Rilla of Ingleside
nought. This will be part of your work, Rilla. And if you--all you
girls back in the homeland--do it, then we who don't come back will
know that you have not 'broken faith' with us.
"I meant to write to Una tonight, too, but I won't have time now. Read
this letter to her and tell her it's really meant for you both--you two
dear, fine loyal girls. Tomorrow, when we go over the top--I'll think
of you both--of your laughter, Rilla-my-Rilla, and the steadfastness in
Una's blue eyes--somehow I see those eyes very plainly tonight, too.
Yes, you'll both keep faith--I'm sure of that--you and Una. And
so--goodnight. We go over the top at dawn."
Rilla read her letter over many times. There was a new light on her
pale young face when she finally stood up, amid the asters Walter had
loved, with the sunshine of autumn around her. For the moment at least,
she was lifted above 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 all my
years, because of you and because of what you gave when you followed
the call."
Rilla meant to keep Walter's letter as a a sacred treasure. But, seeing
the look on Una Meredith's face when Una had read it and held it back
to her, she thought of something. Could she do it? Oh, no, she could
not give up Walter's letter--his last letter. Surely it was not
selfishness to keep it. A copy would be such a soulless thing. But
Una--Una had so little--and her eyes were the eyes of a woman stricken
to the heart, who yet must not cry out or ask for sympathy.
"Una, would you like to have this letter--to keep?" she asked slowly.
"Yes--if you can give it to me," Una said dully.
"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 gone she pressed it against her
lonely lips. Una knew that love would never come into her life now--it
was buried for ever under the blood-stained soil "Somewhere in France."
No one but herself--and perhaps Rilla--knew it--would ever know it. She
had no right in the eyes of her world to 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 for Ingleside. Mrs. Blythe's
return to health was slow, and sorrow and loneliness were in all
hearts. Every one tried to hide it from the others and "carry on"
cheerfully. Rilla laughed a good deal. Nobody at Ingleside was deceived
by her laughter; it came from her lips 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 death at all. Nobody has ever seen her shed a
tear or heard her mention his name. She has evidently quite forgotten
him. Poor fellow--you'd really think his family would feel it more. I
spoke of him to Rilla at the last Junior Red meeting--of how fine and
brave and splendid he was--and I said life could never be just the same
to me again, now that Walter had gone--we were such friends, you
know--why I was the very first person he told about having
enlisted--and Rilla 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--things hurt me terribly--I really never get over them. I
asked Rilla right out why she didn't put on mourning for Walter. She
said her mother didn't wish it. But every one is talking about it."
"Rilla doesn't wear colours--nothing but white," 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. If my brother had died I'd have gone into deep
mourning. I wouldn't have had the heart for anything 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 was rather too
vain and gigglesome; but now she is nothing of the sort. I don't think
there is a girl in the Glen who is so unselfish and plucky as Rilla, or
who has done her bit as thoroughly and patiently. Our Junior Red Cross
would have gone on the rocks a dozen times 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 suppose
she can't help it. Of course, she's a born manager--everyone knows
that. She's very fond of managing, too--and people like that are very
necessary I admit. So don't look at me as if I'd said something
perfectly dreadful, Betty, please. I'm quite willing to agree that
Rilla Blythe is the embodiment of all the virtues, if that will please
you. And no 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; and through the long hard days and weeks of that
disastrous autumn she was faithful to her task. The war news was
consistently bad, for Germany marched from victory to victory over poor
Rumania. "Foreigners--foreigners," Susan muttered dubiously. "Russians
or Rumanians or whatever they may be, they are foreigners and you
cannot tie to them. But after Verdun I shall not give up hope. And can
you tell me, Mrs. Dr. dear, if the Dobruja is a river or a mountain
range, or a condition of the atmosphere?"
The Presidential election in the United States came 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 day when I would be interested
in a Yankee election, Mrs. Dr. dear. It only goes to show we can never
know what we will come to in this world, and therefore we should not be
proud."
