Rilla of Ingleside
"She was very calm and quiet--not a bit like I would have expected her
to be. But then I wasn't either. I went and woke up Gertrude and Susan
and told them. Susan said 'Thank God,' firstly, and secondly she said
'Did I not tell you Dog Monday knew?' and thirdly, 'I'll go down and
make a cup of tea'--and she stalked down in her nightdress to make it.
She did make it--and made mother and Gertrude drink it--but I went back
to my room and shut my door and locked it, and I knelt by my window and
cried--just as Gertrude did when her great news came.
"I think I know at last exactly what I shall feel like on the
resurrection morning."
4th October 1918
"Today Jem's letter came. It has been in the house only six hours and
it is almost read to pieces. The post-mistress told everybody in the
Glen it had come, and everybody came up to hear the news.
"Jem was badly wounded in the thigh--and he was picked up and taken to
prison, so delirious with fever that he didn't know what was happening
to 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--only the food was poor. He had
nothing to eat but a little black bread and boiled turnips and now and
then a little soup with black peas in it. And we sat down every one of
those days to three good square luxurious meals! He wrote us as often
as he could but he was afraid we were not getting his letters because
no reply came. As soon as he was strong enough he tried to escape, but
was caught and brought back; a month later he and a comrade made
another attempt and succeeded in reaching Holland.
"Jem can't come home right away. He isn't quite so well as his cable
said, for his wound has not healed properly and he has to go into a
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 makes in 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 his
bride. I don't know whether to be glad or sorry. It will depend on what
kind of a woman she is. I had a second letter also of a somewhat
mysterious tenor. It is from a Charlottetown lawyer, asking me to go in
to see him at my earliest convenience in regard to a certain matter
connected with the estate of the 'late Mrs. Matilda Pitman.'
"I read a notice of Mrs. Pitman's death--from heart failure--in the
Enterprise a few weeks ago. I wonder if this summons has anything to do
with Jims."
5th October 1918
"I went into town this morning and had an interview with Mrs. Pitman's
lawyer--a little thin, wispy man, who spoke of his late client with
such a profound respect that it is evident that he as was much under
her thumb as Robert and Amelia were. He drew up a new will for her a
short time before her death. She was worth thirty thousand dollars,
the bulk of which was left to Amelia Chapley. But she left five
thousand to me in trust for Jims. The interest is to be used as I
see fit for his 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 him when he fell
off the train. And he tumbled not only into a clump of bracken, but
right into this nice little legacy.
"Evidently, as Mrs. Matilda Pitman said, and as I have always believed,
he is no common child and he has no common destiny in store for him.
"At all events he is provided for, and in such a fashion that Jim
Anderson can't squander his inheritance if he wanted to. Now, if the
new English stepmother is only a good sort I shall feel quite easy
about the future of my war-baby.
"I wonder what Robert and Amelia think of it. I fancy they will nail
down their windows when 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 that they
had lighted a fire in the living-room and the merry little flames were
doing their best to counteract the outside dourness. "It's more like
November than October--November is such an ugly month."
Cousin Sophia was there, having again forgiven Susan, and Mrs. Martin
Clow, who was not visiting on Sunday but had dropped in to borrow
Susan's cure for rheumatism--that being cheaper than getting one from
the doctor. "I'm afeared we're going to have an airly winter,"
foreboded Cousin Sophia. "The muskrats are building awful big houses
round the pond, and that's a sign that never fails. Dear me, how that
child has grown!" Cousin Sophia sighed again, as if it were an unhappy
circumstance that a child should grow. "When do you expect his father?"
"Next week," said Rilla.
"Well, I hope the stepmother won't abuse the pore 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
anywhere else. You've spoiled him so, Rilla, waiting on him hand and
foot the way you've always done."
Rilla smiled and pressed her cheek to Jims' curls. She knew
sweet-tempered, sunny, little Jims was not spoiled. Nevertheless her
heart was anxious behind her smile. She, too, thought much about the
new Mrs. Anderson and wondered uneasily what she would be like.
"I can't give Jims up to a woman who won't love him," she thought
rebelliously.
"I b'lieve it's going to rain," said Cousin Sophia. "We have had an
awful lot of rain this fall already. It's going to make it awful hard
for people to get their roots in. It wasn't so in my young days. We
gin'rally had beautiful Octobers then. But the seasons is altogether
different now from what they used to be." Clear across Cousin Sophia's
doleful voice cut the telephone bell. Gertrude Oliver answered 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
through the thick clouds and poured through the big crimson maple
outside the window. Its reflected glow enveloped her in a weird
immaterial flame. She looked like a priestess performing some mystic,
splendid rite.
"Germany and Austria are suing for peace," she said.
Rilla went crazy for a few minutes. She sprang up and danced around the
room, clapping her hands, laughing, crying.
"Sit down, child," said Mrs. Clow, who never got excited over anything,
and so had missed a tremendous amount of trouble and delight in her
journey through life.
"Oh," cried Rilla, "I have walked the floor for hours in despair and
anxiety in these past four years. Now let me walk in joy. It was worth
living long dreary years for this minute, and it would be worth living
them again just to look back to it. Susan, let's run up the flag--and
we must phone the news to 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. The Merediths
came over and stayed to supper and everybody talked and nobody
listened. Cousin Sophia tried to protest that Germany and Austria were
not to be trusted and it was all part of 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, apart to Rilla, "if things won't
seem rather flat and insipid when peace really comes. After being fed
for four years on horrors and fears, terrible reverses, amazing
victories, won't anything less be tame and uninteresting? How
strange--and blessed--and dull it will be not 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 weeks
dreadful 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 Gertrude softly. "Do you think
it was, Rilla?"
"No," said Rilla, under her breath. She was seeing a little white cross
on a battlefield of France. "No--not if those of us who live will show
ourselves worthy of it--if we 'keep faith.'"
"We will keep faith," said Gertrude. She rose suddenly. A silence fell
around the table, and in the silence Gertrude repeated Walter's famous
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 TAKES A HONEYMOON
Early in November Jims left Ingleside. Rilla saw 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
which bestowed her on Jim. She was rosy-faced and blue-eyed and
wholesome, with the roundness and trigness of a geranium leaf. Rilla
saw at first glance that she was to be trusted with 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 child and I must say you've done wonders in bringing him up so
healthy and handsome. I'll be as good to him as if he was my own, miss.
And I'll make Jim toe the line all right. He's a good worker--all he
needs is some one to keep him at it, and to take charge of his money.
We've rented a little farm just out of the village, and we're going to
settle down there. Jim wanted to stay in England but I says 'No.' I
hankered to try a new country and 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 child I never did see. We
understand, Jim and me, what you've done for him, and you won't find us
ungrateful. He can come here whenever you want him and I'll always be
glad of any advice from 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. That night
the village had a bonfire, and burned the Kaiser in effigy. The fishing
village boys turned out and burned all the sandhills off in one grand
glorious conflagration that extended for seven miles. Up at Ingleside
Rilla ran laughing to her room.
"Now I'm going to do a most unladylike and inexcusable thing," she
said, as she pulled her green velvet hat out of its box. "I'm going to
kick this hat about the room until it is without form and void; and I
shall never as 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'm rather ashamed of it,"
said Rilla, kicking joyously. "I wanted to show mother. It's mean to
want to show your own mother--most unfilial conduct! But I have shown
her. And I've shown myself a few things! Oh, Miss Oliver, just for one
moment I'm really feeling quite young again--young and frivolous and
silly. Did I ever say November was an ugly month? Why it's the most
beautiful month in the whole year. Listen to the bells ringing in
Rainbow Valley! I never heard them so clearly. They're ringing for