CHAPTER V
"THE SOUND OF A GOING"
Rilla ran down through the sunlit glory of the maple grove behindIngleside, to her favourite nook in Rainbow Valley. She sat down on agreen-mossed stone among the fern, propped her chin on her hands andstared unseeingly at the dazzling blue sky of the August afternoon--soblue, so peaceful, so unchanged, just as it had arched over the valleyin the mellow days of late summer ever since she could remember.
She wanted to be alone--to think things out--to adjust herself, if itwere possible, to the new world into which she seemed to have beentransplanted with a suddenness and completeness that left her halfbewildered as to her own identity. Was she--could she be--the sameRilla Blythe who had danced at Four Winds Light six days ago--only sixdays ago? It seemed to Rilla that she had lived as much in those sixdays as in all her previous life--and if it be true that we shouldcount time by heart-throbs she had. That evening, with its hopes andfears and triumphs and humiliations, seemed like ancient history now.Could she really ever have cried just because she had been forgottenand had to walk home with Mary Vance? Ah, thought Rilla sadly, howtrivial and absurd such a cause of tears now appeared to her. She couldcry now with a right good will--but she would not--she must not. Whatwas it mother had said, looking, with her white 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--like mother--and Nan--andFaith--Faith, who had cried with flashing eyes, "Oh, if I were only aman, to go too!" Only, when her eyes ached and her throat burned likethis she had to hide herself in Rainbow Valley for a little, just tothink things out and remember that she wasn't a child any longer--shewas grown-up and women had to face things like this. But itwas--nice--to get away alone now and then, where nobody could see herand where she needn't feel that people thought her a little coward ifsome tears came in spite of her.
How sweet and woodsey the ferns smelled! How softly the great featheryboughs of the firs waved and murmured over her! How elfinly rang thebells of the "Tree Lovers"--just a tinkle now and then as the breezeswept by! How purple and elusive the haze where incense was beingoffered on many an altar of the hills! How the maple leaves whitened inthe wind until the grove seemed covered with pale silvery blossoms!Everything was just the same as she had seen it hundreds of times; andyet the whole face of the world seemed changed.
"How wicked I was to wish that something dramatic would happen!" shethought. "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 very day after the party. Asthey lingered around the dinner table at Ingleside, talking of the war,the telephone had rung. It was a long-distance call from Charlottetownfor Jem. When he had finished talking he hung up the receiver andturned around, with a flushed face and glowing eyes. Before he had saida word his mother and Nan and Di had turned pale. As for Rilla, for thefirst time in her life she felt that every one must hear her heartbeating and that something had clutched at her throat.
"They are calling for volunteers in town, father," said Jem. "Scoreshave joined up already. I'm going in tonight to enlist."
"Oh--Little Jem," cried Mrs. Blythe brokenly. She had not called himthat 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 stared moodily at his plate. Nanand 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 finish that piece of pie--a fact which bore eloquenttestimony to the upheaval in her inner woman for Susan considered it acardinal offence against civilized society to begin to eat anything andnot finish it. That was wilful waste, hens to the contrarynotwithstanding.
Jem turned to the phone again. "I must ring the manse. Jerry will wantto go, too."
At this Nan had cried out "Oh!" as if a knife had been thrust into her,and rushed from the room. Di followed her. Rilla turned to Walter forcomfort but Walter was lost to her in some reverie she could not share.
"All right," Jem was saying, as coolly as if he were arranging thedetails of a picnic. "I thought you would--yes, tonight--the seveno'clock--meet me at the station. So long."
"Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan. "I wish you would wake me up. Am Idreaming--or am I awake? Does that blessed boy realize what he issaying? Does he mean that he is going to enlist as a soldier? You donot mean to tell me that they want children like him! It is an outrage.Surely you and the doctor will not permit it."
"We can't stop him," said Mrs. Blythe, chokingly. "Oh, Gilbert!"
Dr. Blythe came up behind his wife and took her hand gently, lookingdown into the sweet grey eyes that he had only once before seen filledwith such imploring anguish as now. They both thought of that othertime--the day years ago in the House of Dreams when little Joyce haddied.
"Would you have him stay, Anne--when the others are going--when hethinks it his duty--would you have him so selfish and small-souled?"
