaking to seethat battalion marching past. there were young men and middle-aged men in it. there was lauriemcallister from over-harbour who is only sixteen but swore he was eighteen, so that he couldenlist; and there was angus mackenzie, from the upper glen who is fifty-five if he isa day and swore he was forty-four. there were two south african veterans from lowbridge,and the three eighteen-year-old baxter triplets from harbour head. everybody cheered as theywent by, and they cheered foster booth, who is forty, walking side by side with his soncharley who is twenty. charley's mother died when he was born, and when charley enlistedfoster said he'd never yet let charley go anywhere he daren't go himself, and he didn'tmean to begin with the flanders trenches.
at the station dog monday nearly went outof his head. he tore about and sent messages to jem by them all. mr. meredith read an addressand reta crawford recited 'the piper.' the soldiers cheered her like mad and cried 'we'llfollow—we'll follow—we won't break faith,' and i felt so proud to think that it was mydear brother who had written such a wonderful, heart-stirring thing. and then i looked atthe khaki ranks and wondered if those tall fellows in uniform could be the boys i'velaughed with and played with and danced with and teased all my life. something seems tohave touched them and set them apart. they have heard the piper's call. "fred arnold was in the battalion and i feltdreadfully about him, for i realized that
it was because of me that he was going awaywith such a sorrowful expression. i couldn't help it but i felt as badly as if i could. "the last evening of his leave fred came upto ingleside and told me he loved me and asked me if i would promise to marry him some day,if he ever came back. he was desperately in earnest and i felt more wretched than i everdid in my life. i couldn't promise him that—why, even if there was no question of ken, i don'tcare for fred that way and never could—but it seemed so cruel and heartless to send himaway to the front without any hope of comfort. i cried like a baby; and yet—oh, i am afraidthat there must be something incurably frivolous about me, because, right in the middle ofit all, with me crying and fred looking so
wild and tragic, the thought popped into myhead that it would be an unendurable thing to see that nose across from me at the breakfasttable every morning of my life. there, that is one of the entries i wouldn't want my descendantsto read in this journal. but it is the humiliating truth; and perhaps it's just as well thatthought did come or i might have been tricked by pity and remorse into giving him some rashassurance. if fred's nose were as handsome as his eyes and mouth some such thing mighthave happened. and then what an unthinkable predicament i should have been in! "when poor fred became convinced that i couldn'tpromise him, he behaved beautifully—though that rather made things worse. if he had beennasty about it i wouldn't have felt so heartbroken
and remorseful—though why i should feelremorseful i don't know, for i never encouraged fred to think i cared a bit about him. yetfeel remorseful i did—and do. if fred arnold never comes back from overseas, this willhaunt me all my life. "then fred said if he couldn't take my lovewith him to the trenches at least he wanted to feel that he had my friendship, and wouldi kiss him just once in good-bye before he went—perhaps for ever? "i don't know how i could ever had imaginedthat love affairs were delightful, interesting things. they are horrible. i couldn't evengive poor heartbroken fred one little kiss, because of my promise to ken. it seemed sobrutal. i had to tell fred that of course
he would have my friendship, but that i couldn'tkiss him because i had promised somebody else i wouldn't. "he said, 'it is—is it—ken ford?' "i nodded. it seemed dreadful to have to tellit—it was such a sacred little secret just between me and ken. "when fred went away i came up here to myroom and cried so long and so bitterly that mother came up and insisted on knowing whatwas the matter. i told her. she listened to my tale with an expression that clearly said,'can it be possible that anyone has been wanting to marry this baby?' but she was so nice andunderstanding and sympathetic, oh, just so
race-of-josephy—that i felt indescribablycomforted. mothers are the dearest things. "'but oh, mother,' i sobbed, 'he wanted meto kiss him good-bye—and i couldn't—and that hurt me worse than all the rest.' "'well, why didn't you kiss him?' asked mothercoolly. 'considering the circumstances, i think you might have.' "'but i couldn't, mother—i promised kenwhen he went away that i wouldn't kiss anybody else until he came back.' "this was another high explosive for poormother. she exclaimed, with the queerest little catch in her voice, 'rilla, are you engagedto kenneth ford?'
"'i—don't—know,' i sobbed. "'you—don't—know?' repeated mother. "then i had to tell her the whole story, too;and every time i tell it it seems sillier and sillier to imagine that ken meant anythingserious. i felt idiotic and ashamed by the time i got through. "mother sat a little while in silence. thenshe came over, sat down beside me, and took me in her arms. "'don't cry, dear little rilla-my-rilla. youhave nothing to reproach yourself with in regard to fred; and if leslie west's son askedyou to keep your lips for him, i think you
may consider yourself engaged to him. but—oh,my baby—my last little baby—i have lost you—the war has made a woman of you toosoon.' "i shall never be too much of a woman to findcomfort in mother's hugs. nevertheless, when i saw fred marching by two days later in theparade, my heart ached unbearably. "but i'm glad mother thinks i'm really engagedto ken!" chapter xxii little dog monday knows "it is two years tonight since the dance atthe light, when jack elliott brought us news of the war. do you remember, miss oliver?"
cousin sophia answered for miss oliver. "oh,indeed, rilla, i remember that evening only too well, and you a-prancing down here toshow off your party clothes. didn't i warn you that we could not tell what was beforeus? little did you think that night what was before you." "little did any of us think that," said susansharply, "not being gifted with the power of prophecy. it does not require any greatforesight, sophia crawford, to tell a body that she will have some trouble before herlife is over. i could do as much myself." "we all thought the war would be over in afew months then," said rilla wistfully. "when i look back it seems so ridiculous that weever could have supposed it."
"and now, two years later, it is no nearerthe end than it was then," said miss oliver gloomily. susan clicked her knitting-needles briskly. "now, miss oliver, dear, you know that isnot a reasonable remark. you know we are just two years nearer the end, whenever the endis appointed to be." "albert read in a montreal paper today thata war expert gives it as his opinion that it will last five years more," was cousinsophia's cheerful contribution. "it can't," cried rilla; then she added witha sigh, "two years ago we would have said 'it can't last two years.' but five more yearsof this!"
"if rumania comes in, as i have strong hopesnow of her doing, you will see the end in five months instead of five years," said susan. "i've no faith in furriners," sighed cousinsophia. "the french are foreigners," retorted susan,"and look at verdun. and think of all the somme victories this blessed summer. the bigpush is on and the russians are still going well. why, general haig says that the germanofficers he has captured admit that they have lost the war." "you can't believe a word the germans say,"protested cousin sophia. "there is no sense in believing a thing just because you'd liketo believe it, susan baker. the british have
lost millions of men at the somme and howfar have they got? look facts in the face, susan baker, look facts in the face." "they are wearing the germans out and so longas that happens it does not matter whether it is done a few miles east or a few mileswest. i am not," admitted susan in tremendous humility, "i am not a military expert, sophiacrawford, but even i can see that, and so could you if you were not determined to takea gloomy view of everything. the huns have not got all the cleverness in the world. haveyou not heard the story of alistair maccallum's son roderick, from the upper glen? he is aprisoner in germany and his mother got a letter from him last week. he wrote that he was beingvery kindly treated and that all the prisoners
had plenty of food and so on, till you wouldhave supposed everything was lovely. but when he signed his name, right in between roderickand maccallum, he wrote two gaelic words that meant 'all lies' and the german censor didnot understand gaelic and thought it was all part of roddy's name. so he let it pass, neverdreaming how he was diddled. well, i am going to leave the war to haig for the rest of theday and make a frosting for my chocolate cake. and when it is made i shall put it on thetop shelf. the last one i made i left it on the lower shelf and little kitchener sneakedin and clawed all the icing off and ate it. we had company for tea that night and wheni went to get my cake what a sight did i behold!" "has that pore orphan's father never beenheerd from yet?" asked cousin sophia.
"yes, i had a letter from him in july," saidrilla. "he said that when he got word of his wife's death and of my taking the baby—mr.meredith wrote him, you know—he wrote right away, but as he never got any answer he hadbegun to think his letter must have been lost." "it took him two years to begin to think it,"said susan scornfully. "some people think very slow. jim anderson has not got a scratch,for all he has been two years in the trenches. a fool for luck, as the old proverb says." "he wrote very nicely about jims and saidhe'd like to see him," said rilla. "so i wrote and told him all about the wee man, and senthim snapshots. jims will be two years old next week and he is a perfect duck."
"you didn't used to be very fond of babies,"said cousin sophia. "i'm not a bit fonder of babies in the abstractthan ever i was," said rilla, frankly. "but i do love jims, and i'm afraid i wasn't reallyhalf as glad as i should have been when jim anderson's letter proved that he was safeand sound." "you wasn't hoping the man would be killed!"cried cousin sophia in horrified accents. "no—no—no! i just hoped he would go onforgetting about jims, mrs. crawford." "and then your pa would have the expense ofraising him," said cousin sophia reprovingly. "you young creeturs are terrible thoughtless." jims himself ran in at this juncture, so rosyand curly and kissable, that he extorted a
qualified compliment even from cousin sophia. "he's a reel healthy-looking child now, thoughmebbee his colour is a mite too high—sorter consumptive looking, as you might say. i neverthought you'd raise him when i saw him the day after you brung him home. i reely didnot think it was in you and i told albert's wife so when i got home. albert's wife says,says she, 'there's more in rilla blythe than you'd think for, aunt sophia.' them was hervery words. 'more in rilla blythe than you'd think for.' albert's wife always had a goodopinion of you." cousin sophia sighed, as if to imply thatalbert's wife stood alone in this against the world. but cousin sophia really did notmean that. she was quite fond of rilla in
her own melancholy way; but young creeturshad to be kept down. if they were not kept down society would be demoralized. "do you remember your walk home from the lighttwo years ago tonight?" whispered gertrude oliver to rilla, teasingly. "i should think i do," smiled rilla; and thenher smile grew dreamy and absent; she was remembering something else—that hour withkenneth on the sandshore. where would ken be tonight? and jem and jerry and walter andall the other boys who had danced and moonlighted on the old four winds point that evening ofmirth and laughter—their last joyous unclouded evening. in the filthy trenches of the sommefront, with the roar of the guns and the groans
of stricken men for the music of ned burr'sviolin, and the flash of star shells for the silver sparkles on the old blue gulf. twoof them were sleeping under the flanders poppies—alec burr from the upper glen, and clark manleyof lowbridge. others were wounded in the hospitals. but so far nothing had touched the manse andthe ingleside boys. they seemed to bear charmed lives. yet the suspense never grew any easierto bear as the weeks and months of war went by. "it isn't as if it were some sort of feverto which you might conclude they were immune when they hadn't taken it for two years,"sighed rilla. "the danger is just as great and just as real as it was the first day theywent into the trenches. i know this, and it
tortures me every day. and yet i can't helphoping that since they've come this far unhurt they'll come through. oh, miss oliver, whatwould it be like not to wake up in the morning feeling afraid of the news the day would bring?i can't picture such a state of things somehow. and two years ago this morning i woke wonderingwhat delightful gift the new day would give me. these are the two years i thought wouldbe filled with fun." "would you exchange them—now—for two yearsfilled with fun?" "no," said rilla slowly. "i wouldn't. it'sstrange—isn't it?—they have been two terrible years—and yet i have a queer feeling ofthankfulness for them—as if they had brought me something very precious, with all theirpain. i wouldn't want to go back and be the
girl i was two years ago, not even if i could.not that i think i've made any wonderful progress—but i'm not quite the selfish, frivolous littledoll i was then. i suppose i had a soul then, miss oliver—but i didn't know it. i knowit now—and that is worth a great deal—worth all the suffering of the past two years. andstill"—rilla gave a little apologetic laugh, "i don't want to suffer any more—not evenfor the sake of more soul growth. at the end of two more years i might look back and bethankful for the development they had brought me, too; but i don't want it now." "we never do," said miss oliver. "that iswhy we are not left to choose our own means and measure of development, i suppose. nomatter how much we value what our lessons
have brought us we don't want to go on withthe bitter schooling. well, let us hope for the best, as susan says; things are reallygoing well now and if rumania lines up, the end may come with a suddenness that will surpriseus all." rumania did come in—and susan remarked approvinglythat its king and queen were the finest looking royal couple she had seen pictures of. sothe summer passed away. early in september word came that the canadians had been shiftedto the somme front and anxiety grew tenser and deeper. for the first time mrs. blythe'sspirit failed her a little, and as the days of suspense wore on the doctor began to lookgravely at her, and veto this or that special effort in red cross work.
"oh, let me work—let me work, gilbert,"she entreated feverishly. "while i'm working i don't think so much. if i'm idle i imagineeverything—rest is only torture for me. my two boys are on the frightful somme front—andshirley pores day and night over aviation literature and says nothing. but i see thepurpose growing in his eyes. no, i cannot rest—don't ask it of me, gilbert." but the doctor was inexorable. "i can't let you kill yourself, anne-girl,"he said. "when the boys come back i want a mother here to welcome them. why, you're gettingtransparent. it won't do—ask susan there if it will do."
"oh, if susan and you are both banded togetheragainst me!" said anne helplessly. one day the glorious news came that the canadianshad taken courcelette and martenpuich, with many prisoners and guns. susan ran up theflag and said it was plain to be seen that haig knew what soldiers to pick for a hardjob. the others dared not feel exultant. who knew what price had been paid? rilla woke that morning when the dawn wasbeginning to break and went to her window to look out, her thick creamy eyelids heavywith sleep. just at dawn the world looks as it never looks at any other time. the airwas cold with dew and the orchard and grove and rainbow valley were full of mystery andwonder. over the eastern hill were golden
deeps and silvery-pink shallows. there wasno wind, and rilla heard distinctly a dog howling in a melancholy way down in the directionof the station. was it dog monday? and if it were, why was he howling like that? rillashivered; the sound had something boding and grievous in it. she remembered that miss oliversaid once, when they were coming home in the darkness and heard a dog howl, "when a dogcries like that the angel of death is passing." rilla listened with a curdling fear at herheart. it was dog monday—she felt sure of it. whose dirge was he howling—to whosespirit was he sending that anguished greeting and farewell? rilla went back to bed but she could not sleep.all day she watched and waited in a dread
of which she did not speak to anyone. shewent down to see dog monday and the station-master said, "that dog of yours howled from midnightto sunrise something weird. i dunno what got into him. i got up once and went out and holleredat him but he paid no 'tention to me. he was sitting all alone in the moonlight out thereat the end of the platform, and every few minutes the poor lonely little beggar'd lifthis nose and howl as if his heart was breaking. he never did it afore—always slept in hiskennel real quiet and canny from train to train. but he sure had something on his mindlast night." dog monday was lying in his kennel. he waggedhis tail and licked rilla's hand. but he would not touch the food she brought for him.
"i'm afraid he's sick," she said anxiously.she hated to go away and leave him. but no bad news came that day—nor the next—northe next. rilla's fear lifted. dog monday howled no more and resumed his routine oftrain meeting and watching. when five days had passed the ingleside people began to feelthat they might be cheerful again. rilla dashed about the kitchen helping susan with the breakfastand singing so sweetly and clearly that cousin sophia across the road heard her and croakedout to mrs. albert, "'sing before eating, cry before sleeping,'i've always heard." but rilla blythe shed no tears before thenightfall. when her father, his face grey and drawn and old, came to her that afternoonand told her that walter had been killed in
action at courcelette she crumpled up in apitiful little heap of merciful unconsciousness in his arms. nor did she waken to her painfor many hours. chapter xxiii "and so, goodnight" the fierce flame of agony had burned itselfout and the grey dust of its ashes was over all the world. rilla's younger life recoveredphysically sooner than her mother. for weeks mrs. blythe lay ill from grief and shock.rilla found it was possible to go on with existence, since existence had still to bereckoned with. there was work to be done, for susan could not do all. for her mother'ssake she had to put on calmness and endurance
as a garment in the day; but night after nightshe lay in her bed, weeping the bitter rebellious tears of youth until at last tears were allwept out and the little patient ache that was to be in her heart until she died tooktheir place. she clung to miss oliver, who knew what tosay and what not to say. so few people did. kind, well-meaning callers and comfortersgave rilla some terrible moments. "you'll get over it in time," mrs. williamreese said, cheerfully. mrs. reese had three stalwart sons, not one of whom had gone tothe front. "it's such a blessing it was walter who wastaken and not jem," said miss sarah clow. "walter was a member of the church, and jemwasn't. i've told mr. meredith many a time
that he should have spoken seriously to jemabout it before he went away." "pore, pore walter," sighed mrs. reese. "do not you come here calling him poor walter,"said susan indignantly, appearing in the kitchen door, much to the relief of rilla, who feltthat she could endure no more just then. "he was not poor. he was richer than any of you.it is you who stay at home and will not let your sons go who are poor—poor and nakedand mean and small—pisen poor, and so are your sons, with all their prosperous farmsand fat cattle and their souls no bigger than a flea's—if as big." "i came here to comfort the afflicted andnot to be insulted," said mrs. reese, taking
her departure, unregretted by anyone. thenthe fire went out of susan and she retreated to her kitchen, laid her faithful old headon the table and wept bitterly for a time. then she went to work and ironed jims's littlerompers. rilla scolded her gently for it when she herself came in to do it. "i am not going to have you kill yourselfworking for any war-baby," susan said obstinately. "oh, i wish i could just keep on working allthe time, susan," cried poor rilla. "and i wish i didn't have to go to sleep. it is hideousto go to sleep and forget it for a little while, and wake up and have it all rush overme anew the next morning. do people ever get used to things like this, susan? and oh, susan,i can't get away from what mrs. reese said.
did walter suffer much—he was always sosensitive to pain. oh, susan, if i knew that he didn't i think i could gather up a littlecourage and strength." this merciful knowledge was given to rilla.a letter came from walter's commanding officer, telling them that he had been killed instantlyby a bullet during a charge at courcelette. the same day there was a letter for rillafrom walter himself. rilla carried it unopened to rainbow valleyand read it there, in the spot where she had had her last talk with him. it is a strangething to read a letter after the writer is dead—a bitter-sweet thing, in which painand comfort are strangely mingled. for the first time since the blow had fallen rillafelt—a different thing from tremulous hope
and faith—that walter, of the glorious giftand the splendid ideals, still lived, with just the same gift and just the same ideals.that could not be destroyed—these could suffer no eclipse. the personality that hadexpressed itself in that last letter, written on the eve of courcelette, could not be snuffedout by a german bullet. it must carry on, though the earthly link with things of earthwere broken. "we're going over the top tomorrow, rilla-my-rilla,"wrote walter. "i wrote mother and di yesterday, but somehow i feel as if i must write youtonight. i hadn't intended to do any writing tonight—but i've got to. do you rememberold mrs. tom crawford over-harbour, who was always saying that it was 'laid on her' todo such and such a thing? well, that is just
how i feel. it's 'laid on me' to write youtonight—you, sister and chum of mine. there are some things i want to say before—well,before tomorrow. "you and ingleside seem strangely near metonight. it's the first time i've felt this since i came. always home has seemed so faraway—so hopelessly far away from this hideous welter of filth and blood. but tonight itis quite close to me—it seems to me i can almost see you—hear you speak. and i cansee the moonlight shining white and still on the old hills of home. it has seemed tome ever since i came here that it was impossible that there could be calm gentle nights andunshattered moonlight anywhere in the world. but tonight somehow, all the beautiful thingsi have always loved seem to have become possible
again—and this is good, and makes me feela deep, certain, exquisite happiness. it must be autumn at home now—the harbour is a-dreamand the old glen hills blue with haze, and rainbow valley a haunt of delight with wildasters blowing all over it—our old "farewell-summers." i always liked that name better than 'aster'—itwas a poem in itself. "rilla, you know i've always had premonitions.you remember the pied piper—but no, of course you wouldn't—you were too young. one eveninglong ago when nan and di and jem and the merediths and i were together in rainbow valley i hada queer vision or presentiment—whatever you like to call it. rilla, i saw the pipercoming down the valley with a shadowy host behind him. the others thought i was onlypretending—but i saw him for just one moment.
