CHAPTER XXIX
"WOUNDED AND MISSING"
"Battered but Not Broken" was the headline in Monday's paper, and Susanrepeated it over and over to herself as she went about her work. Thegap caused by the St. Quentin disaster had been patched up in time, butthe Allied line was being pushed relentlessly back from the territorythey had purchased in 1917 with half a million lives. On Wednesday theheadline was "British and French Check Germans"; but still the retreatwent on. Back--and back--and back! Where would it end? Would the linebreak again--this time disastrously?
On Saturday the headline was "Even Berlin Admits Offensive Checked,"and for the first time in that terrible week the Ingleside folk daredto draw a long breath.
"Well, we have got one week over--now for the next," said Susanstaunchly.
"I feel like a prisoner on the rack when they stopped turning it," MissOliver said to Rilla, as they went to church on Easter morning. "But Iam not off the rack. The torture may begin again at any time."
"I doubted God last Sunday," said Rilla, "but I don't doubt him today.Evil cannot win. Spirit is on our side and it is bound to outlastflesh."
Nevertheless her faith was often tried in the dark spring thatfollowed. Armageddon was not, as they had hoped, a matter of a fewdays. It stretched out into weeks and months. Again and againHindenburg struck his savage, sudden blows, with alarming, thoughfutile success. Again and again the military critics declared thesituation extremely perilous. Again and again Cousin Sophia agreed withthe military critics.
"If the Allies go back three miles more the war is lost," she wailed.
"Is the British navy anchored in those three miles?" demanded Susanscornfully.
"It is the opinion of a man who knows all about it," said Cousin Sophiasolemnly.
"There is no such person," retorted Susan. "As for the militarycritics, they do not know one blessed thing about it, any more than youor I. They have been mistaken times out of number. Why do you alwayslook on the dark side, Sophia Crawford?"
"Because there ain't any bright side, Susan Baker."
"Oh, is there not? It is the twentieth of April, and Hindy is not inParis yet, although he said he would be there by April first. Is thatnot a bright spot at least?"
"It is my opinion that the Germans will be in Paris before very longand more than that, Susan Baker, they will be in Canada."
"Not in this part of it. The Huns shall never set foot in Prince EdwardIsland as long as I can handle a pitchfork," declared Susan, looking,and feeling quite equal to routing the entire German armysingle-handed. "No, Sophia Crawford, to tell you the plain truth I amsick and tired of your gloomy predictions. I do not deny that somemistakes have been made. The Germans would never have got backPasschendaele if the Canadians had been left there; and it was badbusiness trusting to those Portuguese at the Lys River. But that is noreason why you or anyone should go about proclaiming the war is lost. Ido not want to quarrel with you, least of all at such a time as this,but our morale must be kept up, and I am going to speak my mind outplainly and tell you that if you cannot keep from such croaking yourroom is better than your company."
Cousin Sophia marched home in high dudgeon to digest her affront, anddid not reappear in Susan's kitchen for many weeks. Perhaps it was justas well, for they were hard weeks, when the Germans continued tostrike, now here, now there, and seemingly vital points fell to them atevery blow. And one day in early May, when wind and sunshine frolickedin Rainbow Valley and the maple grove was golden-green and the harbourall blue and dimpled and white-capped, the news came about Jem.
There had been a trench raid on the Canadian front--a little trenchraid so insignificant that it was never even mentioned in thedispatches and when it was over Lieutenant James Blythe was reported"wounded and missing."
"I think this is even worse than the news of his death would havebeen," moaned Rilla through her white lips, that night.
"No--no--'missing' leaves a little hope, Rilla," urged Gertrude Oliver.
"Yes--torturing, agonized hope that keeps you from ever becoming quiteresigned to the worst," said Rilla. "Oh, Miss Oliver--must we go forweeks and months--not knowing whether Jem is alive or dead? Perhaps wewill never know. I--I cannot bear it--I cannot. Walter--and now Jem.This will kill mother--look at her face, Miss Oliver, and you will seethat. And Faith--poor Faith--how can she bear it?"
Gertrude shivered with pain. She looked up at the pictures hanging overRilla's desk and felt a sudden hatred of Mona Lisa's endless smile.
"Will not even this blot it off your face?" she thought savagely.
But she said gently, "No, it won't kill your mother. She's made offiner mettle than that. Besides, she refuses to believe Jem is dead;she will cling to hope and we must all do that. Faith, you may be sure,will do it."
"I cannot," moaned Rilla, "Jem was wounded--what chance would he have?Even if the Germans found him--we know how they have treated woundedprisoners. I wish I could hope, Miss Oliver--it would help, I suppose.But hope seems dead in me. I can't hope without some reason for it--andthere is no reason."
When Miss Oliver had gone to her own room and Rilla was lying on herbed in the moonlight, praying desperately for a little strength, Susanstepped in like a gaunt shadow and sat down beside her.
"Rilla, dear, do not you worry. Little Jem is not dead."
"Oh, how can you believe that, Susan?"
"Because I know. Listen you to me. When that word came this morning thefirst thing I thought of was Dog Monday. And tonight, as soon as I gotthe supper dishes washed and the bread set, I went down to the station.There was Dog Monday, waiting for the train, just as patient as usual.Now, Rilla, dear, that trench raid was four days ago--last Monday--andI said to the station-agent, 'Can you tell me if that dog howled ormade any kind of a fuss last Monday night?' He thought it over a bit,and then he said, 'No, he did not.' 'Are you sure?' I said. 'There'smore depends on it than you think!' 'Dead sure,' he said. 'I was up allnight last Monday night because my mare was sick, and there was never asound out of him. I would have heard if there had been, for the stabledoor was open all the time and his kennel is right across from it!' NowRilla dear, those were the man's very words. And you know how that poorlittle dog howled all night after the battle of Courcelette. Yet he didnot love Walter as much as he loved Jem. If he mourned for Walter likethat, do you suppose he would sleep sound in his kennel the night afterJem had been killed? No, Rilla dear, little Jem is not dead, and thatyou may tie to. If he were, Dog Monday would have known, just as heknew before, and he would not be still waiting for the trains."
It was absurd--and irrational--and impossible. But Rilla believed it,for all that; and Mrs. Blythe believed it; and the doctor, though hesmiled faintly in pretended derision, felt an odd confidence replacehis first despair; and foolish and absurd or not, they all plucked upheart and courage to carry on, just because a faithful little dog atthe Glen station was still watching with unbroken faith for his masterto come home. Common sense might scorn--incredulity might mutter "Meresuperstition"--but in their hearts the folk of Ingleside stood by theirbelief that Dog Monday knew.
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