"No--no! But--oh--our first-born son--he's only a lad--Gilbert--I'lltry to be brave after a while--just now I can't. It's all come sosuddenly. Give me time."
The doctor and his wife went out of the room. Jem had gone--Walter hadgone--Shirley got up to go. Rilla and Susan remained staring at eachother across the deserted table. Rilla had not yet cried--she was toostunned for tears. Then she saw that Susan was crying--Susan, whom shehad never seen shed a tear before.
"Oh, Susan, will he really go?" she asked.
"It--it--it is just ridiculous, that is what it is," said Susan.
She wiped away her tears, gulped resolutely and got up.
"I am going to wash the dishes. That has to be done, even if everybodyhas gone crazy. There now, dearie, do not you cry. Jem will go, mostlikely--but the war will be over long before he gets anywhere near it.Let us take a brace and not worry your poor mother."
"In the Enterprise today it was reported that Lord Kitchener says thewar will last three years," said Rilla dubiously.
"I am not acquainted with Lord Kitchener," said Susan, composedly, "butI dare say he makes mistakes as often as other people. Your father saysit will be over in a few months and I have as much faith in his opinionas I have in Lord Anybody's. So just let us be calm and trust in theAlmighty and get this place tidied up. I am done with crying which is awaste of time and discourages everybody."
Jem and Jerry went to Charlottetown that night and two days later theycame back in khaki. The Glen hummed with excitement over it. Life atIngleside had suddenly become a tense, strained, thrilling thing. Mrs.Blythe and Nan were brave and smiling and wonderful. Already Mrs.Blythe and Miss Cornelia were organizing a Red Cross. The doctor andMr. Meredith were rounding up the men for a Patriotic Society. Rilla,after the first shock, reacted to the romance of it all, in spite ofher heartache. Jem certainly looked magnificent in his uniform. It wassplendid to think of the lads of Canada answering so speedily andfearlessly and uncalculatingly to the call of their country. Rillacarried her head high among the girls whose brothers had not soresponded. In her diary she wrote:
"He goes to do what I had done Had Douglas's daughter been his son,"
and was sure she meant it. If she were a boy of course she would go,too! She hadn't the least doubt of that.
She wondered if it was very dreadful of her to feel glad that Walterhadn'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 somuch but Walter means more to me than anyone in the world and I woulddie if he had to go. He seems so changed these days. He hardly evertalks to me. I suppose he wants to go, too, and feels badl
y because hecan't. He doesn't go about with Jem and Jerry at all. I shall neverforget Susan's face when Jem came home in his khaki. It worked andtwisted as if she were going to cry, but all she said was, 'You lookalmost like a man in that, Jem.' Jem laughed. He never minds becauseSusan thinks him just a child still. Everybody seems busy but me. Iwish there was something I could do but there doesn't seem to beanything. Mother and Nan and Di are busy all the time and I just wanderabout like a lonely ghost. What hurts me terribly, though, is thatmother's smiles, and Nan's, just seem put on from the outside. Mother'seyes never laugh now. It makes me feel that I shouldn't laugheither--that it's wicked to feel laughy. And it's so hard for me tokeep from laughing, even if Jem is going to be a soldier. But when Ilaugh I don't enjoy it either, as I used to do. There's somethingbehind it all that keeps hurting me--especially when I wake up in thenight. Then I cry because I am afraid that Kitchener of Khartoum isright and the war will last for years and Jem may be--but no, I won'twrite it. It would make me feel as if it were really going to happen.The other day Nan said, 'Nothing can ever be quite the same for any ofus again.' It made me feel rebellious. Why shouldn't things be the sameagain--when everything is over and Jem and Jerry are back? We'll all behappy and jolly again and these days will seem just like a bad dream.
"The coming of the mail is the most exciting event 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 she does not and will not believe a word the papers say butshe always comes to the kitchen door, and listens and then goes back,shaking her head. She is terribly indignant all the time, but she cooksup all the things Jem likes especially, and she did not make a singlebit of fuss when she found Monday asleep on the spare-room bedyesterday right on top of Mrs. Rachel Lynde's apple-leaf spread. 'TheAlmighty only knows where your master will be having to sleep beforelong, you poor dumb beast,' she said as she put him quite gently out.But she never relents towards Doc. She says the minute he saw Jem inkhaki he turned into Mr. Hyde then and there and she thinks that oughtto be proof enough of what he really is. Susan is funny, but she is anold dear. Shirley says she is one half angel and the other half goodcook. But then Shirley is the only one of us she never scolds.