and rilla, last night i saw him again. i wasdoing sentry-go and i saw him marching across no-man's-land from our trenches to the germantrenches—the same tall shadowy form, piping weirdly—and behind him followed boys inkhaki. rilla, i tell you i saw him—it was no fancy—no illusion. i heard his music,and then—he was gone. but i had seen him—and i knew what it meant—i knew that i was amongthose who followed him. "rilla, the piper will pipe me 'west' tomorrow.i feel sure of this. and rilla, i'm not afraid. when you hear the news, remember that. i'vewon my own freedom here—freedom from all fear. i shall never be afraid of anythingagain—not of death—nor of life, if after all, i am to go on living. and life, i think,would be the harder of the two to face—for
it could never be beautiful for me again.there would always be such horrible things to remember—things that would make lifeugly and painful always for me. i could never forget them. but whether it's life or death,i'm not afraid, rilla-my-rilla, and i am not sorry that i came. i'm satisfied. i'll neverwrite the poems i once dreamed of writing—but i've helped to make canada safe for the poetsof the future—for the workers of the future—ay, and the dreamers, too—for if no man dreams,there will be nothing for the workers to fulfil—the future, not of canada only but of the world—whenthe 'red rain' of langemarck and verdun shall have brought forth a golden harvest—notin a year or two, as some foolishly think, but a generation later, when the seed sownnow shall have had time to germinate and grow.
yes, i'm glad i came, rilla. it isn't onlythe fate of the little sea-born island i love that is in the balance—nor of canada norof england. it's the fate of mankind. that is what we're fighting for. and we shall win—neverfor a moment doubt that, rilla. for it isn't only the living who are fighting—the deadare fighting too. such an army cannot be defeated. "is there laughter in your face yet, rilla?i hope so. the world will need laughter and courage more than ever in the years that willcome next. i don't want to preach—this isn't any time for it. but i just want to say somethingthat may help you over the worst when you hear that i've gone 'west.' i've a premonitionabout you, rilla, as well as about myself. i think ken will go back to you—and thatthere are long years of happiness for you
by-and-by. and you will tell your childrenof the idea we fought and died for—teach them it must be lived for as well as diedfor, else the price paid for it will have been given for nought. this will be part ofyour work, rilla. and if you—all you girls back in the homeland—do it, then we whodon't come back will know that you have not 'broken faith' with us. "i meant to write to una tonight, too, buti won't have time now. read this letter to her and tell her it's really meant for youboth—you two dear, fine loyal girls. tomorrow, when we go over the top—i'll think of youboth—of your laughter, rilla-my-rilla, and the steadfastness in una's blue eyes—somehowi see those eyes very plainly tonight, too.
yes, you'll both keep faith—i'm sure ofthat—you and una. and so—goodnight. we go over the top at dawn." rilla read her letter over many times. therewas a new light on her pale young face when she finally stood up, amid the asters walterhad loved, with the sunshine of autumn around her. for the moment at least, she was liftedabove pain and loneliness. "i will keep faith, walter," she said steadily."i will work—and teach—and learn—and laugh, yes, i will even laugh—through allmy years, because of you and because of what you gave when you followed the call." rilla meant to keep walter's letter as a asacred treasure. but, seeing the look on una
meredith's face when una had read it and heldit back to her, she thought of something. could she do it? oh, no, she could not giveup walter's letter—his last letter. surely it was not selfishness to keep it. a copywould be such a soulless thing. but una—una had so little—and her eyes were the eyesof a woman stricken to the heart, who yet must not cry out or ask for sympathy. "una, would you like to have this letter—tokeep?" she asked slowly. "yes—if you can give it to me," una saiddully. "then—you may have it," said rilla hurriedly. "thank you," said una. it was all she said,but there was something in her voice which
repaid rilla for her bit of sacrifice. una took the letter and when rilla had goneshe pressed it against her lonely lips. una knew that love would never come into her lifenow—it was buried for ever under the blood-stained soil "somewhere in france." no one but herself—andperhaps rilla—knew it—would ever know it. she had no right in the eyes of her worldto grieve. she must hide and bear her long pain as best she could—alone. but she, too,would keep faith. chapter xxiv mary is just in time the autumn of 1916 was a bitter season foringleside. mrs. blythe's return to health
was slow, and sorrow and loneliness were inall hearts. every one tried to hide it from the others and "carry on" cheerfully. rillalaughed a good deal. nobody at ingleside was deceived by her laughter; it came from herlips only, never from her heart. but outsiders said some people got over trouble very easily,and irene howard remarked that she was surprised to find how shallow rilla blythe really was."why, after all her pose of being so devoted to walter, she doesn't seem to mind his deathat all. nobody has ever seen her shed a tear or heard her mention his name. she has evidentlyquite forgotten him. poor fellow—you'd really think his family would feel it more. i spokeof him to rilla at the last junior red meeting—of how fine and brave and splendid he was—andi said life could never be just the same to
me again, now that walter had gone—we weresuch friends, you know—why i was the very first person he told about having enlisted—andrilla answered, as coolly and indifferently as if she were speaking of an entire stranger,'he was just one of many fine and splendid boys who have given everything for their country.'well, i wish i could take things as calmly—but i'm not made like that. i'm so sensitive—thingshurt me terribly—i really never get over them. i asked rilla right out why she didn'tput on mourning for walter. she said her mother didn't wish it. but every one is talking aboutit." "rilla doesn't wear colours—nothing butwhite," protested betty mead. "white becomes her better than anything else,"said irene significantly. "and we all know
black doesn't suit her complexion at all.but of course i'm not saying that is the reason she doesn't wear it. only, it's funny. ifmy brother had died i'd have gone into deep mourning. i wouldn't have had the heart foranything else. i confess i'm disappointed in rilla blythe." "i am not, then," cried betty meade, loyally,"i think rilla is just a wonderful girl. a few years ago i admit i did think she wasrather too vain and gigglesome; but now she is nothing of the sort. i don't think thereis a girl in the glen who is so unselfish and plucky as rilla, or who has done her bitas thoroughly and patiently. our junior red cross would have gone on the rocks a dozentimes if it hadn't been for her tact and perseverance
and enthusiasm—you know that perfectly well,irene." "why, i am not running rilla down," said irene,opening her eyes widely. "it was only her lack of feeling i was criticizing. i supposeshe can't help it. of course, she's a born manager—everyone knows that. she's veryfond of managing, too—and people like that are very necessary i admit. so don't lookat me as if i'd said something perfectly dreadful, betty, please. i'm quite willing to agreethat rilla blythe is the embodiment of all the virtues, if that will please you. andno doubt it is a virtue to be quite unmoved by things that would crush most people." some of irene's remarks were reported to rilla;but they did not hurt her as they would once
have done. they didn't matter, that was all.life was too big to leave room for pettiness. she had a pact to keep and a work to do; andthrough the long hard days and weeks of that disastrous autumn she was faithful to hertask. the war news was consistently bad, for germany marched from victory to victory overpoor rumania. "foreigners—foreigners," susan muttered dubiously. "russians or rumaniansor whatever they may be, they are foreigners and you cannot tie to them. but after verduni shall not give up hope. and can you tell me, mrs. dr. dear, if the dobruja is a riveror a mountain range, or a condition of the atmosphere?" the presidential election in the united statescame off in november, and susan was red-hot
over that—and quite apologetic for her excitement. "i never thought i would live to see the daywhen i would be interested in a yankee election, mrs. dr. dear. it only goes to show we cannever know what we will come to in this world, and therefore we should not be proud." susan stayed up late on the evening of theeleventh, ostensibly to finish a pair of socks. but she 'phoned down to carter flagg's storeat intervals, and when the first report came through that hughes had been elected she stalkedsolemnly upstairs to mrs. blythe's room and announced it in a thrilling whisper from thefoot of the bed. "i thought if you were not asleep you wouldbe interested in knowing it. i believe it
is for the best. perhaps he will just fallto writing notes, too, mrs. dr. dear, but i hope for better things. i never was verypartial to whiskers, but one cannot have everything." when news came in the morning that after allwilson was re-elected, susan tacked to catch another breeze of optimism. "well, better a fool you know than a foolyou do not know, as the old proverb has it," she remarked cheerfully. "not that i holdwoodrow to be a fool by any means, though by times you would not think he has the sensehe was born with. but he is a good letter writer at least, and we do not know if thehughes man is even that. all things being considered i commend the yankees. they haveshown good sense and i do not mind admitting
it. cousin sophia wanted them to elect roosevelt,and is much disgruntled because they would not give him a chance. i had a hankering forhim myself, but we must believe that providence over-rules these matters and be satisfied—thoughwhat the almighty means in this affair of rumania i cannot fathom—saying it with allreverence." susan fathomed it—or thought she did—whenthe asquith ministry went down and lloyd george became premier. "mrs. dr. dear, lloyd george is at the helmat last. i have been praying for this for many a day. now we shall soon see a blessedchange. it took the rumanian disaster to bring it about, no less, and that is the meaningof it, though i could not see it before. there
will be no more shilly-shallying. i considerthat the war is as good as won, and that i shall tie to, whether bucharest falls or not." bucharest did fall—and germany proposedpeace negotiations. whereat susan scornfully turned a deaf ear and absolutely refused tolisten to such proposals. when president wilson sent his famous december peace note susanwaxed violently sarcastic. "woodrow wilson is going to make peace, iunderstand. first henry ford had a try at it and now comes wilson. but peace is notmade with ink, woodrow, and that you may tie to," said susan, apostrophizing the unluckypresident out of the kitchen window nearest the united states. "lloyd george's speechwill tell the kaiser what is what, and you
may keep your peace screeds at home and savepostage." "what a pity president wilson can't hear you,susan," said rilla slyly. "indeed, rilla dear, it is a pity that hehas no one near him to give him good advice, as it is clear he has not, in all those democratsand republicans," retorted susan. "i do not know the difference between them, for thepolitics of the yankees is a puzzle i cannot solve, study it as i may. but as far as seeingthrough a grindstone goes, i am afraid—" susan shook her head dubiously, "that theyare all tarred with the same brush." "i am thankful christmas is over," rilla wrotein her diary during the last week of a stormy december. "we had dreaded it so—the firstchristmas since courcelette. but we had all
the merediths down for dinner and nobody triedto be gay or cheerful. we were all just quiet and friendly, and that helped. then, too,i was so thankful that jims had got better—so thankful that i almost felt glad—almostbut not quite. i wonder if i shall ever feel really glad over anything again. it seemsas if gladness were killed in me—shot down by the same bullet that pierced walter's heart.perhaps some day a new kind of gladness will be born in my soul—but the old kind willnever live again. "winter set in awfully early this year. tendays before christmas we had a big snowstorm—at least we thought it big at the time. as ithappened, it was only a prelude to the real performance. it was fine the next day, andingleside and rainbow valley were wonderful,
with the trees all covered with snow, andbig drifts everywhere, carved into the most fantastic shapes by the chisel of the northeastwind. father and mother went up to avonlea. father thought the change would do mothergood, and they wanted to see poor aunt diana, whose son jock had been seriously woundeda short time before. they left susan and me to keep house, and father expected to be backthe next day. but he never got back for a week. that night it began to storm again,and it stormed unbrokenly for four days. it was the worst and longest storm that princeedward island has known for years. everything was disorganized—the roads were completelychoked up, the trains blockaded, and the telephone wires put entirely out of commission.
"and then jims took ill. "he had a little cold when father and motherwent away, and he kept getting worse for a couple of days, but it didn't occur to methat there was danger of anything serious. i never even took his temperature, and i can'tforgive myself, because it was sheer carelessness. the truth is i had slumped just then. motherwas away, so i let myself go. all at once i was tired of keeping up and pretending tobe brave and cheerful, and i just gave up for a few days and spent most of the timelying on my face on my bed, crying. i neglected jims—that is the hateful truth—i was cowardlyand false to what i promised walter—and if jims had died i could never have forgivenmyself.
"then, the third night after father and motherwent away, jims suddenly got worse—oh, so much worse—all at once. susan and i wereall alone. gertrude had been at lowbridge when the storm began and had never got back.at first we were not much alarmed. jims has had several bouts of croup and susan and morganand i have always brought him through without much trouble. but it wasn't very long beforewe were dreadfully alarmed. "'i never saw croup like this before,' saidsusan. "as for me, i knew, when it was too late,what kind of croup it was. i knew it was not the ordinary croup—'false croup' as doctorscall it—but the 'true croup'—and i knew that it was a deadly and dangerous thing.and father was away and there was no doctor
nearer than lowbridge—and we could not 'phoneand neither horse nor man could get through the drifts that night. "gallant little jims put up a good fight forhis life,—susan and i tried every remedy we could think of or find in father's books,but he continued to grow worse. it was heart-rending to see and hear him. he gasped so horriblyfor breath—the poor little soul—and his face turned a dreadful bluish colour and hadsuch an agonized expression, and he kept struggling with his little hands, as if he were appealingto us to help him somehow. i found myself thinking that the boys who had been gassedat the front must have looked like that, and the thought haunted me amid all my dread andmisery over jims. and all the time the fatal
membrane in his wee throat grew and thickenedand he couldn't get it up. "oh, i was just wild! i never realized howdear jims was to me until that moment. and i felt so utterly helpless." "and then susan gave up. 'we cannot save him!oh, if your father was here—look at him, the poor little fellow! i know not what todo.' "i looked at jims and i thought he was dying.susan was holding him up in his crib to give him a better chance for breath, but it didn'tseem as if he could breathe at all. my little war-baby, with his dear ways and sweet roguishface, was choking to death before my very eyes, and i couldn't help him. i threw downthe hot poultice i had ready in despair. of
what use was it? jims was dying, and it wasmy fault—i hadn't been careful enough! "just then—at eleven o'clock at night—thedoor bell rang. such a ring—it pealed all over the house above the roar of the storm.susan couldn't go—she dared not lay jims down—so i rushed downstairs. in the halli paused just a minute—i was suddenly overcome by an absurd dread. i thought of a weird storygertrude had told me once. an aunt of hers was alone in a house one night with her sickhusband. she heard a knock at the door. and when she went and opened it there was nothingthere—nothing that could be seen, at least. but when she opened the door a deadly coldwind blew in and seemed to sweep past her right up the stairs, although it was a calm,warm summer night outside. immediately she
heard a cry. she ran upstairs—and her husbandwas dead. and she always believed, so gertrude said, that when she opened that door she letdeath in. "it was so ridiculous of me to feel so frightened.but i was distracted and worn out, and i simply felt for a moment that i dared not open thedoor—that death was waiting outside. then i remembered that i had no time to waste—mustnot be so foolish—i sprang forward and opened the door. "certainly a cold wind did blow in and filledthe hall with a whirl of snow. but there on the threshold stood a form of flesh and blood—maryvance, coated from head to foot with snow—and she brought life, not death, with her, thoughi didn't know that then. i just stared at
"'i haven't been turned out,' grinned mary,as she stepped in and shut the door. 'i came up to carter flagg's two days ago and i'vebeen stormed-stayed there ever since. but old abbie flagg got on my nerves at last,and tonight i just made up my mind to come up here. i thought i could wade this far,but i can tell you it was as much as a bargain. once i thought i was stuck for keeps. ain'tit an awful night?' "i came to myself and knew i must hurry upstairs.i explained as quickly as i could to mary, and left her trying to brush the snow off.upstairs i found that jims was over that paroxysm, but almost as soon as i got back to the roomhe was in the grip of another. i couldn't do anything but moan and cry—oh, how ashamedi am when i think of it; and yet what could
i do—we had tried everything we knew—andthen all at once i heard mary vance saying loudly behind me, 'why, that child is dying!' "i whirled around. didn't i know he was dying—mylittle jims! i could have thrown mary vance out of the door or the window—anywhere—atthat moment. there she stood, cool and composed, looking down at my baby, with those, weirdwhite eyes of hers, as she might look at a choking kitten. i had always disliked maryvance—and just then i hated her. "'we have tried everything,' said poor susandully. 'it is not ordinary croup.' "'no, it's the dipthery croup,' said marybriskly, snatching up an apron. 'and there's mighty little time to lose—but i know whatto do. when i lived over-harbour with mrs.
wiley, years ago, will crawford's kid diedof dipthery croup, in spite of two doctors. and when old aunt christina macallister heardof it—she was the one brought me round when i nearly died of pneumonia you know—shewas a wonder—no doctor was a patch on her—they don't hatch her breed of cats nowadays, letme tell you—she said she could have saved him with her grandmother's remedy if she'dbeen there. she told mrs. wiley what it was and i've never forgot it. i've the greatestmemory ever—a thing just lies in the back of my head till the time comes to use it.got any sulphur in the house, susan?' "yes, we had sulphur. susan went down withmary to get it, and i held jims. i hadn't any hope—not the least. mary vance mightbrag as she liked—she was always bragging—but
i didn't believe any grandmother's remedycould save jims now. presently mary came back. she had tied a piece of thick flannel overher mouth and nose, and she carried susan's old tin chip pan, half full of burning coals. "'you watch me,' she said boastfully. 'i'venever done this, but it's kill or cure that child is dying anyway.' "she sprinkled a spoonful of sulphur overthe coals; and then she picked up jims, turned him over, and held him face downward, rightover those choking, blinding fumes. i don't know why i didn't spring forward and snatchhim away. susan says it was because it was fore-ordained that i shouldn't, and i thinkshe is right, because it did really seem that
i was powerless to move. susan herself seemedtransfixed, watching mary from the doorway. jims writhed in those big, firm, capable handsof mary—oh yes, she is capable all right—and choked and wheezed—and choked and wheezed—andi felt that he was being tortured to death—and then all at once, after what seemed to mean hour, though it really wasn't long, he coughed up the membrane that was killing him.mary turned him over and laid him back on his bed. he was white as marble and the tearswere pouring out of his brown eyes—but that awful livid look was gone from his face andhe could breathe quite easily. "'wasn't that some trick?' said mary gaily.'i hadn't any idea how it would work, but i just took a chance. i'll smoke his throatout again once or twice before morning, just
to kill all the germs, but you'll see he'llbe all right now.' "jims went right to sleep—real sleep, notcoma, as i feared at first. mary 'smoked him,' as she called it, twice through the night,and at daylight his throat was perfectly clear and his temperature was almost normal. wheni made sure of that i turned and looked at mary vance. she was sitting on the loungelaying down the law to susan on some subject about which susan must have known forty timesas much as she did. but i didn't mind how much law she laid down or how much she bragged.she had a right to brag—she had dared to do what i would never have dared, and hadsaved jims from a horrible death. it didn't matter any more that she had once chased methrough the glen with a codfish; it didn't
matter that she had smeared goose-grease allover my dream of romance the night of the lighthouse dance; it didn't matter that shethought she knew more than anybody else and always rubbed it in—i would never dislikemary vance again. i went over to her and kissed "'what's up now?' she said. "'nothing—only i'm so grateful to you, mary.' "'well, i think you ought to be, that's afact. you two would have let that baby die on your hands if i hadn't happened along,'said mary, just beaming with complacency. she got susan and me a tip-top breakfast andmade us eat it, and 'bossed the life out of us,' as susan says, for two days, until theroads were opened so that she could get home.
