Rilla of Ingleside
for supper. Mrs. Blythe was making shortbread for Jem, and Rilla was
compounding candy for Ken and Walter--it had once been "Walter and Ken"
in her thoughts but 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 long run, so
Cousin Sophia felt in her bones, but they might better die with warm
feet than cold 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 Susan became
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 an
outrage?"
"We don't know that the Germans are responsible for this," said the
doctor--much as if he felt quite sure they were. "Fires do start
without 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 nodded slowly and
portentously. "Whiskers-on-the-moon was there that very day. The fire
broke out half an hour after he was gone. So much is a fact--but I
shall not accuse a Presbyterian elder 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 speeches at 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 another
woman's son to go, to murder and be murdered."
"Could you not?" said Susan. "Well, Sophia Crawford, I felt as if I
could ask anyone to go when I read last night that there were no
children under eight years of age left alive in Poland. Think of that,
Sophia Crawford"--Susan shook a floury finger at
Sophia--"not--one--child--under--eight--years--of--age!"
"I suppose the Germans has et 'em all," sighed Cousin Sophia.
"Well, no-o-o," said Susan reluctantly, as if she hated to admit that
there was any crime the Huns couldn't be accused of. "The Germans have
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 thought of it poisons every bite and sup I
take."
"I see that Fred Carson of Lowbridge has been awarded a Distinguished
Conduct Medal," remarked the doctor, over his local paper.
"I heard that last week," said Susan. "He is a battalion runner and he
did something extra brave and daring. His letter, telling his folks
about it, came when his old Grandmother Carson was on her dying-bed.
She had only a few minutes more to live and the Episcopal minister, who
was there, asked her if she would not like him to pray. 'Oh yes, yes,
you can pray,' she said impatient-like--she was a Dean, Dr. dear, and
the Deans were always high-spirited--'you can pray, but for pity's sake
pray low and don't disturb me. I want to think over this splendid news
and I have not much time left to do it.' That was Almira Carson all
over. Fred was the apple of her eye. She was seventy-five years of age
and had not a grey hair in her head, they tell me."
"By the way, that reminds me--I found a grey hair 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. Blythe laughed a trifle
ruefully. "People are beginning to tell me I look so young. They never
tell you that when you are young. But I shall not worry over my silver
thread. I never liked red hair. Gilbert, did I ever tell you of that
time, years ago at Green Gables, when I dyed my hair? Nobody but
Marilla and I knew about it."
"Was that the reason you came out once with your hair shingled to the
bone?"
"Yes. I bought a bottle of dye from a German Jew pedlar. I fondly
expected it would turn my hair black--and it turned it green. So it 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 special
mercy of Providence that it was only green dye and not poison."
"It seems hundreds of years since those Green Gables days," sighed Mrs.
Blythe. "They belonged to another world altogether. Life has been cut
in two by the chasm of war. What is ahead I don't know--but it can't be
a bit like the past. I wonder if those of us who have lived half our
lives in the old world will ever feel wholly at home in the new."
"Have you noticed," asked Miss Oliver, glancing up 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--the Senior class have it in their entrance work--I've
been glancing over it. Its classic calm and repose and the beauty of
the lines seem to belong to another planet, and to have as little to do
with the present world-welter as the evening star."
"The only thing that I find much comfort in reading nowadays is the
Bible," remarked Susan, whisking her biscuits into the oven. "There are
so many passages in it that seem to me exactly descriptive of the Huns.
Old Highland Sandy declares that there is no doubt that the Kaiser is
the Anti-Christ spoken of in Revelations, 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, Miranda Pryor slipped up to
Ingleside, ostensibly to get some Red Cross sewing, but in reality to
talk over with sympathetic Rilla troubles that were past bearing alone.
She brought her dog with her--an over-fed, bandy-legged little animal
very dear to her heart because Joe Milgrave had given it to her when it
was a puppy. Mr. Pryor regarded all dogs with disfavour; but in those
days he had looked kindly upon Joe as a suitor for Miranda's hand and
so he had allowed her to keep the puppy. Miranda was so grateful that
she endeavoured to 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
grew and flourished and waxed fat; but Miranda spoiled him absurdly and
nobody else liked him. Rilla especially hated him because of his
detestable trick of lying flat on his back and entreating you with
waving paws to tickle his sleek stomach. When she saw that Miranda's
pale eyes bore unmistakable testimony of her having cried all night,
Rilla asked her to come up to her room, knowing Miranda had a tale of
woe to tell, but she ordered Sir 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 him in.
He is always so lonesome in a strange place without me--and very soon
he'll be--all--I'll have left--to remind me--of Joe."
Rilla yielded, and Sir Wilfrid, with his tail curled at a saucy angle
over his brindled back, trotted triumphantly up the stairs before them.
"Oh, Rilla," sobbed Miranda, when they had reached 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. Sir Wilfrid 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 Friday morning--and I may never see him again."
"Does he still want you to marry him?" asked Rilla.
"Oh, yes. He implored me in his letter to run away and be married. But
I cannot do that, Rilla, not even for Joe. My only comfort is that I
will be able to see him for a little while tomorrow afternoon. Father
has to go to 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 married tomorrow afternoon at
home?" demanded Rilla.
Miranda swallowed a sob in such amazement that she almost choked.
"Why--why--that is impossible, Rilla."
"Why?" briefly demanded the organizer of the Junior Red Cross and the
transporter of babies in soup tureens.
"Why--why--we never thought of such a thing--Joe hasn'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 threw back his head and emitted a melancholy yelp.
Rilla Blythe thought hard and rapidly for a few minutes. Then she said,
"Miranda, if you will put yourself into my hands I'll have you married
to Joe before four o'clock tomorrow afternoon."
"Oh, you couldn't."
"I can and I will. But you'll have to do exactly as I tell you."
"Oh--I--don't think--oh, father will kill me--"
"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 to you?"
"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 once and 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 together with 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 desperately resolved, 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 approved of her undertaking, but it was a good
hour before she could get in touch with Joe Milgrave at his camp.
Meanwhile, she paced impatiently about, and prayed that when she did
get Joe there 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 marriage license--yes, a marriage license--and a
wedding-ring. Did you get that? And will you do it? Very well, be sure
you do it--it is your only chance."
Flushed with triumph--for her only fear was that she might not be able
to locate Joe in time--Rilla rang the Pryor ring. This time she 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 with some 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 he refused to allow
Miranda to do any Red Cross work public opinion would make the Glen too
hot for comfort. Rilla went out to the kitchen, shut all the doors with
a mysterious expression which alarmed Susan, and then said solemnly,
"Susan can you make a wedding-cake this afternoon?"