"Faith Meredith is wonderful. I think she and Jem are really engagednow. She goes about with a shining light in her eyes, but her smilesare a little stiff and starched, just like mother's. I wonder if Icould be as brave as she is if I had a lover and he was going to thewar. It is bad enough when it is your brother. Bruce Meredith cried allnight, Mrs. Meredith says, when he heard Jem and Jerry were going. Andhe 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'treally care much for children. I don't like babies one bit--though whenI say so people look at me as if I had said something perfectlyshocking. Well, I don't, and I've got to be honest about it. I don'tmind looking at a nice clean baby if somebody else holds it--but Iwouldn't touch it for anything and I don't feel a single real spark ofinterest in it. Gertrude Oliver says she just feels the same. (She isthe most honest person I know. She never pretends anything.) She saysbabies 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 babiesand seem to think I'm unnatural because I don't.
"I haven't seen Kenneth since the night of the party. He was here oneevening after Jem came back but I happened to be away. I don't think hementioned me at all--at least nobody told me he did and I wasdetermined I wouldn't ask--but I don't care in the least. All thatmatters absolutely nothing to me now. The only thing that does matteris that Jem has volunteered for active service and will be going toValcartier in a few more days--my big, splendid brother Jem. Oh, I'm soproud of him!
"I suppose Kenneth would enlist too if it weren't for his ankle. Ithink that is quite providential. He is his mother's only son and howdreadful she would feel if he went. Only sons should never think ofgoing!"
Walter came wandering through the valley as Rilla sat there, with hishead bent and his hands clasped behind him. When he saw Rilla he turnedabruptly 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 Rilla wistfully. "Evenyou--you're changed. A week ago we were all so happy--and--and--now Ijust can't find myself at all. I'm lost."
Walter sat down on a neighbouring stone and took Rilla's littleappealing hand.
"I'm afraid our old world has come to an end, Rilla. We've got to facethat fact."
"It's so terrible to think of Jem," pleaded Rilla. "Sometimes I forgetfor a little while what it really means and feel excited and proud--andthen it comes over me again like a cold wind."
"I envy Jem!" said Walter moodily.
"Envy Jem! Oh, Walter you--you don't want to go too."
"No," said Walter, gazing straight before him down the emerald vistasof 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 togo. You might be--why, you might be killed."
"I wouldn't mind that if it didn't hurt," muttered Walter. "I don'tthink I'm afraid of death itself--it's of the pain that might comebefore death--it wouldn't be so bad to die and have it over--but tokeep on dying! Rilla, I've always been afraid of pain--you know that. Ican't help it--I shudder when I think of the possibility of beingmangled or--or blinded. Rilla, I cannot face that thought. To beblind--never to see the beauty of the world again--moonlight on FourWinds--the stars twinkling through the fir-trees--mist on the gulf. Iought to go--I ought to want to go--but I don't--I hate the thought ofit--I'm ashamed--ashamed."
"But, Walter, you couldn't go anyhow," said Rilla piteously. She wassick 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 this last month. I'd pass anyexamination--I know it. Everybody thinks I'm not strong yet--and I'mskulking behind that belief. I--I should have been a girl," Walterconcluded in a burst of passionate bitterness.
"Even if you were strong enough, you oughtn't to go," sobbed Rilla."What would mother do? She's breaking her heart over Jem. It would killher to see you both go."
"Oh, I'm not going--don't worry. I tell you I'm afraid to go--afraid. Idon't mince the matter to myself. It's a relief to own up even 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. Warisn't a khaki uniform or a drill parade--everything I've read in oldhistories haunts me. I lie awake at night and see things that havehappened--see the blood and filth and misery of it all. And a bayonetcharge! If I could face the other things I could never face that. Itturns me sick to think of it--sicker even to think of giving it thanreceiving it--to think of thrusting a bayonet through another man."Walter writhed and shuddered. "I think of these things all thetime--and it doesn't seem to me that Jem and Jerry ever think of them.They laugh and talk about 'potting Huns'! But it maddens me to see themin the khaki. And they think I'm grumpy because I'm not fit to go."