jims was almost well by that time, and fatherturned up. he heard our tale without saying much. father is rather scornful generallyabout what he calls 'old wives' remedies.' he laughed a little and said, 'after this,mary vance will expect me to call her in for consultation in all my serious cases.' "so christmas was not so hard as i expectedit to be; and now the new year is coming—and we are still hoping for the 'big push' thatwill end the war—and little dog monday is getting stiff and rheumatic from his coldvigils, but still he 'carries on,' and shirley continues to read the exploits of the aces.oh, nineteen-seventeen, what will you bring?" chapter xxv
shirley goes "no, woodrow, there will be no peace withoutvictory," said susan, sticking her knitting needle viciously through president wilson'sname in the newspaper column. "we canadians mean to have peace and victory, too. you,if it pleases you, woodrow, can have the peace without the victory"—and susan stalked offto bed with the comfortable consciousness of having got the better of the argument withthe president. but a few days later she rushed to mrs. blythe in red-hot excitement. "mrs. dr. dear, what do you think? a 'phonemessage has just come through from charlottetown that woodrow wilson has sent that german ambassadorman to the right about at last. they tell
me that means war. so i begin to think thatwoodrow's heart is in the right place after all, wherever his head may be, and i am goingto commandeer a little sugar and celebrate the occasion with some fudge, despite thehowls of the food board. i thought that submarine business would bring things to a crisis. itold cousin sophia so when she said it was the beginning of the end for the allies." "don't let the doctor hear of the fudge, susan,"said anne, with a smile. "you know he has laid down very strict rules for us along thelines of economy the government has asked for." "yes, mrs. dr. dear, and a man should be masterin his own household, and his women folk should
bow to his decrees. i flatter myself thati am becoming quite efficient in economizing"—susan had taken to using certain german terms withkilling effect—"but one can exercise a little gumption on the quiet now and then. shirleywas wishing for some of my fudge the other day—the susan brand, as he called it—andi said 'the first victory there is to celebrate i shall make you some.' i consider this newsquite equal to a victory, and what the doctor does not know will never grieve him. i takethe whole responsibility, mrs. dr. dear, so do not you vex your conscience." susan spoiled shirley shamelessly that winter.he came home from queen's every week-end, and susan had all his favourite dishes forhim, in so far as she could evade or wheedle
the doctor, and waited on him hand and foot.though she talked war constantly to everyone else she never mentioned it to him or beforehim, but she watched him like a cat watching a mouse; and when the german retreat fromthe bapaume salient began and continued, susan's exultation was linked up with something deeperthan anything she expressed. surely the end was in sight—would come now before—anyoneelse—could go. "things are coming our way at last. we havegot the germans on the run," she boasted. "the united states has declared war at last,as i always believed they would, in spite of woodrow's gift for letter writing, andyou will see they will go into it with a vim since i understand that is their habit, whenthey do start. and we have got the germans
on the run, too." "the states mean well," moaned cousin sophia,"but all the vim in the world cannot put them on the fighting line this spring, and theallies will be finished before that. the germans are just luring them on. that man simondssays their retreat has put the allies in a hole." "that man simonds has said more than he willever live to make good," retorted susan. "i do not worry myself about his opinion as longas lloyd george is premier of england. he will not be bamboozled and that you may tieto. things look good to me. the u. s. is in the war, and we have got kut and bagdad back—andi would not be surprised to see the allies
in berlin by june—and the russians, too,since they have got rid of the czar. that, in my opinion was a good piece of work." "time will show if it is," said cousin sophia,who would have been very indignant if anyone had told her that she would rather see susanput to shame as a seer, than a successful overthrow of tyranny, or even the march ofthe allies down unter den linden. but then the woes of the russian people were quiteunknown to cousin sophia, while this aggravating, optimistic susan was an ever-present thornin her side. just at that moment shirley was sitting onthe edge of the table in the living-room, swinging his legs—a brown, ruddy, wholesomelad, from top to toe, every inch of him—and
saying coolly, "mother and dad, i was eighteenlast monday. don't you think it's about time i joined up?" the pale mother looked at him. "two of my sons have gone and one will neverreturn. must i give you too, shirley?" the age-old cry—"joseph is not and simeonis not; and ye will take benjamin away." how the mothers of the great war echoed the oldpatriarch's moan of so many centuries agone! "you wouldn't have me a slacker, mother? ican get into the flying-corps. what say, dad?" the doctor's hands were not quite steady ashe folded up the powders he was concocting for abbie flagg's rheumatism. he had knownthis moment was coming, yet he was not altogether
prepared for it. he answered slowly, "i won'ttry to hold you back from what you believe to be your duty. but you must not go unlessyour mother says you may." shirley said nothing more. he was not a ladof many words. anne did not say anything more just then, either. she was thinking of littlejoyce's grave in the old burying-ground over-harbour—little joyce who would have been a woman now, hadshe lived—of the white cross in france and the splendid grey eyes of the little boy whohad been taught his first lessons of duty and loyalty at her knee—of jem in the terribletrenches—of nan and di and rilla, waiting—waiting—waiting, while the golden years of youth passed by—andshe wondered if she could bear any more. she thought not; surely she had given enough.
yet that night she told shirley that he mightgo. they did not tell susan right away. she didnot know it until, a few days later, shirley presented himself in her kitchen in his aviationuniform. susan didn't make half the fuss she had made when jem and walter had gone. shesaid stonily, "so they're going to take you, too." "take me? no. i'm going, susan—got to." susan sat down by the table, folded her knottedold hands, that had grown warped and twisted working for the ingleside children to stilltheir shaking, and said: "yes, you must go. i did not see once whysuch things must be, but i can see now."
"you're a brick, susan," said shirley. hewas relieved that she took it so coolly—he had been a little afraid, with a boy's horrorof "a scene." he went out whistling gaily; but half an hour later, when pale anne blythecame in, susan was still sitting there. "mrs. dr. dear," said susan, making an admissionshe would once have died rather than make, "i feel very old. jem and walter were yoursbut shirley is mine. and i cannot bear to think of him flying—his machine crashingdown—the life crushed out of his body—the dear little body i nursed and cuddled whenhe was a wee baby." "susan—don't," cried anne. "oh, mrs. dr. dear, i beg your pardon. i oughtnot to have said anything like that out loud.
i sometimes forget that i resolved to be aheroine. this—this has shaken me a little. but i will not forget myself again. only ifthings do not go as smoothly in the kitchen for a few days i hope you will make due allowancefor me. at least," said poor susan, forcing a grim smile in a desperate effort to recoverlost standing, "at least flying is a clean job. he will not get so dirty and messed upas he would in the trenches, and that is well, for he has always been a tidy child." so shirley went—not radiantly, as to a highadventure, like jem, not in a white flame of sacrifice, like walter, but in a cool,business-like mood, as of one doing something, rather dirty and disagreeable, that had justgot to be done. he kissed susan for the first
time since he was five years old, and said,"good-bye, susan—mother susan." "my little brown boy—my little brown boy,"said susan. "i wonder," she thought bitterly, as she looked at the doctor's sorrowful face,"if you remember how you spanked him once when he was a baby. i am thankful i have nothinglike that on my conscience now." the doctor did not remember the old discipline.but before he put on his hat to go out on his round of calls he stood for a moment inthe great silent living-room that had once been full of children's laughter. "our last son—our last son," he said aloud."a good, sturdy, sensible lad, too. always reminded me of my father. i suppose i oughtto be proud that he wanted to go—i was proud
when jem went—even when walter went—but'our house is left us desolate.'" "i have been thinking, doctor," old sandyof the upper glen said to him that afternoon, "that your house will be seeming very bigthe day." highland sandy's quaint phrase struck thedoctor as perfectly expressive. ingleside did seem very big and empty that night. yetshirley had been away all winter except for week-ends, and had always been a quiet felloweven when home. was it because he had been the only one left that his going seemed toleave such a huge blank—that every room seemed vacant and deserted—that the verytrees on the lawn seemed to be trying to comfort each other with caresses of freshly-buddingboughs for the loss of the last of the little
lads who had romped under them in childhood? susan worked very hard all day and late intothe night. when she had wound the kitchen clock and put dr. jekyll out, none too gently,she stood for a little while on the doorstep, looking down the glen, which lay tranced infaint, silvery light from a sinking young moon. but susan did not see the familiar hillsand harbour. she was looking at the aviation camp in kingsport where shirley was that night. "he called me 'mother susan,'" she was thinking."well, all our men folk have gone now—jem and walter and shirley and jerry and carl.and none of them had to be driven to it. so we have a right to be proud. but pride—"susan sighed bitterly—"pride is cold company
and that there is no gainsaying." the moon sank lower into a black cloud inthe west, the glen went out in an eclipse of sudden shadow—and thousands of milesaway the canadian boys in khaki—the living and the dead—were in possession of vimyridge. vimy ridge is a name written in crimson andgold on the canadian annals of the great war. "the british couldn't take it and the frenchcouldn't take it," said a german prisoner to his captors, "but you canadians are suchfools that you don't know when a place can't be taken!" so the "fools" took it—and paid the price.
jerry meredith was seriously wounded at vimyridge—shot in the back, the telegram said. "poor nan," said mrs. blythe, when the newscame. she thought of her own happy girlhood at old green gables. there had been no tragedylike this in it. how the girls of to-day had to suffer! when nan came home from redmondtwo weeks later her face showed what those weeks had meant to her. john meredith, too,seemed to have grown old suddenly in them. faith did not come home; she was on her wayacross the atlantic as a v.a.d. di had tried to wring from her father consent to her goingalso, but had been told that for her mother's sake it could not be given. so di, after aflying visit home, went back to her red cross work in kingsport.
the mayflowers bloomed in the secret nooksof rainbow valley. rilla was watching for them. jem had once taken his mother the earliestmayflowers; walter brought them to her when jem was gone; last spring shirley had soughtthem out for her; now, rilla thought she must take the boys' place in this. but before shehad discovered any, bruce meredith came to ingleside one twilight with his hands fullof delicate pink sprays. he stalked up the steps of the veranda and laid them on mrs.blythe's lap. "because shirley isn't here to bring them,"he said in his funny, shy, blunt way. "and you thought of this, you darling," saidanne, her lips quivering, as she looked at the stocky, black-browed little chap, standingbefore her, with his hands thrust into his
pockets. "i wrote jem to-day and told him not to worry'bout you not getting your mayflowers," said bruce seriously, "'cause i'd see to that.and i told him i would be ten pretty soon now, so it won't be very long before i'llbe eighteen, and then i'll go to help him fight, and maybe let him come home for a restwhile i took his place. i wrote jerry, too. jerry's getting better, you know." "is he? have you had any good news about him?" "yes. mother had a letter to-day, and it saidhe was out of danger." "oh, thank god," murmured mrs. blythe, ina half-whisper.
bruce looked at her curiously. "that is what father said when mother toldhim. but when l said it the other day when i found out mr. mead's dog hadn't hurt mykitten—i thought he had shooken it to death, you know—father looked awful solemn andsaid i must never say that again about a kitten. but i couldn't understand why, mrs. blythe.i felt awful thankful, and it must have been god that saved stripey, because that meaddog had 'normous jaws, and oh, how it shook poor stripey. and so why couldn't i thankhim? 'course," added bruce reminiscently, "maybe i said it too loud—'cause i was awfulglad and excited when i found stripey was all right. i 'most shouted it, mrs. blythe.maybe if i'd said it sort of whispery like
you and father it would have been all right.do you know, mrs. blythe"—bruce dropped to a "whispery" tone, edging a little nearerto anne—"what i would like to do to the kaiser if i could?" "what would you like to do, laddie?" "norman reese said in school to-day that hewould like to tie the kaiser to a tree and set cross dogs to worrying him," said brucegravely. "and emily flagg said she would like to put him in a cage and poke sharp thingsinto him. and they all said things like that. but mrs. blythe"—bruce took a little squarepaw out of his pocket and put it earnestly on anne's knee—"i would like to turn thekaiser into a good man—a very good man—all
at once if i could. that is what i would do.don't you think, mrs. blythe, that would be the very worstest punishment of all?" "bless the child," said susan, "how do youmake out that would be any kind of a punishment for that wicked fiend?" "don't you see," said bruce, looking levellyat susan, out of his blackly blue eyes, "if he was turned into a good man he would understandhow dreadful the things he has done are, and he would feel so terrible about it that hewould be more unhappy and miserable than he could ever be in any other way. he would feeljust awful—and he would go on feeling like that forever. yes"—bruce clenched his handsand nodded his head emphatically, "yes, i
would make the kaiser a good man—that iswhat i would do—it would serve him 'zackly right." chapter xxvi susan has a proposal of marriage an aeroplane was flying over glen st. mary,like a great bird poised against the western sky—a sky so clear and of such a pale, silveryyellow, that it gave an impression of a vast, wind-freshened space of freedom. the littlegroup on the ingleside lawn looked up at it with fascinated eyes, although it was by nomeans an unusual thing to see an occasional hovering plane that summer. susan was alwaysintensely excited. who knew but that it might
be shirley away up there in the clouds, flyingover to the island from kingsport? but shirley had gone overseas now, so susan was not sokeenly interested in this particular aeroplane and its pilot. nevertheless, she looked atit with awe. "i wonder, mrs. dr. dear," she said solemnly,"what the old folks down there in the graveyard would think if they could rise out of theirgraves for one moment and behold that sight. i am sure my father would disapprove of it,for he was a man who did not believe in new-fangled ideas of any sort. he always cut his grainwith a reaping hook to the day of his death. a mower he would not have. what was good enoughfor his father was good enough for him, he used to say. i hope it is not unfilial tosay that i think he was wrong in that point
of view, but i am not sure i go so far asto approve of aeroplanes, though they may be a military necessity. if the almighty hadmeant us to fly he would have provided us with wings. since he did not it is plain hemeant us to stick to the solid earth. at any rate, you will never see me, mrs. dr. dear,cavorting through the sky in an aeroplane." "but you won't refuse to cavort a bit in father'snew automobile when it comes, will you, susan?" teased rilla. "i do not expect to trust my old bones inautomobiles, either," retorted susan. "but i do not look upon them as some narrow-mindedpeople do. whiskers-on-the-moon says the government should be turned out of office for permittingthem to run on the island at all. he foams
at the mouth, they tell me, when he sees one.the other day he saw one coming along that narrow side-road by his wheatfield, and whiskersbounded over the fence and stood right in the middle of the road, with his pitchfork.the man in the machine was an agent of some kind, and whiskers hates agents as much ashe hates automobiles. he made the car come to a halt, because there was not room to passhim on either side, and the agent could not actually run over him. then he raised hispitchfork and shouted, 'get out of this with your devil-machine or i will run this pitchforkclean through you.' and mrs. dr. dear, if you will believe me, that poor agent had toback his car clean out to the lowbridge road, nearly a mile, whiskers following him everystep, shaking his pitchfork and bellowing
insults. now, mrs. dr. dear, i call such conductunreasonable; but all the same," added susan, with a sigh, "what with aeroplanes and automobilesand all the rest of it, this island is not what it used to be." the aeroplane soared and dipped and circled,and soared again, until it became a mere speck far over the sunset hills. "'with the majesty of pinion which the thebaneagles bear sailing with supreme dominion through the azure fields of air.'" quoted anne blythe dreamily. "i wonder," said miss oliver, "if humanitywill be any happier because of aeroplanes.
it seems to me that the sum of human happinessremains much the same from age to age, no matter how it may vary in distribution, andthat all the 'many inventions' neither lessen nor increase it." "after all, the 'kingdom of heaven is withinyou,'" said mr. meredith, gazing after the vanishing speck which symbolized man's latestvictory in a world-old struggle. "it does not depend on material achievements and triumphs." "nevertheless, an aeroplane is a fascinatingthing," said the doctor. "it has always been one of humanity's favourite dreams—the dreamof flying. dream after dream comes true—or rather is made true by persevering effort.i should like to have a flight in an aeroplane
myself." "shirley wrote me that he was dreadfully disappointedin his first flight," said rilla. "he had expected to experience the sensation of soaringup from the earth like a bird—and instead he just had the feeling that he wasn't movingat all, but that the earth was dropping away under him. and the first time he went up alonehe suddenly felt terribly homesick. he had never felt like that before; but all at once,he said, he felt as if he were adrift in space—and he had a wild desire to get back home to theold planet and the companionship of fellow creatures. he soon got over that feeling,but he says his first flight alone was a nightmare to him because of that dreadful sensationof ghastly loneliness."
the aeroplane disappeared. the doctor threwback his head with a sigh. "when i have watched one of those bird-menout of sight i come back to earth with an odd feeling of being merely a crawling insect.anne," he said, turning to his wife, "do you remember the first time i took you for a buggyride in avonlea—that night we went to the carmody concert, the first fall you taughtin avonlea? i had out little black mare with the white star on her forehead, and a shiningbrand-new buggy—and i was the proudest fellow in the world, barring none. i suppose ourgrandson will be taking his sweetheart out quite casually for an evening 'fly' in hisaeroplane." "an aeroplane won't be as nice as little silverspotwas," said anne. "a machine is simply a machine—but
silverspot, why she was a personality, gilbert.a drive behind her had something in it that not even a flight among sunset clouds couldhave. no, i don't envy my grandson's sweetheart, after all. mr. meredith is right. 'the kingdomof heaven'—and of love—and of happiness—doesn't depend on externals." "besides," said the doctor gravely, "our saidgrandson will have to give most of his attention to the aeroplane—he won't be able to letthe reins lie on its back while he gazes into his lady's eyes. and i have an awful suspicionthat you can't run an aeroplane with one arm. no"—the doctor shook his head—"i believei'd still prefer silverspot after all." the russian line broke again that summer andsusan said bitterly that she had expected
it ever since kerensky had gone and got married. "far be it from me to decry the holy stateof matrimony, mrs. dr. dear, but i felt that when a man was running a revolution he hadhis hands full and should have postponed marriage until a more fitting season. the russiansare done for this time and there would be no sense in shutting our eyes to the fact.but have you seen woodrow wilson's reply to the pope's peace proposals? it is magnificent.i really could not have expressed the rights of the matter better myself. i feel that ican forgive wilson everything for it. he knows the meaning of words and that you may tieto. speaking of meanings, have you heard the latest story about whiskers-on-the-moon, mrs.dr. dear? it seems he was over at the lowbridge
road school the other day and took a notionto examine the fourth class in spelling. they have the summer term there yet, you know,with the spring and fall vacations, being rather backward people on that road. my niece,ella baker, goes to that school and she it was who told me the story. the teacher wasnot feeling well, having a dreadful headache, and she went out to get a little fresh airwhile mr. pryor was examining the class. the children got along all right with the spellingbut when whiskers began to question them about the meanings of the words they were all atsea, because they had not learned them. ella and the other big scholars felt terrible overit. they love their teacher so, and it seems mr. pryor's brother, abel pryor, who is trusteeof that school, is against her and has been
trying to turn the other trustees over tohis way of thinking. and ella and the rest were afraid that if the fourth class couldn'ttell whiskers the meanings of the words he would think the teacher was no good and tellabel so, and abel would have a fine handle. but little sandy logan saved the situation.he is a home boy, but he is as smart as a steel trap, and he sized up whiskers-on-the-moonright off. 'what does "anatomy" mean?' whiskers demanded. 'a pain in your stomach,' sandyreplied, quick as a flash and never batting an eyelid. whiskers-on-the-moon is a veryignorant man, mrs. dr. dear; he didn't know the meaning of the words himself, and he said'very good—very good.' the class caught right on—at least three or four of the brighterones did—and they kept up the fun. jean
blane said that 'acoustic' meant 'a religioussquabble,' and muriel baker said that an 'agnostic' was 'a man who had indigestion,' and jim cartersaid that 'acerbity' meant that 'you ate nothing but vegetable food,' and so on all down thelist. whiskers swallowed it all, and kept saying 'very good—very good' until ellathought that die she would trying to keep a straight face. when the teacher came in,whiskers complimented her on the splendid understanding the children had of their lessonand said he meant to tell the trustees what a jewel they had. it was 'very unusual,' hesaid, to find a fourth class who could answer up so prompt when it came to explaining whatwords meant. he went off beaming. but ella told me this as a great secret, mrs. dr. dear,and we must keep it as such, for the sake
of the lowbridge road teacher. it would likelybe the ruin of her chances of keeping the school if whiskers should ever find out howhe had been bamboozled." mary vance came up to ingleside that sameafternoon to tell them that miller douglas, who had been wounded when the canadians tookhill 70, had had to have his leg amputated. the ingleside folk sympathized with mary,whose zeal and patriotism had taken some time to kindle but now burned with a glow as steadyand bright as any one's. "some folks have been twitting me about havinga husband with only one leg. but," said mary, rising to a lofty height, "i would rathermiller with only one leg than any other man in the world with a dozen—unless," she addedas an after-thought, "unless it was lloyd
george. well, i must be going. i thought you'dbe interested in hearing about miller so i ran up from the store, but i must hustle homefor i promised luke macallister i'd help him build his grain stack this evening. it's upto us girls to see that the harvest is got in, since the boys are so scarce. i've gotoveralls and i can tell you they're real becoming. mrs. alec douglas says they're indecent andshouldn't be allowed, and even mrs. elliott kinder looks askance at them. but bless you,the world moves, and anyhow there's no fun for me like shocking kitty alec." "by the way, father," said rilla, "i'm goingto take jack flagg's place in his father's store for a month. i promised him today thati would, if you didn't object. then he can
help the farmers get the harvest in. i don'tthink i'd be much use in a harvest myself—though lots of the girls are—but i can set jackfree while i do his work. jims isn't much bother in the daytime now, and i'll alwaysbe home at night." "do you think you'll like weighing out sugarand beans, and trafficking in butter and eggs?" said the doctor, twinkling. "probably not. that isn't the question. it'sjust one way of doing my bit." so rilla went behind mr. flagg's counter for a month; andsusan went into albert crawford's oat-fields. "i am as good as any of them yet," she saidproudly. "not a man of them can beat me when it comes to building a stack. when i offeredto help albert looked doubtful. 'i am afraid
the work will be too hard for you,' he said.'try me for a day and see,' said i. 'i will do my darnedest.'" none of the ingleside folks spoke for justa moment. their silence meant that they thought susan's pluck in "working out" quite wonderful.but susan mistook their meaning and her sun-burned face grew red. "this habit of swearing seems to be growingon me, mrs. dr. dear," she said apologetically. "to think that i should be acquiring it atmy age! it is such a dreadful example to the young girls. i am of the opinion it comesof reading the newspapers so much. they are so full of profanity and they do not spellit with stars either, as used to be done in
my young days. this war is demoralizing everybody." susan, standing on a load of grain, her greyhair whipping in the breeze and her skirt kilted up to her knees for safety and convenience—nooveralls for susan, if you please—neither a beautiful nor a romantic figure; but thespirit that animated her gaunt arms was the self-same one that captured vimy ridge andheld the german legions back from verdun. it is not the least likely, however, thatthis consideration was the one which appealed most strongly to mr. pryor when he drove pastone afternoon and saw susan pitching sheaves gamely. "smart woman that," he reflected. "worth twoof many a younger one yet. i might do worse—i
might do worse. if milgrave comes home alivei'll lose miranda and hired housekeepers cost more than a wife and are liable to leave aman in the lurch any time. i'll think it over." a week later mrs. blythe, coming up from thevillage late in the afternoon, paused at the gate of ingleside in an amazement which temporarilybereft her of the power of motion. an extraordinary sight met her eyes. round the end of the kitchenburst mr. pryor, running as stout, pompous mr. pryor had not run in years, with terrorimprinted on every lineament—a terror quite justifiable, for behind him, like an avengingfate, came susan, with a huge, smoking iron pot grasped in her hands, and an expressionin her eye that boded ill to the object of her indignation, if she should overtake him.pursuer and pursued tore across the lawn.