Susan stayed up late on the evening of the eleventh, ostensibly to
finish a pair of socks. But she 'phoned down to Carter Flagg's store at
intervals, and when the first report came through that Hughes had been
elected she stalked solemnly upstairs to Mrs. Blythe's room and
announced it in a thrilling whisper from the foot of the bed.
"I thought if you were not asleep you would be interested in knowing
it. I believe it is for the best. Perhaps he will just fall to writing
notes, too, Mrs. Dr. dear, but I hope for better things. I never was
very partial to whiskers, but one cannot have everything."
When news came in the morning that after all Wilson was re-elected,
Susan tacked to catch another breeze of optimism.
"Well, better a fool you know than a fool you do not know, as the old
proverb has it," she remarked cheerfully. "Not that I hold Woodrow to
be a fool by any means, though by times you would not think he has the
sense he was born with. But he is a good letter writer at least, and we
do not know if the Hughes man is even that. All things being considered
I commend the Yankees. They have shown 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
for him myself, but we must believe that Providence over-rules these
matters and be satisfied--though what the Almighty means in this affair
of Rumania I cannot fathom--saying it with all reverence."
Susan fathomed it--or thought she did--when the Asquith ministry went
down and Lloyd George became Premier.
"Mrs. Dr. dear, Lloyd George is at the helm at last. I have been
praying for this for many a day. Now we shall soon see a blessed
change. It took the Rumanian disaster to bring it about, no less, and
that is the meaning of it, though I could not see it before. There will
be no more shilly-shallying. I consider that the war is as good as won,
and that I shall tie to, whether Bucharest falls or not."
Bucharest did fall--and Germany proposed peace negotiations. Whereat
Susan scornfully turned a deaf ear and absolutely refused to listen to
such proposals. When President Wilson sent his famous December peace
note Susan waxed violently sarcastic.
"Woodrow Wilson is going to make peace, I understand. First Henry Ford
had a try at it and now comes Wilson. But peace is not made with ink,
Woodrow, and that you may tie to," said Susan, apostrophizing the
unlucky President out of the kitchen window nearest the United States.
"Lloyd George's speech will tell the Kaiser what is what, and you may
keep your peace screeds at home and save postage."
"What a pity President Wilson can't hear you, Susan," said Rilla slyly.
"Indeed, Rilla dear, it is a pity that he has no one near him to give
him good advice, as it is clear he has not, in all those Democrats and
Republicans," retorted Susan. "I do not know the difference between
them, for the politics of the Yankees is a puzzle I cannot solve, study
it as I may. But as far as seeing through a grindstone goes, I am
afraid--" Susan shook her head dubiously, "that they are all tarred
with the same brush."
"I am thankful Christmas is over," Rilla wrote in her diary during the
last week of a stormy December. "We had dreaded it so--the first
Christmas since Courcelette. But we had all the Merediths down for
dinner and nobody tried to 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--almost but not
quite. I wonder if I shall ever feel really glad over anything again.
It seems as 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 will never live again.
"Winter set in awfully early this year. Ten days before Christmas we
had a big snowstorm--at least we thought it big at the time. As it
happened, it was only a prelude to the real performance. It was fine
the next day, and Ingleside and Rainbow Valley were wonderful, with the
trees all covered with snow, and big drifts everywhere, carved into the
most fantastic shapes by the chisel of the northeast wind. Father and
mother went up to Avonlea. Father thought the change would do mother
good, and they wanted to see poor Aunt Diana, whose son Jock had been
seriously wounded a short time before. They left Susan and me to keep
house, and father expected to be back the 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
Prince Edward Island has known for years. Everything was
disorganized--the roads were completely choked 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 mother went away, and he kept
getting worse for a couple of days, but it didn't occur to me that
there was danger of anything serious. I never even took his
temperature, and I can't forgive myself, because it was sheer
carelessness. The truth is I had slumped just then. Mother was away, so
I let myself go. All at once I was tired of keeping up and pretending