Walter laughed bitterly. "It is not a nice thing to feel yourself acoward." But Rilla got her arms about him and cuddled her head on hisshoulder. She was so glad he didn't want to go--for just one minute shehad been horribly frightened. And it was so nice to have Walterconfiding his troubles to her--to her, not Di. She didn't feel solonely and superfluous any longer.
"Don't you despise me, Rilla-my-Rilla?" asked Walter wistfully.Somehow, it hurt him to think Rilla might despise him--hurt him as muchas if it had been Di. He realized suddenly how very fond he was of thisadoring kid sister with her appealing eyes and troubled, girlish face.
"No, I don't. Why, Walter, hundreds of people feel just as you do. Youknow 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 fear subdues.' 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 Reese long ago."
"One spurt of courage isn't enough for a lifetime."
"Walter, one time I heard father say that the trouble with you was asensitive nature and a vivid imagination. You feel things before theyreally come--feel them all alone when there isn't anything to help youbear them--to take away from them. It isn't anything to be ashamed of.When you and Jem got your hands burned when the grass was fired on thesand-hills two years ago Jem made twice the fuss over the pain that youdid. As for this horrid old war, there'll be plenty to go without you.It won't last long."
"I wish I could believe it. Well, it's supper-time, Rilla. You'd betterrun. 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 restall think that I'm too much of a baby to understand."
So they two sat there in the old valley until the evening star shonethrough a pale-grey, gauzy cloud over the maple grove, and a fragrantdewy darkness filled their little sylvan dell. It was one of theevenings Rilla was to treasure in remembrance all her life--the firstone on which Walter had ever talked to her as if she were a woman andnot a child. They comforted and strengthened each other. Walter felt,for the time being at least, that it was not such a despicable thingafter all to dread the horror of war; and Rilla was glad to be made theconfidante of his struggles--to sympathize with and encourage him. Shewas of importance to somebody.
When they went back to Ingleside they found callers sitting on theveranda. Mr. and Mrs. Meredith had come over from the manse, and Mr.and Mrs. Norman Douglas had come up from the farm. Cousin Sophia wasthere also, sitting with Susan in the shadowy background. Mrs. Blytheand Nan and Di were away, but Dr. Blythe was home and so was Dr.Jekyll, sitting in golden majesty on the top step. And of course theywere all talking of the war, except Dr. Jekyll who kept his own counseland looked contempt as only a cat can. When two people foregathered inthose days they talked of the war; and old Highland Sandy of theHarbour Head talked of it when he was alone and hurled anathemas at theKaiser across all the acres of his farm. Walter slipped away, notcaring to see or be seen, but Rilla sat down on the steps, where thegarden mint was dewy and pungent. It was a very calm evening with adim, golden afterlight irradiating the glen. She felt happier than atany time in the dreadful week that had passed. She was no longerhaunted by the fear that Walter would go.
"I'd go myself if I was twenty years younger," Norman Douglas wasshouting. 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 coursethere's a hell--dozens of hells--hundreds of hells--where the Kaiserand all his brood are bound for."
"I knew this war was coming," said Mrs. Norman triumphantly. "I saw itcoming right along. I could have told all those stupid Englishmen whatwas ahead of them. I told you, John Meredith, years ago what the Kaiserwas up to but you wouldn't believe it. You said he would never plungethe world in war. Who was right about the Kaiser, John? You--or I? Tellme that."
"You were, I admit," said Mr. Meredith.
"It's too late to admit it now," said Mrs. Norman, shaking her head, asif to intimate that if John Meredith had admitted it sooner there mighthave been no war.
"Thank God, England's navy is ready," said the doctor.
"Amen to that," nodded Mrs. Norman. "Bat-blind as most of them weresomebody had foresight enough to see to that."
"Maybe England'll manage not to get into trouble over it," said CousinSophia plaintively. "I dunno. But I'm much afraid."