mr. pryor reached the gate a few feet aheadof susan, wrenched it open, and fled down the road, without a glance at the transfixedlady of ingleside. "susan," gasped anne. susan halted in her mad career, set down herpot, and shook her fist after mr. pryor, who had not ceased to run, evidently believingthat susan was still full cry after him. "susan, what does this mean?" demanded anne,a little severely. "you may well ask that, mrs. dr. dear," susanreplied wrathfully. "i have not been so upset in years. that—that—that pacifist hasactually had the audacity to come up here and, in my own kitchen, to ask me to marryhim. him!"
anne choked back a laugh. "but—susan! couldn't you have found a—well,a less spectacular method of refusing him? think what a gossip this would have made ifanyone had been going past and had seen such a performance." "indeed, mrs. dr. dear, you are quite right.i did not think of it because i was quite past thinking rationally. i was just cleanmad. come in the house and i will tell you all about it." susan picked up her pot and marched into thekitchen, still trembling with wrathful excitement. she set her pot on the stove with a viciousthud. "wait a moment until i open all the
windows to air this kitchen well, mrs. dr.dear. there, that is better. and i must wash my hands, too, because i shook hands withwhiskers-on-the-moon when he came in—not that i wanted to, but when he stuck out hisfat, oily hand i did not know just what else to do at the moment. i had just finished myafternoon cleaning and thanks be, everything was shining and spotless; and thought i 'nowthat dye is boiling and i will get my rug rags and have them nicely out of the way beforesupper.' "just then a shadow fell over the floor andlooking up i saw whiskers-on-the-moon, standing in the doorway, dressed up and looking asif he had just been starched and ironed. i shook hands with him, as aforesaid, mrs. dr.dear, and told him you and the doctor were
both away. but he said, "i have come to see you, miss baker.' "i asked him to sit down, for the sake ofmy own manners, and then i stood there right in the middle of the floor and gazed at himas contemptuously as i could. in spite of his brazen assurance this seemed to rattlehim a little; but he began trying to look sentimental at me out of his little piggyeyes, and all at once an awful suspicion flashed into my mind. something told me, mrs. dr.dear, that i was about to receive my first proposal. i have always thought that i wouldlike to have just one offer of marriage to reject, so that i might be able to look otherwomen in the face, but you will not hear me
bragging of this. i consider it an insultand if i could have thought of any way of preventing it i would. but just then, mrs.dr. dear, you will see i was at a disadvantage, being taken so completely by surprise. somemen, i am told, consider a little preliminary courting the proper thing before a proposal,if only to give fair warning of their intentions; but whiskers-on-the-moon probably thoughtit was any port in a storm for me and that i would jump at him. well, he is undeceived—yes,he is undeceived, mrs. dr. dear. i wonder if he has stopped running yet." "i understand that you don't feel flattered,susan. but couldn't you have refused him a little more delicately than by chasing himoff the premises in such a fashion?"
"well, maybe i might have, mrs. dr. dear,and i intended to, but one remark he made aggravated me beyond my powers of endurance.if it had not been for that i would not have chased him with my dye-pot. i will tell youthe whole interview. whiskers sat down, as i have said, and right beside him on anotherchair doc was lying. the animal was pretending to be asleep but i knew very well he was not,for he has been hyde all day and hyde never sleeps. by the way, mrs. dr. dear, have younoticed that that cat is far oftener hyde than jekyll now? the more victories germanywins the hyder he becomes. i leave you to draw your own conclusions from that. i supposewhiskers thought he might curry favour with me by praising the creature, little dreamingwhat my real sentiments towards it were, so
he stuck out his pudgy hand and stroked mr.hyde's back. 'what a nice cat,' he said. the nice cat flew at him and bit him. then itgave a fearful yowl, and bounded out of the door. whiskers looked after it quite amazed.'that is a queer kind of a varmint,' he said. i agreed with him on that point, but i wasnot going to let him see it. besides, what business had he to call our cat a varmint?'it may be a varmint or it may not,' i said, 'but it knows the difference between a canadianand a hun.' you would have thought, would you not, mrs. dr. dear, that a hint like thatwould have been enough for him! but it went no deeper than his skin. i saw him settlingback quite comfortable, as if for a good talk, and thought i, 'if there is anything comingit may as well come soon and be done with,
for with all these rags to dye before supperi have no time to waste in flirting,' so i spoke right out. 'if you have anything particularto discuss with me, mr. pryor, i would feel obliged if you would mention it without lossof time, because i am very busy this afternoon.' he fairly beamed at me out of that circleof red whisker, and said, 'you are a business-like woman and i agree with you. there is no usein wasting time beating around the bush. i came up here today to ask you to marry me.'so there it was, mrs. dr. dear. i had a proposal at last, after waiting sixty-four years forone. "i just glared at that presumptuous creatureand i said, 'i would not marry you if you were the last man on earth, josiah pryor.so there you have my answer and you can take
it away forthwith.' you never saw a man sotaken aback as he was, mrs. dr. dear. he was so flabbergasted that he just blurted outthe truth. 'why, i thought you'd be only too glad to get a chance to be married,' he said.that was when i lost my head, mrs. dr. dear. do you think i had a good excuse, when a hunand a pacifist made such an insulting remark to me? 'go,' i thundered, and i just caughtup that iron pot. i could see that he thought i had suddenly gone insane, and i supposehe considered an iron pot full of boiling dye was a dangerous weapon in the hands ofa lunatic. at any rate he went, and stood not upon the order of his going, as you sawfor yourself. and i do not think we will see him back here proposing to us again in a hurry.no, i think he has learned that there is at
least one single woman in glen st. mary whohas no hankering to become mrs. whiskers-on-the-moon." chapter xxvii waiting ingleside,1st november 1917 "it is november—and the glen is all greyand brown, except where the lombardy poplars stand up here and there like great goldentorches in the sombre landscape, although every other tree has shed its leaves. it hasbeen very hard to keep our courage alight of late. the caporetto disaster is a dreadfulthing and not even susan can extract much consolation out of the present state of affairs.the rest of us don't try. gertrude keeps saying
desperately, 'they must not get venice—theymust not get venice,' as if by saying it often enough she can prevent them. but what is toprevent them from getting venice i cannot see. yet, as susan fails not to point out,there was seemingly nothing to prevent them from getting to paris in 1914, yet they didnot get it, and she affirms they shall not get venice either. oh, how i hope and praythey will not—venice the beautiful queen of the adriatic. although i've never seenit i feel about it just as byron did—i've always loved it—it has always been to me'a fairy city of the heart.' perhaps i caught my love of it from walter, who worshippedit. it was always one of his dreams to see venice. i remember we planned once—downin rainbow valley one evening just before
the war broke out—that some time we wouldgo together to see it and float in a gondola through its moonlit streets. "every fall since the war began there hasbeen some terrible blow to our troops—antwerp in 1914, serbia in 1915; last fall, rumania,and now italy, the worst of all. i think i would give up in despair if it were not forwhat walter said in his dear last letter—that 'the dead as well as the living were fightingon our side and such an army cannot be defeated.' no it cannot. we will win in the end. i willnot doubt it for one moment. to let myself doubt would be to 'break faith.' "we have all been campaigning furiously oflate for the new victory loan. we junior reds
canvassed diligently and landed several toughold customers who had at first flatly refused to invest. i—even i—tackled whiskers-on-the-moon.i expected a bad time and a refusal. but to my amazement he was quite agreeable and promisedon the spot to take a thousand dollar bond. he may be a pacifist, but he knows a goodinvestment when it is handed out to him. five and a half per cent is five and a half percent, even when a militaristic government pays it. "father, to tease susan, says it was her speechat the victory loan campaign meeting that converted mr. pryor. i don't think that atall likely, since mr. pryor has been publicly very bitter against susan ever since her quiteunmistakable rejection of his lover-like advances.
but susan did make a speech—and the bestone made at the meeting, too. it was the first time she ever did such a thing and she vowsit will be the last. everybody in the glen was at the meeting, and quite a number ofspeeches were made, but somehow things were a little flat and no especial enthusiasm couldbe worked up. susan was quite dismayed at the lack of zeal, because she had been burninglyanxious that the island should go over the top in regard to its quota. she kept whisperingviciously to gertrude and me that there was 'no ginger' in the speeches; and when nobodywent forward to subscribe to the loan at the close susan 'lost her head.' at least, thatis how she describes it herself. she bounded to her feet, her face grim and set under herbonnet—susan is the only woman in glen st.
mary who still wears a bonnet—and said sarcasticallyand loudly, 'no doubt it is much cheaper to talk patriotism than it is to pay for it.and we are asking charity, of course—we are asking you to lend us your money for nothing!no doubt the kaiser will feel quite downcast when he hears of this meeting!" "susan has an unshaken belief that the kaiser'sspies—presumably represented by mr. pryor—promptly inform him of every happening in our glen. "norman douglas shouted out 'hear! hear!'and some boy at the back said, 'what about lloyd george?' in a tone susan didn't like.lloyd george is her pet hero, now that kitchener is gone.
"'i stand behind lloyd george every time,'retorted susan. "'i suppose that will hearten him up greatly,'said warren mead, with one of his disagreeable 'haw-haws.' "warren's remark was spark to powder. susanjust 'sailed in' as she puts it, and 'said her say.' she said it remarkably well, too.there was no lack of 'ginger' in her speech, anyhow. when susan is warmed up she has nomean powers of oratory, and the way she trimmed those men down was funny and wonderful andeffective all at once. she said it was the likes of her, millions of her, that did standbehind lloyd george, and did hearten him up. that was the key-note of her speech. dearold susan! she is a perfect dynamo of patriotism
and loyalty and contempt for slackers of allkinds, and when she let it loose on that audience in her one grand outburst she electrifiedit. susan always vows she is no suffragette, but she gave womanhood its due that night,and she literally made those men cringe. when she finished with them they were ready toeat out of her hand. she wound up by ordering them—yes, ordering them—to march up tothe platform forthwith and subscribe for victory bonds. and after wild applause most of themdid it, even warren mead. when the total amount subscribed came out in the charlottetown dailiesthe next day we found that the glen led every district on the island—and certainly susanhas the credit for it. she, herself, after she came home that night was quite ashamedand evidently feared that she had been guilty
of unbecoming conduct: she confessed to motherthat she had been 'rather unladylike.' "we were all—except susan—out for a trialride in father's new automobile tonight. a very good one we had, too, though we did getingloriously ditched at the end, owing to a certain grim old dame—to wit, miss elizabethcarr of the upper glen—who wouldn't rein her horse out to let us pass, honk as we might.father was quite furious; but in my heart i believe i sympathized with miss elizabeth.if i had been a spinster lady, driving along behind my own old nag, in maiden meditationfancy free, i wouldn't have lifted a rein when an obstreperous car hooted blatantlybehind me. i should just have sat up as dourly as she did and said 'take the ditch if youare determined to pass.'
"we did take the ditch—and got up to ouraxles in sand—and sat foolishly there while miss elizabeth clucked up her horse and rattledvictoriously away. "jem will have a laugh when i write him this.he knows miss elizabeth of old. "but—will—venice—be—saved?" 19th november 1917 "it is not saved yet—it is still in greatdanger. but the italians are making a stand at last on the piave line. to be sure militarycritics say they cannot possibly hold it and must retreat to the adige. but susan and gertrudeand i say they must hold it, because venice must be saved, so what are the military criticsto do?
"oh, if i could only believe that they canhold it! "our canadian troops have won another greatvictory—they have stormed the passchendaele ridge and held it in the face of all counterattacks. none of our boys were in the battle—but oh, the casualty list of other people's boys!joe milgrave was in it but came through safe. miranda had some bad days until she got wordfrom him. but it is wonderful how miranda has bloomed out since her marriage. she isn'tthe same girl at all. even her eyes seem to have darkened and deepened—though i supposethat is just because they glow with the greater intensity that has come to her. she makesher father stand round in a perfectly amazing fashion; she runs up the flag whenever a yardof trench on the western front is taken; and
she comes up regularly to our junior red cross;and she does—yes, she does—put on funny little 'married woman' airs that are quitekilling. but she is the only war-bride in the glen and surely nobody need grudge herthe satisfaction she gets out of it. "the russian news is bad, too—kerensky'sgovernment has fallen and lenin is dictator of russia. somehow, it is very hard to keepup courage in the dull hopelessness of these grey autumn days of suspense and boding news.but we are beginning to 'get in a low,' as old highland sandy says, over the approachingelection. conscription is the real issue at stake and it will be the most exciting electionwe ever had. all the women 'who have got de age'—to quote jo poirier, and who have husbands,sons, and brothers at the front, can vote.
oh, if i were only twenty-one! gertrude andsusan are both furious because they can't vote. "'it is not fair,' gertrude says passionately.'there is agnes carr who can vote because her husband went. she did everything she couldto prevent him from going, and now she is going to vote against the union government.yet i have no vote, because my man at the front is only my sweetheart and not my husband!" "as for susan, when she reflects that shecannot vote, while a rank old pacifist like mr. pryor can—and will—her comments aresulphurous. "i really feel sorry for the elliotts andcrawfords and macallisters over-harbour. they
have always lined up in clearly divided campsof liberal and conservative, and now they are torn from their moorings—i know i'mmixing my metaphors dreadfully—and set hopelessly adrift. it will kill some of those old gritsto vote for sir robert borden's side—and yet they have to because they believe thetime has come when we must have conscription. and some poor conservatives who are againstconscription must vote for laurier, who always has been anathema to them. some of them aretaking it terribly hard. others seem to be in much the same attitude as mrs. marshallelliott has come to be regarding church union. "she was up here last night. she doesn't comeas often as she used to. she is growing too old to walk this far—dear old 'miss cornelia.'i hate to think of her growing old—we have
always loved her so and she has always beenso good to us ingleside young fry. "she used to be so bitterly opposed to churchunion. but last night, when father told her it was practically decided, she said in aresigned tone, 'well, in a world where everything is being rent and torn what matters one morerending and tearing? anyhow, compared with germans even methodists seem attractive tome.' "our junior r.c. goes on quite smoothly, inspite of the fact that irene has come back to it—having fallen out with the lowbridgesociety, i understand. she gave me a sweet little jab last meeting—about knowing meacross the square in charlottetown 'by my green velvet hat.' everybody knows me by thatdetestable and detested hat. this will be
my fourth season for it. even mother wantedme to get a new one this fall; but i said, 'no.' as long as the war lasts so long doi wear that velvet hat in winter." 23rd november 1917 "the piave line still holds—and generalbyng has won a splendid victory at cambrai. i did run up the flag for that—but susanonly said 'i shall set a kettle of water on the kitchen range tonight. i notice littlekitchener always has an attack of croup after any british victory. i do hope he has no pro-germanblood in his veins. nobody knows much about his father's people.' "jims has had a few attacks of croup thisfall—just the ordinary croup—not that
terrible thing he had last year. but whateverblood runs in his little veins it is good, healthy blood. he is rosy and plump and curlyand cute; and he says such funny things and asks such comical questions. he likes verymuch to sit in a special chair in the kitchen; but that is susan's favourite chair, too,and when she wants it, out jims must go. the last time she put him out of it he turnedaround and asked solemnly, 'when you are dead, susan, can i sit in that chair?' susan thoughtit quite dreadful, and i think that was when she began to feel anxiety about his possibleancestry. the other night i took jims with me for a walk down to the store. it was thefirst time he had ever been out so late at night, and when he saw the stars he exclaimed,'oh, willa, see the big moon and all the little
moons!' and last wednesday morning, when hewoke up, my little alarm clock had stopped because i had forgotten to wind it up. jimsbounded out of his crib and ran across to me, his face quite aghast above his littleblue flannel pyjamas. 'the clock is dead,' he gasped, 'oh willa, the clock is dead.' "one night he was quite angry with both susanand me because we would not give him something he wanted very much. when he said his prayershe plumped down wrathfully, and when he came to the petition 'make me a good boy' he tackedon emphatically, 'and please make willa and susan good, 'cause they're not.' "i don't go about quoting jims's speechesto all i meet. that always bores me when other
people do it! i just enshrine them in thisold hotch-potch of a journal! "this very evening as i put jims to bed helooked up and asked me gravely, 'why can't yesterday come back, willa?' "oh, why can't it, jims? that beautiful 'yesterday'of dreams and laughter—when our boys were home—when walter and i read and rambledand watched new moons and sunsets together in rainbow valley. if it could just come back!but yesterdays never come back, little jims—and the todays are dark with clouds—and we darenot think about the tomorrows." 11th december 1917 "wonderful news came today. the british troopscaptured jerusalem yesterday. we ran up the
flag and some of gertrude's old sparkle cameback to her for a moment. "'after all,' she said, 'it is worth whileto live in the days which see the object of the crusades attained. the ghosts of all thecrusaders must have crowded the walls of jerusalem last night, with coeur-de-lion at their head.' "susan had cause for satisfaction also. "'i am so thankful i can pronounce jerusalemand hebron,' she said. 'they give me a real comfortable feeling after przemysl and brest-litovsk!well, we have got the turks on the run, at least, and venice is safe and lord lansdowneis not to be taken seriously; and i see no reason why we should be downhearted.'
