Rilla of Ingleside
"I have read also," said Miss Oliver, "that shortly before his death he
said that his only regret in dying was that he must die before he had
seen what that 'extremely interesting young man, the German Emperor,'
would do in his life. If Ernest Renan 'walked' today and saw what that
interesting young man had done to his beloved France, not to speak of
the world, I wonder if his mental detachment would be 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 come about Jem. Nothing had been
discovered concerning him, in spite of all efforts. Two or three
letters had come from him, written before the trench raid, and since
then there had been only unbroken silence. Now the Germans were again
at the Marne, pressing nearer and nearer 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 hope
and courage failed her utterly--when it seemed impossible to go on even
one more day. If only they knew what had happened to Jem--you can face
anything you know. But a beleaguerment of 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--they could never be quite sure; and Dog Monday would wait for the
train until he died of old age. Monday was only a poor, faithful,
rheumatic little dog, who knew nothing more of his master's fate than
they did.
Rilla had a "white night" and did not fall asleep until late. When she
wakened Gertrude Oliver was sitting at her window leaning out to meet
the silver mystery of the dawn. Her clever, striking profile, with the
masses of 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 had inflicted 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 disappearance was
another thing: there was a poison in it that kept it from healing. The
alternations of hope and despair, the endless watching each day for the
letter that never came--that might never come--the newspaper tales of
ill-usage of prisoners--the bitter wonder as to Jem's wound--all were
increasingly hard to bear.
Gertrude Oliver turned her head. There was an odd brilliancy in her
eyes.
"Rilla, I've had another dream."
"Oh, no--no," cried Rilla, shrinking. Miss Oliver's dreams had always
foretold coming disaster.
"Rilla, it was a good dream. Listen--I dreamed just 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 began to ebb--and they ebbed as swiftly as, four years ago,
they rolled in--ebbed out and out, to the gulf; and the Glen lay before
me, beautiful and green, with a rainbow spanning Rainbow Valley--a
rainbow of such splendid colour that it dazzled me--and I woke.
Rilla--Rilla Blythe--the tide has turned."
"I wish I could believe it," sighed Rilla.
"Sooth was my prophecy of fear
Believe it when it augurs cheer,"
quoted Gertrude, almost gaily. "I tell you I have no doubt."
Yet, in spite of the great Italian victory at the Piave that came a few
days later, she had doubt many a time in the hard month that followed;
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. But it was: again, as in 1914, the tide
turned at the Marne. The French and the American troops struck their
sudden smashing blow on the exposed flank of the enemy and, with the
almost 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--I feel it," said Mrs.
Blythe.
"Thank God," said Susan, folding her trembling old 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 gallantly
out above her, Susan lifted her hand and saluted it, as she had seen
Shirley do. "We've all given something to keep you flying," she said.
"Four hundred thousand of our boys gone overseas--fifty thousand of
them killed. But--you are worth it!" The wind whipped her grey hair
about her face and the gingham apron that shrouded her from head to
foot was cut on lines of economy, not of grace; yet, somehow, just then
Susan made an imposing figure. She was one 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 this was in the doctor's mind as he watched her from the
door.
"Susan," he said, when she turned to come in, "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 platform of their car when the
train stopped at the little Millward siding. The August evening was so
hot and close that the crowded cars were stifling. Nobody ever knew
just why trains stopped at Millward siding. Nobody was ever known to
get off there or get on. There was only one house nearer to it than
four miles, and it was surrounded by acres of blueberry barrens and
scrub spruce-trees.
Rilla was on her way into Charlottetown to spend the night with a
friend and the next day in Red Cross shopping; she had taken Jims with
her, partly because she did not want Susan or her mother to be bothered
with his care, partly because of a hungry desire in her heart to have
as much of him as she could before she might have to give him up
forever. James Anderson had written to her not long before this; he was
wounded and in the hospital; he would not be able to go back to the
front and as soon as he was able he would be coming home for Jims.
Rilla was heavy-hearted over this, and worried also. She loved Jims
dearly and would feel deeply giving him up in any case; but if Jim
Anderson were a different sort of a man, with a proper home for the
child, it would not be so bad. But to give Jims up to a roving,
shiftless, irresponsible father, however kind and good-hearted he might
be--and she knew Jim Anderson was kind and good-hearted enough--was a
bitter prospect to Rilla. It was not even likely Anderson would stay in
the Glen; he had 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 fate be? Rilla meant to
beg Jim Anderson to leave him with her, but, from his letter, she had
not much hope that he would.
"If he would only stay in the Glen, where I 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 is such a bright little chap--he has ambition, wherever
he got it--and he isn't lazy. But his 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 what was to become of him. He
was gleefully watching the antics of a striped chipmunk that was
frisking over the roof of the little siding. As the train pulled out
Jims leaned eagerly forward for a last look at Chippy, pulling his hand
from Rilla's. Rilla was so engrossed in wondering what was to become of
Jims in the future that she forgot to take notice of 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 in a clump of bracken fern on the other side.
Rilla shrieked and lost her head. She sprang down the steps and jumped
off the train.
Fortunately, the train was still going at a comparatively slow speed;
fortunately also, Rilla retained enough sense to jump the way it was
going; nevertheless, she fell and sprawled helplessly down the
embankment, landing in a ditch full of a rank growth of golden-rod and
fireweed.
Nobody had seen what had happened and the train whisked briskly away
round a curve in the barrens. Rilla picked herself up, dizzy but
unhurt, scrambled out of the ditch, and flew wildly across the
platform, expecting to find Jims dead or broken in pieces. But Jims,
except for a few bruises, and a big fright, 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, producing something very like what
her father would have called hysterics. But she caught herself up
before the hysteria could conquer her.
"Rilla Blythe, I'm ashamed of you. Pull yourself together immediately.
Jims, you shouldn't have said anything like that."
"God frew me off the twain," declared Jims defiantly. "Somebody frew
me; you didn't frow me; so it was God."
"No, it wasn't. You fell because you let go of my hand and bent too far
forward. I told you not to do that. So that it was your own fault."
Jims looked to see if she meant it; then glanced up at the sky again.
"Excuse me, then, God," he remarked airily.
Rilla scanned the sky also; she did not like its appearance; a heavy
thundercloud was appearing in the northwest. What in the world was to
be done? There was no other train that night, since the nine o'clock
special ran only on Saturdays. 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 with Jims 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
night and 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 Hannah Crawford, had lived in the
Glen and gone to school with Rilla. They had been good friends then,
though Hannah had been three years the older. She had married very
young and had gone to live in Millward. What with hard work and babies
and a ne'er-do-well husband, her life had not been an easy one, and
Hannah seldom revisited her old home. Rilla had visited her 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 where rosy-faced, open-hearted, generous Hannah
lived.
For the first mile they got on very well but the second one was harder.
The road, seldom used, was rough and deep-rutted. Jims grew so 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 sky was black with clouds; the first heavy
drops were beginning to fall; and the rumble of thunder was growing
very loud. Then she made an unpleasant discovery. The blinds were all
down and the doors locked. Evidently the Brewsters were not at home.
Rilla ran to the little barn. It, too, was locked. No other refuge