"One would suppose that England was in trouble over it already, up toher neck, Sophia Crawford," said Susan. "But your ways of thinking arebeyond me and always were. It is my opinion that the British Navy willsettle Germany in a jiffy and that we are all getting worked up overnothing."
Susan spat out the words as if she wanted to convince herself more thananybody else. She had her little store of homely philosophies to guideher through life, but she had nothing to buckler her against thethunderbolts of the week that had just passed. What had an honest,hard-working, Presbyterian old maid of Glen St. Mary to do with a warthousands of miles away? Susan felt that it was indecent that sheshould have to be disturbed by it.
"The British army will settle Germany," shouted Norman. "Just wait tillit gets into line and the Kaiser will find that real war is a differentthing from parading round Berlin with your moustaches cocked up."
"Britain hasn't got an army," said Mrs. Norman emphatically. "Youneedn't glare at me, Norman. Glaring won't make soldiers out of timothystalks. A hundred thousand men will just be a mouthful for Germany'smillions."
"There'll be some tough chewing in the mouthful, I reckon," persistedNorman valiantly. "Germany'll break her teeth on it. Don't you tell meone Britisher isn't a match for ten foreigners. I could polish off adozen of 'em myself with both hands tied behind my back!"
"I am told," said Susan, "that old Mr. Pryor does not believe in thiswar. I am told that he says England went into it just because she wasjealous of Germany and that she did not really care in the least whathappened to Belgium."
"I believe he's been talking some such rot," said Norman. "I haven'theard him. When I do, Whiskers-on-the-moon won't know what happened tohim. That precious relative of mine, Kitty Alec, holds forth to thesame effect, I understand. Not before me, though--somehow, folks don'tindulge in that kind of conversation in my presence. Lord love you,they've a kind of presentiment, so to speak, that it wouldn't behealthy for their complaint."
"I am much afraid that this war has been sent as a punishment for oursins," said Cousin Sophia, unclasping her pale hands from her lap andreclasping them solemnly over her stomach. "'The world is veryevil--the times are 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'tagree with you--wanted to get up in the pew and shout out that therewasn't a word of sense in what you were saying, but Ellen, here, sheheld me down. I never have any fun sassing parsons since I got married."
"Without shedding of blood there is no anything," said Mr. Meredith, inthe gentle dreamy way which had an unexpected trick of convincing hishearers. "Everything, it seems to me, has to be purchased byself-sacrifice. Our race has marked every step of its painful ascentwith blood. And now torrents of it must flow again. No, Mrs. Crawford,I don't think the war has been sent as a punishment for sin. I think itis the price humanity must pay for some blessing--some advance greatenough to be worth the price--which we may not live to see but whichour children's children will inherit."
"If Jerry is killed will you feel so fine about it?" demanded Norman,who had been saying things like that all his life and never could bemade to see any reason why he shouldn't. "Now, never mind kicking me inthe shins, Ellen. I want to see if Parson meant what he said or if itwas just a pulpit frill."
Mr. Meredith's face quivered. He had had a terrible hour alone in hisstudy on the night Jem and Jerry had gone to town. But he answeredquietly.
"Whatever I felt, it could not alter my belief--my assurance that acountry whose sons are ready to lay down their lives in her defencewill win a new vision because of their sacrifice."
"You do mean it, Parson. I can always tell when people mean what theysay. It's a gift that was born in me. Makes me a terror to mostparsons, that! But I've never caught you yet saying anything you didn'tmean. I'm always hoping I will--that's what reconciles me to going tochurch. It'd be such a comfort to me--such a weapon to batter Ellenhere with when she tries to civilize me. Well, I'm off over the road tosee Ab. Crawford a minute. The gods be good to you all."
"The old pagan!" muttered Susan, as Norman strode away. She did notcare if Ellen Douglas did hear her. Susan could never understand whyfire did not
descend from heaven upon Norman Douglas when he insultedministers the way he did. But the astonishing thing was Mr. Meredithseemed really to like his brother-in-law.
Rilla wished they would talk of something besides war. She had heardnothing else for a week and she was really a little tired of it. Nowthat she was relieved from her haunting fear that Walter would want togo it made her quite impatient. But she supposed--with a sigh--thatthere would be three or four months of it yet.
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