"jerusalem! the 'meteor flag of england!'floats over you—the crescent is gone. how walter would have thrilled over that!" 18th december 1917 "yesterday the election came off. in the eveningmother and susan and gertrude and i forgathered in the living-room and waited in breathlesssuspense, father having gone down to the village. we had no way of hearing the news, for carterflagg's store is not on our line, and when we tried to get it central always answeredthat the line 'was busy'—as no doubt it was, for everybody for miles around was tryingto get carter's store for the same reason we were.
"about ten o'clock gertrude went to the 'phoneand happened to catch someone from over-harbour talking to carter flagg. gertrude shamelesslylistened in and got for her comforting what eavesdroppers are proverbially supposed toget—to wit, unpleasant hearing; the union government had 'done nothing' in the west. "we looked at each other in dismay. if thegovernment had failed to carry the west, it was defeated. "'canada is disgraced in the eyes of the world,'said gertrude bitterly. "'if everybody was like the mark crawfordsover-harbour this would not have happened,' groaned susan. 'they locked their uncle upin the barn this morning and would not let
him out until he promised to vote union. thatis what i call effective argument, mrs. dr. dear.' "gertrude and i couldn't rest after all that.we walked the floor until our legs gave out and we had to sit down perforce. mother knittedaway as steadily as clockwork and pretended to be calm and serene—pretended so wellthat we were all deceived and envious until the next day, when i caught her ravellingout four inches of her sock. she had knit that far past where the heel should have begun! "it was twelve before father came home. hestood in the doorway and looked at us and we looked at him. we did not dare ask himwhat the news was. then he said that it was
laurier who had 'done nothing' in the west,and that the union government was in with a big majority. gertrude clapped her hands.i wanted to laugh and cry, mother's eyes flashed with their old-time starriness and susan emitteda queer sound between a gasp and a whoop. "this will not comfort the kaiser much,' shesaid. "then we went to bed, but were too excitedto sleep. really, as susan said solemnly this morning, 'mrs. dr. dear, i think politicsare too strenuous for women.'" 31st december 1917 "our fourth war christmas is over. we aretrying to gather up some courage wherewith to face another year of it. germany has, forthe most part, been victorious all summer.
and now they say she has all her troops fromthe russian front ready for a 'big push' in the spring. sometimes it seems to me thatwe just cannot live through the winter waiting for that. "i had a great batch of letters from overseasthis week. shirley is at the front now, too, and writes about it all as coolly and matter-of-factlyas he used to write of football at queen's. carl wrote that it had been raining for weeksand that nights in the trenches always made him think of the night of long ago when hedid penance in the graveyard for running away from henry warren's ghost. carl's lettersare always full of jokes and bits of fun. they had a great rat-hunt the night beforehe wrote—spearing rats with their bayonets—and
he got the best bag and won the prize. hehas a tame rat that knows him and sleeps in his pocket at night. rats don't worry carlas they do some people—he was always chummy with all little beasts. he says he is makinga study of the habits of the trench rat and means to write a treatise on it some day thatwill make him famous. "ken wrote a short letter. his letters areall rather short now—and he doesn't often slip in those dear little sudden sentencesi love so much. sometimes i think he has forgotten all about the night he was here to say goodbye—andthen there will be just a line or a word that makes me think he remembers and always willremember. for instance to-day's letter hadn't a thing in it that mightn't have been writtento any girl, except that he signed himself
'your kenneth,' instead of 'yours, kenneth,'as he usually does. now, did he leave that 's' off intentionally or was it only carelessness?i shall lie awake half the night wondering. he is a captain now. i am glad and proud—andyet captain ford sounds so horribly far away and high up. ken and captain ford seem liketwo different persons. i may be practically engaged to ken—mother's opinion on thatpoint is my stay and bulwark—but i can't be to captain ford! "and jem is a lieutenant now—won his promotionon the field. he sent me a snap-shot, taken in his new uniform. he looked thin and old—old—myboy-brother jem. i can't forget mother's face when i showed it to her. 'that—my littlejem—the baby of the old house of dreams?'
was all she said. "there was a letter from faith, too. she isdoing v.a.d. work in england and writes hopefully and brightly. i think she is almost happy—shesaw jem on his last leave and she is so near him she could go to him, if he were wounded.that means so much to her. oh, if i were only with her! but my work is here at home. i knowwalter wouldn't have wanted me to leave mother and in everything i try to 'keep faith' withhim, even to the little details of daily life. walter died for canada—i must live for her.that is what he asked me to do." 28th january 1918 "'i shall anchor my storm-tossed soul to thebritish fleet and make a batch of bran biscuits,'
said susan today to cousin sophia, who hadcome in with some weird tale of a new and all-conquering submarine, just launched bygermany. but susan is a somewhat disgruntled woman at present, owing to the regulationsregarding cookery. her loyalty to the union government is being sorely tried. it surmountedthe first strain gallantly. when the order about flour came susan said, quite cheerfully,'i am an old dog to be learning new tricks, but i shall learn to make war bread if itwill help defeat the huns.' "but the later suggestions went against susan'sgrain. had it not been for father's decree i think she would have snapped her fingersat sir robert borden. "'talk about trying to make bricks withoutstraw, mrs. dr. dear! how am i to make a cake
without butter or sugar? it cannot be done—notcake that is cake. of course one can make a slab, mrs. dr. dear. and we cannot evencamooflash it with a little icing! to think that i should have lived to see the day whena government at ottawa should step into my kitchen and put me on rations!' "susan would give the last drop of her bloodfor her 'king and country,' but to surrender her beloved recipes is a very different andmuch more serious matter. "i had letters from nan and di too—or rathernotes. they are too busy to write letters, for exams are looming up. they will graduatein arts this spring. i am evidently to be the dunce of the family. but somehow i neverhad any hankering for a college course, and
even now it doesn't appeal to me. i'm afraidi'm rather devoid of ambition. there is only one thing i really want to be—and i don'tknow if i'll be it or not. if not—i don't want to be anything. but i shan't write itdown. it is all right to think it; but, as cousin sophia would say, it might be brazento write it down. "i will write it down. i won't be cowed bythe conventions and cousin sophia! i want to be kenneth ford's wife! there now! "i've just looked in the glass, and i hadn'tthe sign of a blush on my face. i suppose i'm not a properly constructed damsel at all. "i was down to see little dog monday today.he has grown quite stiff and rheumatic but
there he sat, waiting for the train. he thumpedhis tail and looked pleadingly into my eyes. 'when will jem come?' he seemed to say. oh,dog monday, there is no answer to that question; and there is, as yet, no answer to the otherwhich we are all constantly asking 'what will happen when germany strikes again on the westernfront—her one great, last blow for victory!" 1st march 1918 "'what will spring bring?' gertrude said today.'i dread it as i never dreaded spring before. do you suppose there will ever again comea time when life will be free from fear? for almost four years we have lain down with fearand risen up with it. it has been the unbidden guest at every meal, the unwelcome companionat every gathering.'
"'hindenburg says he will be in paris on 1stapril,' sighed cousin sophia. "'hindenburg!' there is no power in pen andink to express the contempt which susan infused into that name. 'has he forgotten what daythe first of april is?' "'hindenburg has kept his word hitherto,'said gertrude, as gloomily as cousin sophia herself could have said it. "'yes, fighting against the russians and rumanians,'retorted susan. 'wait you till he comes up against the british and french, not to speakof the yankees, who are getting there as fast as they can and will no doubt give a goodaccount of themselves.' "'you said just the same thing before mons,susan,' i reminded her.
"'hindenburg says he will spend a millionlives to break the allied front,' said gertrude. 'at such a price he must purchase some successesand how can we live through them, even if he is baffled in the end. these past two monthswhen we have been crouching and waiting for the blow to fall have seemed as long as allthe preceding months of the war put together. i work all day feverishly and waken at threeo'clock at night to wonder if the iron legions have struck at last. it is then i see hindenburgin paris and germany triumphant. i never see her so at any other time than that accursedhour.' "susan looked dubious over gertrude's adjective,but evidently concluded that the 'a' saved the situation.
"'i wish it were possible to take some magicdraught and go to sleep for the next three months—and then waken to find armageddonover,' said mother, almost impatiently. "it is not often that mother slumps into awish like that—or at least the verbal expression of it. mother has changed a great deal sincethat terrible day in september when we knew that walter would not come back; but she hasalways been brave and patient. now it seemed as if even she had reached the limit of herendurance. "susan went over to mother and touched hershoulder. "'do not you be frightened or downhearted,mrs. dr. dear,' she said gently. 'i felt somewhat that way myself last night, and i rose frommy bed and lighted my lamp and opened my bible;
and what do you think was the first versemy eyes lighted upon? it was 'and they shall fight against thee but they shall not prevailagainst thee, for i am with thee, saith the lord of hosts, to deliver thee.' i am notgifted in the way of dreaming, as miss oliver is, but i knew then and there, mrs. dr. dear,that it was a manifest leading, and that hindenburg will never see paris. so i read no furtherbut went back to my bed and i did not waken at three o'clock or at any other hour beforemorning.' "i say that verse susan read over and overagain to myself. the lord of hosts is with us—and the spirits of all just men madeperfect—and even the legions and guns that germany is massing on the western front mustbreak against such a barrier. this is in certain
uplifted moments; but when other moments comei feel, like gertrude, that i cannot endure any longer this awful and ominous hush beforethe coming storm." 23rd march 1918 "armageddon has begun!—'the last great fightof all!' is it, i wonder? yesterday i went down to the post office for the mail. it wasa dull, bitter day. the snow was gone but the grey, lifeless ground was frozen hardand a biting wind was blowing. the whole glen landscape was ugly and hopeless. "then i got the paper with its big black headlines.germany struck on the twenty-first. she makes big claims of guns and prisoners taken. generalhaig reports that 'severe fighting continues.'
i don't like the sound of that last expression. "we all find we cannot do any work that requiresconcentration of thought. so we all knit furiously, because we can do that mechanically. at leastthe dreadful waiting is over—the horrible wondering where and when the blow will fall.it has fallen—but they shall not prevail against us! "oh, what is happening on the western fronttonight as i write this, sitting here in my room with my journal before me? jims is asleepin his crib and the wind is wailing around the window; over my desk hangs walter's picture,looking at me with his beautiful deep eyes; the mona lisa he gave me the last christmashe was home hangs on one side of it, and on
the other a framed copy of "the piper." itseems to me that i can hear walter's voice repeating it—that little poem into whichhe put his soul, and which will therefore live for ever, carrying walter's name on throughthe future of our land. everything about me is calm and peaceful and 'homey.' walter seemsvery near me—if i could just sweep aside the thin wavering little veil that hangs between,i could see him—just as he saw the pied piper the night before courcelette. "over there in france tonight—does the linehold?" chapter xxviii black sunday
in march of the year of grace 1918 there wasone week into which must have crowded more of searing human agony than any seven dayshad ever held before in the history of the world. and in that week there was one daywhen all humanity seemed nailed to the cross; on that day the whole planet must have beenagroan with universal convulsion; everywhere the hearts of men were failing them for fear. it dawned calmly and coldly and greyly atingleside. mrs. blythe and rilla and miss oliver made ready for church in a suspensetempered by hope and confidence. the doctor was away, having been summoned during thewee sma's to the marwood household in upper glen, where a little war-bride was fightinggallantly on her own battleground to give
life, not death, to the world. susan announcedthat she meant to stay home that morning—a rare decision for susan. "but i would rather not go to church thismorning, mrs. dr. dear," she explained. "if whiskers-on-the-moon were there and i sawhim looking holy and pleased, as he always looks when he thinks the huns are winning,i fear i would lose my patience and my sense of decorum and hurl a bible or hymn-book athim, thereby disgracing myself and the sacred edifice. no, mrs. dr. dear, i shall stay homefrom church till the tide turns and pray hard here." "i think i might as well stay home, too, forall the good church will do me today," miss
oliver said to rilla, as they walked downthe hard-frozen red road to the church. "i can think of nothing but the question, 'doesthe line still hold?'" "next sunday will be easter," said rilla."will it herald death or life to our cause?" mr. meredith preached that morning from thetext, "he that endureth to the end shall be saved," and hope and confidence rang throughhis inspiring sentences. rilla, looking up at the memorial tablet on the wall above theirpew, "sacred to the memory of walter cuthbert blythe," felt herself lifted out of her dreadand filled anew with courage. walter could not have laid down his life for naught. hishad been the gift of prophetic vision and he had foreseen victory. she would cling tothat belief—the line would hold.
in this renewed mood she walked home fromchurch almost gaily. the others, too, were hopeful, and all went smiling into ingleside.there was no one in the living-room, save jims, who had fallen asleep on the sofa, anddoc, who sat "hushed in grim repose" on the hearth-rug, looking very hydeish indeed. noone was in the dining-room either—and, stranger still, no dinner was on the table, which wasnot even set. where was susan? "can she have taken ill?" exclaimed mrs. blytheanxiously. "i thought it strange that she did not want to go to church this morning." the kitchen door opened and susan appearedon the threshold with such a ghastly face that mrs. blythe cried out in sudden panic.
"susan, what is it?" "the british line is broken and the germanshells are falling on paris," said susan dully. the three women stared at each other, stricken. "it's not true—it's not," gasped rilla. "the thing would be—ridiculous," said gertrudeoliver—and then she laughed horribly. "susan, who told you this—when did the newscome?" asked mrs. blythe. "i got it over the long-distance phone fromcharlottetown half an hour ago," said susan. "the news came to town late last night. itwas dr. holland phoned it out and he said it was only too true. since then i have donenothing, mrs. dr. dear. i am very sorry dinner
is not ready. it is the first time i havebeen so remiss. if you will be patient i will soon have something for you to eat. but iam afraid i let the potatoes burn." "dinner! nobody wants any dinner, susan,"said mrs. blythe wildly. "oh, this thing is unbelievable—it must be a nightmare." "paris is lost—france is lost—the waris lost," gasped rilla, amid the utter ruins of hope and confidence and belief. "oh god—oh god," moaned gertrude oliver,walking about the room and wringing her hands, "oh—god!" nothing else—no other words—nothing butthat age old plea—the old, old cry of supreme
agony and appeal, from the human heart whoseevery human staff has failed it. "is god dead?" asked a startled little voicefrom the doorway of the living-room. jims stood there, flushed from sleep, his big browneyes filled with dread, "oh willa—oh, willa, is god dead?" miss oliver stopped walking and exclaiming,and stared at jims, in whose eyes tears of fright were beginning to gather. rilla ranto his comforting, while susan bounded up from the chair upon which she had dropped. "no," she said briskly, with a sudden returnof her real self. "no, god isn't dead—nor lloyd george either. we were forgetting that,mrs. dr. dear. don't cry, little kitchener.
bad as things are, they might be worse. thebritish line may be broken but the british navy is not. let us tie to that. i will takea brace and get up a bite to eat, for strength we must have." they made a pretence of eating susan's "bite,"but it was only a pretence. nobody at ingleside ever forgot that black afternoon. gertrudeoliver walked the floor—they all walked the floor; except susan, who got out her greywar sock. "mrs. dr. dear, i must knit on sunday at last.i have never dreamed of doing it before for, say what might be said, i have consideredit was a violation of the third commandment. but whether it is or whether it is not i mustknit today or i shall go mad."
"knit if you can, susan," said mrs. blytherestlessly. "i would knit if i could—but i cannot—i cannot." "if we could only get fuller information,"moaned rilla. "there might be something to encourage us—if we knew all." "we know that the germans are shelling paris,"said miss oliver bitterly. "in that case they must have smashed through everywhere and beat the very gates. no, we have lost—let us face the fact as other peoples in the pasthave had to face it. other nations, with right on their side, have given their best and bravest—andgone down to defeat in spite of it. ours is 'but one more to baffled millions who havegone before.'"
"i won't give up like that," cried rilla,her pale face suddenly flushing. "i won't despair. we are not conquered—no, if germanyoverruns all france we are not conquered. i am ashamed of myself for this hour of despair.you won't see me slump again like that, i'm going to ring up town at once and ask forparticulars." but town could not be got. the long-distanceoperator there was submerged by similar calls from every part of the distracted country.rilla finally gave up and slipped away to rainbow valley. there she knelt down on thewithered grey grasses in the little nook where she and walter had had their last talk together,with her head bowed against the mossy trunk of a fallen tree. the sun had broken throughthe black clouds and drenched the valley with
a pale golden splendour. the bells on thetree lovers twinkled elfinly and fitfully in the gusty march wind. "oh god, give me strength," rilla whispered."just strength—and courage." then like a child she clasped her hands together and said,as simply as jims could have done, "please send us better news tomorrow." she knelt there a long time, and when shewent back to ingleside she was calm and resolute. the doctor had arrived home, tired but triumphant,little douglas haig marwood having made a safe landing on the shores of time. gertrudewas still pacing restlessly but mrs. blythe and susan had reacted from the shock, andsusan was already planning a new line of defence
for the channel ports. "as long as we can hold them," she declared,"the situation is saved. paris has really no military significance." "don't," said gertrude sharply, as if susanhad run something into her. she thought the old worn phrase 'no military significance'nothing short of ghastly mockery under the circumstances, and more terrible to endurethan the voice of despair would have been. "i heard up at marwood's of the line beingbroken," said the doctor, "but this story of the germans shelling paris seems to berather incredible. even if they broke through they were fifty miles from paris at the nearestpoint and how could they get their artillery
close enough to shell it in so short a time?depend upon it, girls, that part of the message can't be true. i'm going to try to try a long-distancecall to town myself." the doctor was no more successful than rillahad been, but his point of view cheered them all a little, and helped them through theevening. and at nine o'clock a long-distance message came through at last, that helpedthem through the night. "the line broke only in one place, beforest. quentin," said the doctor, as he hung up the receiver, "and the british troops areretreating in good order. that's not so bad. as for the shells that are falling on paris,they are coming from a distance of seventy miles—from some amazing long-range gun thegermans have invented and sprung with the
opening offensive. that is all the news todate, and dr. holland says it is reliable." "it would have been dreadful news yesterday,"said gertrude, "but compared to what we heard this morning it is almost like good news.but still," she added, trying to smile, "i am afraid i will not sleep much tonight." "there is one thing to be thankful for atany rate, miss oliver, dear," said susan, "and that is that cousin sophia did not comein today. i really could not have endured her on top of all the rest." chapter xxix "wounded and missing"
"battered but not broken" was the headlinein monday's paper, and susan repeated it over and over to herself as she went about herwork. the gap caused by the st. quentin disaster had been patched up in time, but the alliedline was being pushed relentlessly back from the territory they had purchased in 1917 withhalf a million lives. on wednesday the headline was "british and french check germans"; butstill the retreat went on. back—and back—and back! where would it end? would the line breakagain—this time disastrously? on saturday the headline was "even berlinadmits offensive checked," and for the first time in that terrible week the ingleside folkdared to draw a long breath. "well, we have got one week over—now forthe next," said susan staunchly.
"i feel like a prisoner on the rack when theystopped turning it," miss oliver said to rilla, as they went to church on easter morning."but i am not off the rack. the torture may begin again at any time." "i doubted god last sunday," said rilla, "buti don't doubt him today. evil cannot win. spirit is on our side and it is bound to outlastflesh." nevertheless her faith was often tried inthe dark spring that followed. armageddon was not, as they had hoped, a matter of afew days. it stretched out into weeks and months. again and again hindenburg struckhis savage, sudden blows, with alarming, though futile success. again and again the militarycritics declared the situation extremely perilous.
again and again cousin sophia agreed withthe military critics. "if the allies go back three miles more thewar is lost," she wailed. "is the british navy anchored in those threemiles?" demanded susan scornfully. "it is the opinion of a man who knows allabout it," said cousin sophia solemnly. "there is no such person," retorted susan."as for the military critics, they do not know one blessed thing about it, any morethan you or i. they have been mistaken times out of number. why do you always look on thedark side, sophia crawford?" "because there ain't any bright side, susanbaker." "oh, is there not? it is the twentieth ofapril, and hindy is not in paris yet, although
he said he would be there by april first.is that not a bright spot at least?" "it is my opinion that the germans will bein paris before very long and more than that, susan baker, they will be in canada." "not in this part of it. the huns shall neverset foot in prince edward island as long as i can handle a pitchfork," declared susan,looking, and feeling quite equal to routing the entire german army single-handed. "no,sophia crawford, to tell you the plain truth i am sick and tired of your gloomy predictions.i do not deny that some mistakes have been made. the germans would never have got backpasschendaele if the canadians had been left there; and it was bad business trusting tothose portuguese at the lys river. but that
is no reason why you or anyone should go aboutproclaiming the war is lost. i do not want to quarrel with you, least of all at sucha time as this, but our morale must be kept up, and i am going to speak my mind out plainlyand tell you that if you cannot keep from such croaking your room is better than yourcompany." cousin sophia marched home in high dudgeonto digest her affront, and did not reappear in susan's kitchen for many weeks. perhapsit was just as well, for they were hard weeks, when the germans continued to strike, nowhere, now there, and seemingly vital points fell to them at every blow. and one day inearly may, when wind and sunshine frolicked in rainbow valley and the maple grove wasgolden-green and the harbour all blue and
dimpled and white-capped, the news came aboutjem. there had been a trench raid on the canadianfront—a little trench raid so insignificant that it was never even mentioned in the dispatchesand when it was over lieutenant james blythe was reported "wounded and missing." "i think this is even worse than the newsof his death would have been," moaned rilla through her white lips, that night. "no—no—'missing' leaves a little hope,rilla," urged gertrude oliver. "yes—torturing, agonized hope that keepsyou from ever becoming quite resigned to the worst," said rilla. "oh, miss oliver—mustwe go for weeks and months—not knowing whether
jem is alive or dead? perhaps we will neverknow. i—i cannot bear it—i cannot. walter—and now jem. this will kill mother—look at herface, miss oliver, and you will see that. and faith—poor faith—how can she bearit?" gertrude shivered with pain. she looked upat the pictures hanging over rilla's desk and felt a sudden hatred of mona lisa's endlesssmile. "will not even this blot it off your face?"she thought savagely. but she said gently, "no, it won't kill yourmother. she's made of finer mettle than that. besides, she refuses to believe jem is dead;she will cling to hope and we must all do that. faith, you may be sure, will do it."
"i cannot," moaned rilla, "jem was wounded—whatchance would he have? even if the germans found him—we know how they have treatedwounded prisoners. i wish i could hope, miss oliver—it would help, i suppose. but hopeseems dead in me. i can't hope without some reason for it—and there is no reason." when miss oliver had gone to her own roomand rilla was lying on her bed in the moonlight, praying desperately for a little strength,susan stepped in like a gaunt shadow and sat down beside her. "rilla, dear, do not you worry. little jemis not dead." "oh, how can you believe that, susan?"
"because i know. listen you to me. when thatword came this morning the first thing i thought of was dog monday. and tonight, as soon asi got the supper dishes washed and the bread set, i went down to the station. there wasdog monday, waiting for the train, just as patient as usual. now, rilla, dear, that trenchraid was four days ago—last monday—and i said to the station-agent, 'can you tellme if that dog howled or made any kind of a fuss last monday night?' he thought it overa bit, and then he said, 'no, he did not.' 'are you sure?' i said. 'there's more dependson it than you think!' 'dead sure,' he said. 'i was up all night last monday night becausemy mare was sick, and there was never a sound out of him. i would have heard if there hadbeen, for the stable door was open all the
time and his kennel is right across from it!'now rilla dear, those were the man's very words. and you know how that poor little doghowled all night after the battle of courcelette. yet he did not love walter as much as he lovedjem. if he mourned for walter like that, do you suppose he would sleep sound in his kennelthe night after jem had been killed? no, rilla dear, little jem is not dead, and that youmay tie to. if he were, dog monday would have known, just as he knew before, and he wouldnot be still waiting for the trains." it was absurd—and irrational—and impossible.but rilla believed it, for all that; and mrs. blythe believed it; and the doctor, thoughhe smiled faintly in pretended derision, felt an odd confidence replace his first despair;and foolish and absurd or not, they all plucked
up heart and courage to carry on, just becausea faithful little dog at the glen station was still watching with unbroken faith forhis master to come home. common sense might scorn—incredulity might mutter "mere superstition"—butin their hearts the folk of ingleside stood by their belief that dog monday knew. chapter xxx the turning of the tide susan was very sorrowful when she saw thebeautiful old lawn of ingleside ploughed up that spring and planted with potatoes. yetshe made no protest, even when her beloved peony bed was sacrificed. but when the governmentpassed the daylight saving law susan balked.
there was a higher power than the union government,to which susan owed allegiance. "do you think it right to meddle with thearrangements of the almighty?" she demanded indignantly of the doctor. the doctor, quiteunmoved, responded that the law must be observed, and the ingleside clocks were moved on accordingly.but the doctor had no power over susan's little alarm. "i bought that with my own money, mrs. dr.dear," she said firmly, "and it shall go on god's time and not borden's time." susan got up and went to bed by "god's time,"and regulated her own goings and comings by it. she served the meals, under protest, byborden's time, and she had to go to church
by it, which was the crowning injury. butshe said her prayers by her own clock, and fed the hens by it; so that there was alwaysa furtive triumph in her eye when she looked at the doctor. she had got the better of himby so much at least. "whiskers-on-the-moon is very much delightedwith this daylight saving business," she told him one evening. "of course he naturally wouldbe, since i understand that the germans invented it. i hear he came near losing his entirewheat-crop lately. warren mead's cows broke into the field one day last week—it wasthe very day the germans captured the chemang-de-dam, which may have been a coincidence or may not—andwere making fine havoc of it when mrs. dick clow happened to see them from her attic window.at first she had no intention of letting mr.
pryor know. she told me she had just gloatedover the sight of those cows pasturing on his wheat. she felt it served him exactlyright. but presently she reflected that the wheat-crop was a matter of great importanceand that 'save and serve' meant that those cows must be routed out as much as it meantanything. so she went down and phoned over to whiskers about the matter. all the thanksshe got was that he said something queer right out to her. she is not prepared to state thatit was actually swearing for you cannot be sure just what you hear over the phone; butshe has her own opinion, and so have i, but i will not express it for here comes mr. meredith,and whiskers is one of his elders, so we must be discreet."
"are you looking for the new star?" askedmr. meredith, joining miss oliver and rilla, who were standing among the blossoming potatoesgazing skyward. "yes—we have found it—see, it is justabove the tip of the tallest old pine." "it's wonderful to be looking at somethingthat happened three thousand years ago, isn't it?" said rilla. "that is when astronomersthink the collision took place which produced this new star. it makes me feel horribly insignificant,"she added under her breath. "even this event cannot dwarf into what maybe the proper perspective in star systems the fact that the germans are again only oneleap from paris," said gertrude restlessly. "i think i would like to have been an astronomer,"said mr. meredith dreamily, gazing at the
star. "there must be a strange pleasure in it,"agreed miss oliver, "an unearthly pleasure, in more senses than one. i would like to havea few astronomers for my friends." "fancy talking the gossip of the hosts ofheaven," laughed rilla. "i wonder if astronomers feel a very deepinterest in earthly affairs?" said the doctor. "perhaps students of the canals of mars wouldnot be so keenly sensitive to the significance of a few yards of trenches lost or won onthe western front." "i have read somewhere," said mr. meredith,"that ernest renan wrote one of his books during the siege of paris in 1870 and 'enjoyedthe writing of it very much.' i suppose one
would call him a philosopher." "i have read also," said miss oliver, "thatshortly before his death he said that his only regret in dying was that he must diebefore he had seen what that 'extremely interesting young man, the german emperor,' would do inhis life. if ernest renan 'walked' today and saw what that interesting young man had doneto his beloved france, not to speak of the world, i wonder if his mental detachment wouldbe as complete as it was in 1870." "i wonder where jem is tonight," thought rilla,in a sudden bitter inrush of remembrance. it was over a month since the news had comeabout jem. nothing had been discovered concerning him, in spite of all efforts. two or threeletters had come from him, written before
the trench raid, and since then there hadbeen only unbroken silence. now the germans were again at the marne, pressing nearer andnearer paris; now rumours were coming of another austrian offensive against the piave line.rilla turned away from the new star, sick at heart. it was one of the moments when hopeand courage failed her utterly—when it seemed impossible to go on even one more day. ifonly they knew what had happened to jem—you can face anything you know. but a beleaguermentof fear and doubt and suspense is a hard thing for the morale. surely, if jem were alive,some word would have come through. he must be dead. only—they would never know—theycould never be quite sure; and dog monday would wait for the train until he died ofold age. monday was only a poor, faithful,
rheumatic little dog, who knew nothing moreof his master's fate than they did. rilla had a "white night" and did not fallasleep until late. when she wakened gertrude oliver was sitting at her window leaning outto meet the silver mystery of the dawn. her clever, striking profile, with the massesof black hair behind it, came out clearly against the pallid gold of the eastern sky.rilla remembered jem's admiration of the curve of miss oliver's brow and chin, and she shuddered.everything that reminded her of jem was beginning to give intolerable pain. walter's death hadinflicted on her heart a terrible wound. but it had been a clean wound and had healed slowly,as such wounds do, though the scar must remain for ever. but the torture of jem's disappearancewas another thing: there was a poison in it
that kept it from healing. the alternationsof hope and despair, the endless watching each day for the letter that never came—thatmight never come—the newspaper tales of ill-usage of prisoners—the bitter wonderas to jem's wound—all were increasingly hard to bear. gertrude oliver turned her head. there wasan odd brilliancy in her eyes. "rilla, i've had another dream." "oh, no—no," cried rilla, shrinking. missoliver's dreams had always foretold coming disaster. "rilla, it was a good dream. listen—i dreamedjust as i did four years ago, that i stood
on the veranda steps and looked down the glen.and it was still covered by waves that lapped about my feet. but as i looked the waves beganto ebb—and they ebbed as swiftly as, four years ago, they rolled in—ebbed out andout, to the gulf; and the glen lay before me, beautiful and green, with a rainbow spanningrainbow valley—a rainbow of such splendid colour that it dazzled me—and i woke. rilla—rillablythe—the tide has turned." "i wish i could believe it," sighed rilla. "sooth was my prophecy of fearbelieve it when it augurs cheer," quoted gertrude, almost gaily. "i tell youi have no doubt." yet, in spite of the great italian victoryat the piave that came a few days later, she
had doubt many a time in the hard month thatfollowed; and when in mid-july the germans crossed the marne again despair came sickeningly.it was idle, they all felt, to hope that the miracle of the marne would be repeated. butit was: again, as in 1914, the tide turned at the marne. the french and the americantroops struck their sudden smashing blow on the exposed flank of the enemy and, with thealmost inconceivable rapidity of a dream, the whole aspect of the war changed. "the allies have won two tremendous victories,"said the doctor on 20th july. "it is the beginning of the end—i feel it—ifeel it," said mrs. blythe. "thank god," said susan, folding her tremblingold hands, then she added, under her breath,
"but it won't bring our boys back." nevertheless she went out and ran up the flag,for the first time since the fall of jerusalem. as it caught the breeze and swelled gallantlyout above her, susan lifted her hand and saluted it, as she had seen shirley do. "we've allgiven something to keep you flying," she said. "four hundred thousand of our boys gone overseas—fiftythousand of them killed. but—you are worth it!" the wind whipped her grey hair abouther face and the gingham apron that shrouded her from head to foot was cut on lines ofeconomy, not of grace; yet, somehow, just then susan made an imposing figure. she wasone of the women—courageous, unquailing, patient, heroic—who had made victory possible.in her, they all saluted the symbol for which
their dearest had fought. something of thiswas in the doctor's mind as he watched her from the door. "susan," he said, when she turned to comein, "from first to last of this business you have been a brick!" chapter xxxi mrs. matilda pittman rilla and jims were standing on the rear platformof their car when the train stopped at the little millward siding. the august eveningwas so hot and close that the crowded cars were stifling. nobody ever knew just why trainsstopped at millward siding. nobody was ever
known to get off there or get on. there wasonly one house nearer to it than four miles, and it was surrounded by acres of blueberrybarrens and scrub spruce-trees. rilla was on her way into charlottetown tospend the night with a friend and the next day in red cross shopping; she had taken jimswith her, partly because she did not want susan or her mother to be bothered with hiscare, partly because of a hungry desire in her heart to have as much of him as she couldbefore she might have to give him up forever. james anderson had written to her not longbefore this; he was wounded and in the hospital; he would not be able to go back to the frontand as soon as he was able he would be coming home for jims.
rilla was heavy-hearted over this, and worriedalso. she loved jims dearly and would feel deeply giving him up in any case; but if jimanderson were a different sort of a man, with a proper home for the child, it would notbe so bad. but to give jims up to a roving, shiftless, irresponsible father, however kindand good-hearted he might be—and she knew jim anderson was kind and good-hearted enough—wasa bitter prospect to rilla. it was not even likely anderson would stay in the glen; hehad no ties there now; he might even go back to england. she might never see her dear,sunshiny, carefully brought-up little jims again. with such a father what might his fatebe? rilla meant to beg jim anderson to leave him with her, but, from his letter, she hadnot much hope that he would.
"if he would only stay in the glen, wherei could keep an eye on jims and have him often with me i wouldn't feel so worried over it,"she reflected. "but i feel sure he won't—and jims will never have any chance. and he issuch a bright little chap—he has ambition, wherever he got it—and he isn't lazy. buthis father will never have a cent to give him any education or start in life. jims,my little war-baby, whatever is going to become of you?" jims was not in the least concerned over whatwas to become of him. he was gleefully watching the antics of a striped chipmunk that wasfrisking over the roof of the little siding. as the train pulled out jims leaned eagerlyforward for a last look at chippy, pulling
his hand from rilla's. rilla was so engrossedin wondering what was to become of jims in the future that she forgot to take noticeof what was happening to him in the present. what did happen was that jims lost his balance,shot headlong down the steps, hurtled across the little siding platform, and landed ina clump of bracken fern on the other side. rilla shrieked and lost her head. she sprangdown the steps and jumped off the train. fortunately, the train was still going ata comparatively slow speed; fortunately also, rilla retained enough sense to jump the wayit was going; nevertheless, she fell and sprawled helplessly down the embankment, landing ina ditch full of a rank growth of golden-rod and fireweed.
nobody had seen what had happened and thetrain whisked briskly away round a curve in the barrens. rilla picked herself up, dizzybut unhurt, scrambled out of the ditch, and flew wildly across the platform, expectingto find jims dead or broken in pieces. but jims, except for a few bruises, and a bigfright, was quite uninjured. he was so badly scared that he didn't even cry, but rilla,when she found that he was safe and sound, burst into tears and sobbed wildly. "nasty old twain," remarked jims in disgust."and nasty old god," he added, with a scowl at the heavens. a laugh broke into rilla's sobbing, producingsomething very like what her father would
have called hysterics. but she caught herselfup before the hysteria could conquer her. "rilla blythe, i'm ashamed of you. pull yourselftogether immediately. jims, you shouldn't have said anything like that." "god frew me off the twain," declared jimsdefiantly. "somebody frew me; you didn't frow me; so it was god." "no, it wasn't. you fell because you let goof my hand and bent too far forward. i told you not to do that. so that it was your ownfault." jims looked to see if she meant it; then glancedup at the sky again. "excuse me, then, god," he remarked airily.
rilla scanned the sky also; she did not likeits appearance; a heavy thundercloud was appearing in the northwest. what in the world was tobe done? there was no other train that night, since the nine o'clock special ran only onsaturdays. would it be possible for them to reach hannah brewster's house, two miles away,before the storm broke? rilla thought she could do it alone easily enough, but withjims it was another matter. were his little legs good for it? "we've got to try it," said rilla desperately."we might stay in the siding until the thunderstorm is over; but it may keep on raining all nightand anyway it will be pitch dark. if we can get to hannah's she will keep us all night."
hannah brewster, when she had been hannahcrawford, had lived in the glen and gone to school with rilla. they had been good friendsthen, though hannah had been three years the older. she had married very young and hadgone to live in millward. what with hard work and babies and a ne'er-do-well husband, herlife had not been an easy one, and hannah seldom revisited her old home. rilla had visitedher once soon after her marriage, but had not seen her or even heard of her for years;she knew, however, that she and jims would find welcome and harbourage in any house whererosy-faced, open-hearted, generous hannah lived. for the first mile they got on very well butthe second one was harder. the road, seldom
used, was rough and deep-rutted. jims grewso tired that rilla had to carry him for the last quarter. she reached the brewster house,almost exhausted, and dropped jims on the walk with a sigh of thankfulness. the skywas black with clouds; the first heavy drops were beginning to fall; and the rumble ofthunder was growing very loud. then she made an unpleasant discovery. the blinds were alldown and the doors locked. evidently the brewsters were not at home. rilla ran to the littlebarn. it, too, was locked. no other refuge presented itself. the bare whitewashed littlehouse had not even a veranda or porch. it was almost dark now and her plight seemeddesperate. "i'm going to get in if i have to break awindow," said rilla resolutely. "hannah would
want me to do that. she'd never get over itif she heard i came to her house for refuge in a thunderstorm and couldn't get in." luckily she did not have to go to the lengthof actual housebreaking. the kitchen window went up quite easily. rilla lifted jims inand scrambled through herself, just as the storm broke in good earnest. "oh, see all the little pieces of thunder,"cried jims in delight, as the hail danced in after them. rilla shut the window and withsome difficulty found and lighted a lamp. they were in a very snug little kitchen. openingoff it on one side was a trim, nicely furnished parlour, and on the other a pantry, whichproved to be well stocked.
"i'm going to make myself at home," said rilla."i know that is just what hannah would want me to do. i'll get a little snack for jimsand me, and then if the rain continues and nobody comes home i'll just go upstairs tothe spare room and go to bed. there is nothing like acting sensibly in an emergency. if ihad not been a goose when i saw jims fall off the train i'd have rushed back into thecar and got some one to stop it. then i wouldn't have been in this scrape. since i am in iti'll make the best of it. "this house," she added, looking around, "isfixed up much nicer than when i was here before. of course hannah and ted were just beginninghousekeeping then. but somehow i've had the idea that ted hasn't been very prosperous.he must have done better than i've been led
to believe, when they can afford furniturelike this. i'm awfully glad for hannah's sake." the thunderstorm passed, but the rain continuedto fall heavily. at eleven o'clock rilla decided that nobody was coming home. jims had fallenasleep on the sofa; she carried him up to the spare room and put him to bed. then sheundressed, put on a nightgown she found in the washstand drawer, and scrambled sleepilyin between very nice lavender-scented sheets. she was so tired, after her adventures andexertions, that not even the oddity of her situation could keep her awake; she was soundasleep in a few minutes. rilla slept until eight o'clock the next morningand then wakened with startling suddenness. somebody was saying in a harsh, gruff voice,"here, you two, wake up. i want to know what
this means." rilla did wake up, promptly and effectually.she had never in all her life wakened up so thoroughly before. standing in the room werethree people, one of them a man, who were absolute strangers to her. the man was a bigfellow with a bushy black beard and an angry scowl. beside him was a woman—a tall, thin,angular person, with violently red hair and an indescribable hat. she looked even crosserand more amazed than the man, if that were possible. in the background was another woman—atiny old lady who must have been at least eighty. she was, in spite of her tinyness,a very striking-looking personage; she was dressed in unrelieved black, had snow-whitehair, a dead-white face, and snapping, vivid,
coal-black eyes. she looked as amazed as theother two, but rilla realized that she didn't look cross. rilla also was realizing that something waswrong—fearfully wrong. then the man said, more gruffly than ever, "come now. who areyou and what business have you here?" rilla raised herself on one elbow, lookingand feeling hopelessly bewildered and foolish. she heard the old black-and-white lady inthe background chuckle to herself. "she must be real," rilla thought. "i can't be dreamingher." aloud she gasped, "isn't this theodore brewster's place?" "no," said the big woman, speaking for thefirst time, "this place belongs to us. we
bought it from the brewsters last fall. theymoved to greenvale. our name is chapley." poor rilla fell back on her pillow, quiteovercome. "i beg your pardon," she said. "i—i—thoughtthe brewsters lived here. mrs. brewster is a friend of mine. i am rilla blythe—dr.blythe's daughter from glen st. mary. i—i was going to town with my—my—this littleboy—and he fell off the train—and i jumped off after him—and nobody knew of it. i knewwe couldn't get home last night and a storm was coming up—so we came here and when wefound nobody at home—we—we—just got in through the window and—and—made ourselvesat home." "so it seems," said the woman sarcastically.
"a likely story," said the man. "we weren't born yesterday," added the woman. madam black-and-white didn't say anything;but when the other two made their pretty speeches she doubled up in a silent convulsion of mirth,shaking her head from side to side and beating the air with her hands. rilla, stung by the disagreeable attitudeof the chapleys, regained her self-possession and lost her temper. she sat up in bed andsaid in her haughtiest voice, "i do not know when you were born, or where, but it musthave been somewhere where very peculiar manners were taught. if you will have the decencyto leave my room—er—this room—until
i can get up and dress i shall not transgressupon your hospitality"—rilla was killingly sarcastic—"any longer. and i shall pay youamply for the food we have eaten and the night's lodging i have taken." the black-and-white apparition went throughthe motion of clapping her hands, but not a sound did she make. perhaps mr. chapleywas cowed by rilla's tone—or perhaps he was appeased at the prospect of payment; atall events, he spoke more civilly. "well, that's fair. if you pay up it's allright." "she shall do no such thing as pay you," saidmadam black-and-white in a surprisingly clear, resolute, authoritative tone of voice. "ifyou haven't got any shame for yourself, robert
chapley, you've got a mother-in-law who canbe ashamed for you. no strangers shall be charged for room and lodging in any housewhere mrs. matilda pitman lives. remember that, though i may have come down in the world,i haven't quite forgot all decency for all that. i knew you was a skinflint when ameliamarried you, and you've made her as bad as yourself. but mrs. matilda pitman has beenboss for a long time, and mrs. matilda pitman will remain boss. here you, robert chapley,take yourself out of here and let that girl get dressed. and you, amelia, go downstairsand cook a breakfast for her." never, in all her life, had rilla seen anythinglike the abject meekness with which those two big people obeyed that mite. they wentwithout word or look of protest. as the door
closed behind them mrs. matilda pitman laughedsilently, and rocked from side to side in her merriment. "ain't it funny?" she said. "i mostly letsthem run the length of their tether, but sometimes i has to pull them up, and then i does itwith a jerk. they don't dast aggravate me, because i've got considerable hard cash, andthey're afraid i won't leave it all to them. neither i will. i'll leave 'em some, but somei won't, just to vex 'em. i haven't made up my mind where i will leave it but i'll haveto, soon, for at eighty a body is living on borrowed time. now, you can take your timeabout dressing, my dear, and i'll go down and keep them mean scallawags in order. that'sa handsome child you have there. is he your
brother?" "no, he's a little war-baby i've been takingcare of, because his mother died and his father was overseas," answered rilla in a subduedtone. "war-baby! humph! well, i'd better skin outbefore he wakes up or he'll likely start crying. children don't like me—never did. i can'trecollect any youngster ever coming near me of its own accord. never had any of my own.amelia was my step-daughter. well, it's saved me a world of bother. if kids don't like mei don't like them, so that's an even score. but that certainly is a handsome child." jims chose this moment for waking up. he openedhis big brown eyes and looked at mrs. matilda
pitman unblinkingly. then he sat up, dimpleddeliciously, pointed to her and said solemnly to rilla, "pwitty lady, willa, pwitty lady." mrs. matilda pitman smiled. even eighty-oddis sometimes vulnerable in vanity. "i've heard that children and fools tell the truth," shesaid. "i was used to compliments when i was young—but they're scarcer when you get asfar along as i am. i haven't had one for years. it tastes good. i s'pose now, you monkey,you wouldn't give me a kiss." then jims did a quite surprising thing. hewas not a demonstrative youngster and was chary with kisses even to the ingleside people.but without a word he stood up in bed, his plump little body encased only in his undershirt,ran to the footboard, flung his arms about
mrs. matilda pitman's neck, and gave her abear hug, accompanied by three or four hearty, ungrudging smacks. "jims," protested rilla, aghast at this liberty. "you leave him be," ordered mrs. matilda pitman,setting her bonnet straight. "laws i like to see some one that isn't skeeredof me. everybody is—you are, though you're trying to hide it. and why? of course robertand amelia are because i make 'em skeered on purpose. but folks always are—no matterhow civil i be to them. are you going to keep this child?" "i'm afraid not. his father is coming homebefore long."
"is he any good—the father, i mean?" "well—he's kind and nice—but he's poor—andi'm afraid he always will be," faltered rilla. "i see—shiftless—can't make or keep. well,i'll see—i'll see. i have an idea. it's a good idea, and besides it will make robertand amelia squirm. that's its main merit in my eyes, though i like that child, mind you,because he ain't skeered of me. he's worth some bother. now, you get dressed, as i saidbefore, and come down when you're good and ready." rilla was stiff and sore after her tumbleand walk of the night before but she was not long in dressing herself and jims. when shewent down to the kitchen she found a smoking
hot breakfast on the table. mr. chapley wasnowhere in sight and mrs. chapley was cutting bread with a sulky air. mrs. matilda pitmanwas sitting in an armchair, knitting a grey army sock. she still wore her bonnet and hertriumphant expression. "set right in, dears, and make a good breakfast,"she said. "i am not hungry," said rilla almost pleadingly."i don't think i can eat anything. and it is time i was starting for the station. themorning train will soon be along. please excuse me and let us go—i'll take a piece of breadand butter for jims." mrs. matilda pitman shook a knitting-needleplayfully at rilla. "sit down and take your breakfast," she said."mrs. matilda pitman commands you. everybody
obeys mrs. matilda pitman—even robert andamelia. you must obey her too." rilla did obey her. she sat down and, suchwas the influence of mrs. matilda pitman's mesmeric eye, she ate a tolerable breakfast.the obedient amelia never spoke; mrs. matilda pitman did not speak either; but she knittedfuriously and chuckled. when rilla had finished, mrs. matilda pitman rolled up her sock. "now you can go if you want to," she said,"but you don't have to go. you can stay here as long as you want to and i'll make ameliacook your meals for you." the independent miss blythe, whom a certainclique of junior red cross girls accused of being domineering and "bossy," was thoroughlycowed.
"thank you," she said meekly, "but we mustreally go." "well, then," said mrs. matilda pitman, throwingopen the door, "your conveyance is ready for you. i told robert he must hitch up and driveyou to the station. i enjoy making robert do things. it's almost the only sport i haveleft. i'm over eighty and most things have lost their flavour except bossing robert." robert sat before the door on the front seatof a trim, double-seated, rubber-tired buggy. he must have heard every word his mother-in-lawsaid but he gave no sign. "i do wish," said rilla, plucking up whatlittle spirit she had left, "that you would let me—oh—ah—" then she quailed againbefore mrs. matilda pitman's eye—"recompense
you for—for—" "mrs. matilda pitman said before—and meantit—that she doesn't take pay for entertaining strangers, nor let other people where shelives do it, much as their natural meanness would like to do it. you go along to townand don't forget to call the next time you come this way. don't be scared. not that youare scared of much, i reckon, considering the way you sassed robert back this morning.i like your spunk. most girls nowadays are such timid, skeery creeturs. when i was agirl i wasn't afraid of nothing nor nobody. mind you take good care of that boy. he ain'tany common child. and make robert drive round all the puddles in the road. i won't havethat new buggy splashed."
as they drove away jims threw kisses at mrs.matilda pitman as long as he could see her, and mrs. matilda pitman waved her sock backat him. robert spoke no word, either good or bad, all the way to the station, but heremembered the puddles. when rilla got out at the siding she thanked him courteously.the only response she got was a grunt as robert turned his horse and started for home. "well"—rilla drew a long breath—"i musttry to get back into rilla blythe again. i've been somebody else these past few hours—idon't know just who—some creation of that extraordinary old person's. i believe shehypnotized me. what an adventure this will be to write the boys."
and then she sighed. bitter remembrance camethat there were only jerry, ken, carl and shirley to write it to now. jem—who wouldhave appreciated mrs. matilda pitman keenly—where was jem? chapter xxxii word from jem 4th august 1918 "it is four years tonight since the danceat the lighthouse—four years of war. it seems like three times four. i was fifteenthen. i am nineteen now. i expected that these past four years would be the most delightfulyears of my life and they have been years
of war—years of fear and grief and worry—buti humbly hope, of a little growth in strength and character as well. "today i was going through the hall and iheard mother saying something to father about me. i didn't mean to listen—i couldn't helphearing her as i went along the hall and upstairs—so perhaps that is why i heard what listenersare said never to hear—something good of myself. and because it was mother who saidit i'm going to write it here in my journal, for my comforting when days of discouragementcome upon me, in which i feel that i am vain and selfish and weak and that there is nogood thing in me. "'rilla has developed in a wonderful fashionthese past four years. she used to be such
an irresponsible young creature. she has changedinto a capable, womanly girl and she is such a comfort to me. nan and di have grown a littleaway from me—they have been so little at home—but rilla has grown closer and closerto me. we are chums. i don't see how i could have got through these terrible years withouther, gilbert.' "there, that is just what mother said—andi feel glad—and sorry—and proud—and humble! it's beautiful to have my mother thinkthat about me—but i don't deserve it quite. i'm not as good and strong as all that. thereare heaps of times when i have felt cross and impatient and woeful and despairing. itis mother and susan who have been this family's backbone. but i have helped a little, i believe,and i am so glad and thankful.
"the war news has been good right along. thefrench and americans are pushing the germans back and back and back. sometimes i am afraidit is too good to last—after nearly four years of disasters one has a feeling thatthis constant success is unbelievable. we don't rejoice noisily over it. susan keepsthe flag up but we go softly. the price paid has been too high for jubilation. we are justthankful that it has not been paid in vain. "no word has come from jem. we hope—becausewe dare not do anything else. but there are hours when we all feel—though we never sayso—that such hoping is foolishness. these hours come more and more frequently as theweeks go by. and we may never know. that is the most terrible thought of all. i wonderhow faith is bearing it. to judge from her
letters she has never for a moment given uphope, but she must have had her dark hours of doubt like the rest of us." 20th august 1918 "the canadians have been in action again andmr. meredith had a cable today saying that carl had been slightly wounded and is in thehospital. it did not say where the wound was, which is unusual, and we all feel worried.there is news of a fresh victory every day now." 30th august 1918 "the merediths had a letter from carl today.his wound was "only a slight one"—but it
was in his right eye and the sight is gonefor ever! "'one eye is enough to watch bugs with,' carlwrites cheerfully. and we know it might have been oh so much worse! if it had been botheyes! but i cried all the afternoon after i saw carl's letter. those beautiful, fearlessblue eyes of his! "there is one comfort—he will not have togo back to the front. he is coming home as soon as he is out of the hospital—the firstof our boys to return. when will the others come? "and there is one who will never come. atleast we will not see him if he does. but, oh, i think he will be there—when our canadiansoldiers return there will be a shadow army
with them—the army of the fallen. we willnot see them—but they will be there!" 1st september 1918 "mother and i went into charlottetown yesterdayto see the moving picture, "hearts of the world." i made an awful goose of myself—fatherwill never stop teasing me about it for the rest of my life. but it all seemed so horriblyreal—and i was so intensely interested that i forgot everything but the scenes i saw enactedbefore my eyes. and then, quite near the last came a terribly exciting one. the heroinewas struggling with a horrible german soldier who was trying to drag her away. i knew shehad a knife—i had seen her hide it, to have it in readiness—and i couldn't understandwhy she didn't produce it and finish the brute.
i thought she must have forgotten it, andjust at the tensest moment of the scene i lost my head altogether. i just stood rightup on my feet in that crowded house and shrieked at the top of my voice—'the knife is inyour stocking—the knife is in your stocking!' "i created a sensation! "the funny part was, that just as i said it,the girl did snatch out the knife and stab the soldier with it! "everybody in the house laughed. i came tomy senses and fell back in my seat, overcome with mortification. mother was shaking withlaughter. i could have shaken her. why hadn't she pulled me down and choked me before ihad made such an idiot of myself. she protests
that there wasn't time. "fortunately the house was dark, and i don'tbelieve there was anybody there who knew me. and i thought i was becoming sensible andself-controlled and womanly! it is plain i have some distance to go yet before i attainthat devoutly desired consummation." 20th september 1918 "in the east bulgaria has asked for peace,and in the west the british have smashed the hindenburg line; and right here in glen st.mary little bruce meredith has done something that i think wonderful—wonderful becauseof the love behind it. mrs. meredith was here tonight and told us about it—and motherand i cried, and susan got up and clattered
the things about the stove. "bruce always loved jem very devotedly, andthe child has never forgotten him in all these years. he has been as faithful in his wayas dog monday was in his. we have always told him that jem would come back. but it seemsthat he was in carter flagg's store last night and he heard his uncle norman flatly declaringthat jem blythe would never come back and that the ingleside folk might as well giveup hoping he would. bruce went home and cried himself to sleep. this morning his mothersaw him going out of the yard, with a very sorrowful and determined look, carrying hispet kitten. she didn't think much more about it until later on he came in, with the mosttragic little face, and told her, his little
body shaking with sobs, that he had drownedstripey. "'why did you do that?' mrs. meredith exclaimed. "'to bring jem back,' sobbed bruce. 'i thoughtif i sacrificed stripey god would send jem back. so i drownded him—and, oh mother,it was awful hard—but surely god will send jem back now, 'cause stripey was the dearestthing i had. i just told god i would give him stripey if he would send jem back. andhe will, won't he, mother?' "mrs. meredith didn't know what to say tothe poor child. she just could not tell him that perhaps his sacrifice wouldn't bringjem back—that god didn't work that way. she told him that he mustn't expect it rightaway—that perhaps it would be quite a long
time yet before jem came back. "but bruce said, 'it oughtn't to take longer'na week, mother. oh, mother, stripey was such a nice little cat. he purred so pretty. don'tyou think god ought to like him enough to let us have jem?" "mr. meredith is worried about the effecton bruce's faith in god, and mrs. meredith is worried about the effect on bruce himselfif his hope isn't fulfilled. and i feel as if i must cry every time i think of it. itwas so splendid—and sad—and beautiful. the dear devoted little fellow! he worshippedthat kitten. and if it all goes for nothing—as so many sacrifices seem to go for nothing—hewill be brokenhearted, for he isn't old enough
to understand that god doesn't answer ourprayers just as we hope—and doesn't make bargains with us when we yield something welove up to him." 24th september 1918 "i have been kneeling at my window in themoonshine for a long time, just thanking god over and over again. the joy of last nightand today has been so great that it seemed half pain—as if our hearts weren't big enoughto hold it. "last night i was sitting here in my roomat eleven o'clock writing a letter to shirley. every one else was in bed, except father,who was out. i heard the telephone ring and i ran out to the hall to answer it, beforeit should waken mother. it was long-distance
calling, and when i answered it said 'thisis the telegraph company's office in charlottetown. there is an overseas cable for dr. blythe.' "i thought of shirley—my heart stood still—andthen i heard him saying, 'it's from holland.' "the message was, 'just arrived. escaped from germany. quitewell. writing. james blythe.'"i didn't faint or fall or scream. i didn't feel glad or surprised. i didn't feel anything.i felt numb, just as i did when i heard walter had enlisted. i hung up the receiver and turnedround. mother was standing in her doorway. she wore her old rose kimono, and her hairwas hanging down her back in a long thick
braid, and her eyes were shining. she lookedjust like a young girl. "'there is word from jem?' she said. "how did she know? i hadn't said a word atthe phone except 'yes—yes—yes.' she says she doesn't know how she knew, but she didknow. she was awake and she heard the ring and she knew that there was word from jem. "'he's alive—he's well—he's in holland,'i said. "mother came out into the hall and said, 'imust get your father on the 'phone and tell him. he is in the upper glen.' "she was very calm and quiet—not a bit likei would have expected her to be. but then
i wasn't either. i went and woke up gertrudeand susan and told them. susan said 'thank god,' firstly, and secondly she said 'didi not tell you dog monday knew?' and thirdly, 'i'll go down and make a cup of tea'—andshe stalked down in her nightdress to make it. she did make it—and made mother andgertrude drink it—but i went back to my room and shut my door and locked it, and iknelt by my window and cried—just as gertrude did when her great news came. "i think i know at last exactly what i shallfeel like on the resurrection morning." 4th october 1918 "today jem's letter came. it has been in thehouse only six hours and it is almost read
to pieces. the post-mistress told everybodyin the glen it had come, and everybody came up to hear the news. "jem was badly wounded in the thigh—andhe was picked up and taken to prison, so delirious with fever that he didn't know what was happeningto him or where he was. it was weeks before he came to his senses and was able to write.then he did write—but it never came. he wasn't treated at all badly at his camp—onlythe food was poor. he had nothing to eat but a little black bread and boiled turnips andnow and then a little soup with black peas in it. and we sat down every one of thosedays to three good square luxurious meals! he wrote us as often as he could but he wasafraid we were not getting his letters because
no reply came. as soon as he was strong enoughhe tried to escape, but was caught and brought back; a month later he and a comrade madeanother attempt and succeeded in reaching holland. "jem can't come home right away. he isn'tquite so well as his cable said, for his wound has not healed properly and he has to go intoa hospital in england for further treatment. but he says he will be all right eventually,and we know he is safe and will be back home sometime, and oh, the difference it makesin everything! "i had a letter from jim anderson today, too.he has married an english girl, got his discharge, and is coming right home to canada with hisbride. i don't know whether to be glad or
sorry. it will depend on what kind of a womanshe is. i had a second letter also of a somewhat mysterious tenor. it is from a charlottetownlawyer, asking me to go in to see him at my earliest convenience in regard to a certainmatter connected with the estate of the 'late mrs. matilda pitman.' "i read a notice of mrs. pitman's death—fromheart failure—in the enterprise a few weeks ago. i wonder if this summons has anythingto do with jims." 5th october 1918 "i went into town this morning and had aninterview with mrs. pitman's lawyer—a little thin, wispy man, who spoke of his late clientwith such a profound respect that it is evident
that he as was much under her thumb as robertand amelia were. he drew up a new will for her a short time before her death. she wasworth thirty thousand dollars, the bulk of which was left to amelia chapley. but sheleft five thousand to me in trust for jims. the interest is to be used as i see fit forhis education, and the principal is to be paid over to him on his twentieth birthday.certainly jims was born lucky. i saved him from slow extinction at the hands of mrs.conover—mary vance saved him from death by diptheritic croup—his star saved himwhen he fell off the train. and he tumbled not only into a clump of bracken, but rightinto this nice little legacy. "evidently, as mrs. matilda pitman said, andas i have always believed, he is no common
child and he has no common destiny in storefor him. "at all events he is provided for, and insuch a fashion that jim anderson can't squander his inheritance if he wanted to. now, if thenew english stepmother is only a good sort i shall feel quite easy about the future ofmy war-baby. "i wonder what robert and amelia think of it. i fancy they will nail down their windowswhen they leave home after this!" chapter xxxiii victory! "a day 'of chilling winds and gloomy skies,'"rilla quoted one sunday afternoon—the sixth
of october to be exact. it was so cold thatthey had lighted a fire in the living-room and the merry little flames were doing theirbest to counteract the outside dourness. "it's more like november than october—novemberis such an ugly month." cousin sophia was there, having again forgivensusan, and mrs. martin clow, who was not visiting on sunday but had dropped in to borrow susan'scure for rheumatism—that being cheaper than getting one from the doctor. "i'm afearedwe're going to have an airly winter," foreboded cousin sophia. "the muskrats are buildingawful big houses round the pond, and that's a sign that never fails. dear me, how thatchild has grown!" cousin sophia sighed again, as if it were an unhappy circumstance thata child should grow. "when do you expect his
father?" "next week," said rilla. "well, i hope the stepmother won't abuse thepore child," sighed cousin sophia, "but i have my doubts—i have my doubts. anyhow,he'll be sure to feel the difference between his usage here and what he'll get anywhereelse. you've spoiled him so, rilla, waiting on him hand and foot the way you've alwaysdone." rilla smiled and pressed her cheek to jims'curls. she knew sweet-tempered, sunny, little jims was not spoiled. nevertheless her heartwas anxious behind her smile. she, too, thought much about the new mrs. anderson and wondereduneasily what she would be like.
"i can't give jims up to a woman who won'tlove him," she thought rebelliously. "i b'lieve it's going to rain," said cousinsophia. "we have had an awful lot of rain this fall already. it's going to make it awfulhard for people to get their roots in. it wasn't so in my young days. we gin'rally hadbeautiful octobers then. but the seasons is altogether different now from what they usedto be." clear across cousin sophia's doleful voice cut the telephone bell. gertrude oliveranswered it. "yes—what? what? is it true—is it official? thank you—thank you." gertrude turned and faced the room dramatically,her dark eyes flashing, her dark face flushed with feeling. all at once the sun broke throughthe thick clouds and poured through the big
crimson maple outside the window. its reflectedglow enveloped her in a weird immaterial flame. she looked like a priestess performing somemystic, splendid rite. "germany and austria are suing for peace,"she said. rilla went crazy for a few minutes. she sprangup and danced around the room, clapping her hands, laughing, crying. "sit down, child," said mrs. clow, who nevergot excited over anything, and so had missed a tremendous amount of trouble and delightin her journey through life. "oh," cried rilla, "i have walked the floorfor hours in despair and anxiety in these past four years. now let me walk in joy. itwas worth living long dreary years for this
minute, and it would be worth living themagain just to look back to it. susan, let's run up the flag—and we must phone the newsto every one in the glen." "can we have as much sugar as we want to now?"asked jims eagerly. it was a never-to-be-forgotten afternoon.as the news spread excited people ran about the village and dashed up to ingleside. themerediths came over and stayed to supper and everybody talked and nobody listened. cousinsophia tried to protest that germany and austria were not to be trusted and it was all partof a plot, but nobody paid the least attention to her. "this sunday makes up for that one in march,"said susan.
"i wonder," said gertrude dreamily, apartto rilla, "if things won't seem rather flat and insipid when peace really comes. afterbeing fed for four years on horrors and fears, terrible reverses, amazing victories, won'tanything less be tame and uninteresting? how strange—and blessed—and dull it will benot to dread the coming of the mail every day." "we must dread it for a little while yet,i suppose," said rilla. "peace won't come—can't come—for some weeks yet. and in those weeksdreadful things may happen. my excitement is over. we have won the victory—but oh,what a price we have paid!" "not too high a price for freedom," said gertrudesoftly. "do you think it was, rilla?"
"no," said rilla, under her breath. she wasseeing a little white cross on a battlefield of france. "no—not if those of us who livewill show ourselves worthy of it—if we 'keep faith.'" "we will keep faith," said gertrude. she rosesuddenly. a silence fell around the table, and in the silence gertrude repeated walter'sfamous poem "the piper." when she finished mr. meredith stood up and held up his glass."let us drink," he said, "to the silent army—to the boys who followed when the piper summoned.'for our tomorrow they gave their today'—theirs is the victory!" chapter xxxiv
mr. hyde goes to his own place and susan takesa honeymoon early in november jims left ingleside. rillasaw him go with many tears but a heart free from boding. mrs. jim anderson, number two,was such a nice little woman that one was rather inclined to wonder at the luck whichbestowed her on jim. she was rosy-faced and blue-eyed and wholesome, with the roundnessand trigness of a geranium leaf. rilla saw at first glance that she was to be trustedwith jims. "i'm fond of children, miss," she said heartily."i'm used to them—i've left six little brothers and sisters behind me. jims is a dear childand i must say you've done wonders in bringing him up so healthy and handsome. i'll be asgood to him as if he was my own, miss. and
i'll make jim toe the line all right. he'sa good worker—all he needs is some one to keep him at it, and to take charge of hismoney. we've rented a little farm just out of the village, and we're going to settledown there. jim wanted to stay in england but i says 'no.' i hankered to try a new countryand i've always thought canada would suit me." "i'm so glad you are going to live near us.you'll let jims come here often, won't you? i love him dearly." "no doubt you do, miss, for a lovabler childi never did see. we understand, jim and me, what you've done for him, and you won't findus ungrateful. he can come here whenever you
want him and i'll always be glad of any advicefrom you about his bringing up. he is more your baby than anyone else's i should say,and i'll see that you get your fair share of him, miss." so jims went away—with the soup tureen,though not in it. then the news of the armistice came, and even glen st. mary went mad. thatnight the village had a bonfire, and burned the kaiser in effigy. the fishing villageboys turned out and burned all the sandhills off in one grand glorious conflagration thatextended for seven miles. up at ingleside rilla ran laughing to her room. "now i'm going to do a most unladylike andinexcusable thing," she said, as she pulled
her green velvet hat out of its box. "i'mgoing to kick this hat about the room until it is without form and void; and i shall neveras long as i live wear anything of that shade of green again." "you've certainly kept your vow pluckily,"laughed miss oliver. "it wasn't pluck—it was sheer obstinacy—i'mrather ashamed of it," said rilla, kicking joyously. "i wanted to show mother. it's meanto want to show your own mother—most unfilial conduct! but i have shown her. and i've shownmyself a few things! oh, miss oliver, just for one moment i'm really feeling quite youngagain—young and frivolous and silly. did i ever say november was an ugly month? whyit's the most beautiful month in the whole
year. listen to the bells ringing in rainbowvalley! i never heard them so clearly. they're ringing for peace—and new happiness—andall the dear, sweet, sane, homey things that we can have again now, miss oliver. not thati am sane just now—i don't pretend to be. the whole world is having a little crazy spelltoday. soon we'll sober down—and 'keep faith'—and begin to build up our new world. but justfor today let's be mad and glad." susan came in from the outdoor sunlight lookingsupremely satisfied. "mr. hyde is gone," she announced. "gone! do you mean he is dead, susan?" "no, mrs. dr. dear, that beast is not dead.but you will never see him again. i feel sure
of that." "don't be so mysterious, susan. what has happenedto him?" "well, mrs. dr. dear, he was sitting out onthe back steps this afternoon. it was just after the news came that the armistice hadbeen signed and he was looking his hydest. i can assure you he was an awesome lookingbeast. all at once, mrs. dr. dear, bruce meredith came around the corner of the kitchen walkingon his stilts. he has been learning to walk on them lately and came over to show me howwell he could do it. mr. hyde just took a look and one bound carried him over the yardfence. then he went tearing through the maple grove in great leaps with his ears laid back.you never saw a creature so terrified, mrs.
dr. dear. he has never returned." "oh, he'll come back, susan, probably chastenedin spirit by his fright." "we will see, mrs. dr. dear—we will see.remember, the armistice has been signed. and that reminds me that whiskers-on-the-moonhad a paralytic stroke last night. i am not saying it is a judgment on him, because iam not in the counsels of the almighty, but one can have one's own thoughts about it.neither whiskers-on-the-moon or mr. hyde will be much more heard of in glen st. mary, mrs.dr. dear, and that you may tie to." mr. hyde certainly was heard of no more. asit could hardly have been his fright that kept him away the ingleside folk decided thatsome dark fate of shot or poison had descended
on him—except susan, who believed and continuedto affirm that he had merely "gone to his own place." rilla lamented him, for she hadbeen very fond of her stately golden pussy, and had liked him quite as well in his weirdhyde moods as in his tame jekyll ones. "and now, mrs. dr. dear," said susan, "sincethe fall house-cleaning is over and the garden truck is all safe in cellar, i am going totake a honeymoon to celebrate the peace." "a honeymoon, susan?" "yes, mrs. dr. dear, a honeymoon," repeatedsusan firmly. "i shall never be able to get a husband but i am not going to be cheatedout of everything and a honeymoon i intend to have. i am going to charlottetown to visitmy married brother and his family. his wife
has been ailing all the fall, but nobody knowswhether she is going to die not. she never did tell anyone what she was going to do untilshe did it. that is the main reason why she was never liked in our family. but to be onthe safe side i feel that i should visit her. i have not been in town for over a day fortwenty years and i have a feeling that i might as well see one of those moving pictures thereis so much talk of, so as not to be wholly out of the swim. but have no fear that i shallbe carried away with them, mrs. dr. dear. i shall be away a fortnight if you can spareme so long." "you certainly deserve a good holiday, susan.better take a month—that is the proper length for a honeymoon."
"no, mrs. dr. dear, a fortnight is all i require.besides, i must be home for at least three weeks before christmas to make the properpreparations. we will have a christmas that is a christmas this year, mrs. dr. dear. doyou think there is any chance of our boys being home for it?" "no, i think not, susan. both jem and shirleywrite that they don't expect to be home before spring—it may be even midsummer before shirleycomes. but carl meredith will be home, and nan and di, and we will have a grand celebrationonce more. we'll set chairs for all, susan, as you did our first war christmas—yes,for all—for my dear lad whose chair must always be vacant, as well as for the others,susan."
"it is not likely i would forget to set hisplace, mrs. dr. dear," said susan, wiping her eyes as she departed to pack up for her"honeymoon." chapter xxxv "rilla-my-rilla!" carl meredith and miller douglas came homejust before christmas and glen st. mary met them at the station with a brass band borrowedfrom lowbridge and speeches of home manufacture. miller was brisk and beaming in spite of hiswooden leg; he had developed into a broad-shouldered, imposing looking fellow and the d. c. medalhe wore reconciled miss cornelia to the shortcomings of his pedigree to such a degree that shetacitly recognized his engagement to mary.
the latter put on a few airs—especiallywhen carter flagg took miller into his store as head clerk—but nobody grudged them toher. "of course farming's out of the question forus now," she told rilla, "but miller thinks he'll like storekeeping fine once he getsused to a quiet life again, and carter flagg will be a more agreeable boss than old kitty.we're going to be married in the fall and live in the old mead house with the bay windowsand the mansard roof. i've always thought that the handsomest house in the glen, butnever did i dream i'd ever live there. we're only renting it, of course, but if thingsgo as we expect and carter flagg takes miller into partnership we'll own it some day. say,i've got on some in society, haven't i, considering
what i come from? i never aspired to beinga storekeeper's wife. but miller's real ambitious and he'll have a wife that'll back him up.he says he never saw a french girl worth looking at twice and that his heart beat true to meevery moment he was away." jerry meredith and joe milgrave came backin january, and all winter the boys from the glen and its environs came home by twos andthrees. none of them came back just as they went away, not even those who had been sofortunate as to escape injury. one spring day, when the daffodils were blowingon the ingleside lawn, and the banks of the brook in rainbow valley were sweet with whiteand purple violets, the little, lazy afternoon accommodation train pulled into the glen station.it was very seldom that passengers for the
glen came by that train, so nobody was thereto meet it except the new station agent and a small black-and-yellow dog, who for fourand a half years had met every train that had steamed into glen st. mary. thousandsof trains had dog monday met and never had the boy he waited and watched for returned.yet still dog monday watched on with eyes that never quite lost hope. perhaps his dog-heartfailed him at times; he was growing old and rheumatic; when he walked back to his kennelafter each train had gone his gait was very sober now—he never trotted but went slowlywith a drooping head and a depressed tail that had quite lost its old saucy uplift. one passenger stepped off the train—a tallfellow in a faded lieutenant's uniform, who
walked with a barely perceptible limp. hehad a bronzed face and there were some grey hairs in the ruddy curls that clustered aroundhis forehead. the new station agent looked at him anxiously. he was used to seeing thekhaki-clad figures come off the train, some met by a tumultuous crowd, others, who hadsent no word of their coming, stepping off quietly like this one. but there was a certaindistinction of bearing and features in this soldier that caught his attention and madehim wonder a little more interestedly who he was. a black-and-yellow streak shot past the stationagent. dog monday stiff? dog monday rheumatic? dog monday old? never believe it. dog mondaywas a young pup, gone clean mad with rejuvenating
joy. he flung himself against the tall soldier,with a bark that choked in his throat from sheer rapture. he flung himself on the groundand writhed in a frenzy of welcome. he tried to climb the soldier's khaki legs and slippeddown and groveled in an ecstasy that seemed as if it must tear his little body in pieces.he licked his boots and when the lieutenant had, with laughter on his lips and tears inhis eyes, succeeded in gathering the little creature up in his arms dog monday laid hishead on the khaki shoulder and licked the sunburned neck, making queer sounds betweenbarks and sobs. the station agent had heard the story of dogmonday. he knew now who the returned soldier
was. dog monday's long vigil was ended. jemblythe had come home. "we are all very happy—and sad—and thankful,"wrote rilla in her diary a week later, "though susan has not yet recovered—never will recover,i believe—from the shock of having jem come home the very night she had, owing to a strenuousday, prepared a 'pick up' supper. i shall never forget the sight of her, tearing madlyabout from pantry to cellar, hunting out stored away goodies. just as if anybody cared whatwas on the table—none of us could eat, anyway. it was meat and drink just to look at jem.mother seemed afraid to take her eyes off him lest he vanish out of her sight. it iswonderful to have jem back—and little dog monday. monday refuses to be separated fromjem for a moment. he sleeps on the foot of
his bed and squats beside him at meal-times.and on sunday he went to church with him and insisted on going right into our pew, wherehe went to sleep on jem's feet. in the middle of the sermon he woke up and seemed to thinkhe must welcome jem all over again, for he bounded up with a series of barks and wouldn'tquiet down until jem took him up in his arms. but nobody seemed to mind, and mr. meredithcame and patted his head after the service and said, "'faith and affection and loyaltyare precious things wherever they are found. that little dog's love is a treasure, jem.' "one night when jem and i were talking thingsover in rainbow valley, i asked him if he had ever felt afraid at the front.
"jem laughed. "'afraid! i was afraid scores of times—sickwith fear—i who used to laugh at walter when he was frightened. do you know, walterwas never frightened after he got to the front. realities never scared him—only his imaginationcould do that. his colonel told me that walter was the bravest man in the regiment. rilla,i never realized that walter was dead till i came back home. you don't know how i misshim now—you folks here have got used to it in a sense—but it's all fresh to me.walter and i grew up together—we were chums as well as brothers—and now here, in thisold valley we loved when we were children, it has come home to me that i'm not to seehim again.'
"jem is going back to college in the falland so are jerry and carl. i suppose shirley will, too. he expects to be home in july.nan and di will go on teaching. faith doesn't expect to be home before september. i supposeshe will teach then too, for she and jem can't be married until he gets through his coursein medicine. una meredith has decided, i think, to take a course in household science at kingsport—andgertrude is to be married to her major and is frankly happy about it—'shamelessly happy'she says; but i think her attitude is very beautiful. they are all talking of their plansand hopes—more soberly than they used to do long ago, but still with interest, anda determination to carry on and make good in spite of lost years.
"'we're in a new world,' jem says, 'and we'vegot to make it a better one than the old. that isn't done yet, though some folks seemto think it ought to be. the job isn't finished—it isn't really begun. the old world is destroyedand we must build up the new one. it will be the task of years. i've seen enough ofwar to realize that we've got to make a world where wars can't happen. we've given prussianismits mortal wound but it isn't dead yet and it isn't confined to germany either. it isn'tenough to drive out the old spirit—we've got to bring in the new.' "i'm writing down those words of jem's inmy diary so that i can read them over occasionally and get courage from them, when moods comewhen i find it not so easy to 'keep faith.'"
rilla closed her journal with a little sigh.just then she was not finding it easy to keep faith. all the rest seemed to have some specialaim or ambition about which to build up their lives—she had none. and she was very lonely,horribly lonely. jem had come back—but he was not the laughing boy-brother who had goneaway in 1914 and he belonged to faith. walter would never come back. she had not even jimsleft. all at once her world seemed wide and empty—that is, it had seemed wide and emptyfrom the moment yesterday when she had read in a montreal paper a fortnight-old list ofreturned soldiers in which was the name of captain kenneth ford. so ken was home—and he had not even writtenher that he was coming. he had been in canada
two weeks and she had not had a line fromhim. of course he had forgotten—if there was ever anything to forget—a handclasp—akiss—a look—a promise asked under the influence of a passing emotion. it was allabsurd—she had been a silly, romantic, inexperienced goose. well, she would be wiser in the future—verywise—and very discreet—and very contemptuous of men and their ways. "i suppose i'd better go with una and takeup household science too," she thought, as she stood by her window and looked down througha delicate emerald tangle of young vines on rainbow valley, lying in a wonderful lilaclight of sunset. there did not seem anything very attractive just then about householdscience, but, with a whole new world waiting
to be built, a girl must do something. the door bell rang, rilla turned reluctantlystairwards. she must answer it—there was no one else in the house; but she hated theidea of callers just then. she went downstairs slowly, and opened the front door. a man in khaki was standing on the steps—atall fellow, with dark eyes and hair, and a narrow white scar running across his browncheek. rilla stared at him foolishly for a moment. who was it? she ought to know him—there was certainlysomething very familiar about him—"rilla-my-rilla," he said.
"ken," gasped rilla. of course, it was ken—buthe looked so much older—he was so much changed—that scar—the lines about his eyes and lips—herthoughts went whirling helplessly. ken took the uncertain hand she held out,and looked at her. the slim rilla of four years ago had rounded out into symmetry. hehad left a school girl, and he found a woman—a woman with wonderful eyes and a dented lip,and rose-bloom cheek—a woman altogether beautiful and desirable—the woman of hisdreams. "is it rilla-my-rilla?" he asked, meaningly. emotion shook rilla from head to foot. joy—happiness—sorrow—fear—everypassion that had wrung her heart in those four long years seemed to surge up in hersoul for a moment as the deeps of being were
stirred. she had tried to speak; at firstvoice would not come. then—"yeth," said