“No,” said Rilla. Then, impelled by a wish to be absolutely frank with Walter in this talk that might be the last they would ever have, she added, blushing wildly in the moonlight, “but if — Kenneth Ford — wanted me to be—”
“I see,” said Walter. “And Ken’s in khaki, too. Poor little girlie, it’s a bit hard for you all round. Well, I’m not leaving any girl to break her heart about me — thank God for that.”
Rilla glanced up at the Manse on the hill. She could see a light in Una Meredith’s window. She felt tempted to say something — then she knew she must not. It was not her secret: and, anyway, she did not know — she only suspected.
Walter looked about him lingeringly and lovingly. This spot had always been so dear to him. What fun they all had had here lang syne. Phantoms of memory seemed to pace the dappled paths and peep merrily through the swinging boughs — Jem and Jerry, bare-legged, sunburned schoolboys, fishing in the brook and frying trout over the old stone fireplace; Nan and Di and Faith, in their dimpled, fresh-eyed childish beauty; Una the sweet and shy, Carl, poring over ants and bugs, little slangy, sharp-tongued, good-hearted Mary Vance — the old Walter that had been himself lying on the grass reading poetry or wandering through palaces of fancy. They were all there around him — he could see them almost as plainly as he saw Rilla — as plainly as he had once seen the Pied Piper piping down the valley in a vanished twilight. And they said to him, those gay little ghosts of other days, “We were the children of yesterday, Walter — fight a good fight for the children of to-day and to-morrow.”
“Where are you, Walter,” cried Rilla, laughing a little. “Come back — come back.”
Walter came back with a long breath. He stood up and looked about him at the beautiful valley of moonlight, as if to impress on his mind and heart every charm it possessed — the great dark plumes of the firs against the silvery sky, the stately White Lady, the old magic of the dancing brook, the faithful Tree Lovers, the beckoning, tricksy paths.
“I shall see it so in my dreams,” he said, as he turned away.
They went back to Ingleside. Mr. and Mrs. Meredith were there, with Gertrude Oliver, who had come from Lowbridge to say good-bye. Everybody was quite cheerful and bright, but nobody said much about the war being soon over, as they had said when Jem went away. They did not talk about the war at all — and they thought of nothing else. At last they gathered around the piano and sang the grand old hymn:
“Oh God, our help in ages past
Our hope for years to come.
Our shelter from the stormy blast
And our eternal home.”
“We all come back to God in these days of soul-sifting,” said Gertrude to John Meredith. “There have been many days in the past when I didn’t believe in God — not as God — only as the impersonal Great First Cause of the scientists. I believe in Him now — I have to — there’s nothing else to fall back on but God — humbly, starkly, unconditionally.”
“‘Our help in ages past’—’the same yesterday, to-day and for ever,’” said the minister gently. “When we forget God — He remembers us.”
There was no crowd at the Glen Station the next morning to see Walter off. It was becoming a commonplace for a khaki clad boy to board that early morning train after his last leave. Besides his own, only the Manse folk were there, and Mary Vance. Mary had sent her Miller off the week before, with a determined grin, and now considered herself entitled to give expert opinion on how such partings should be conducted.
“The main thing is to smile and act as if nothing was happening,” she informed the Ingleside group. “The boys all hate the sob act like poison. Miller told me I wasn’t to come near the station if I couldn’t keep from bawling. So I got through with my crying beforehand, and at the last I said to him, ‘Good luck, Miller, and if you come back you’ll find I haven’t changed any, and if you don’t come back I’ll always be proud you went, and in any case don’t fall in love with a French girl.’ Miller swore he wouldn’t, but you never can tell about those fascinating foreign hussies. Anyhow, the last sight he had of me I was smiling to my limit. Gee, all the rest of the day my face felt as if it had been starched and ironed into a smile.”
In spite of Mary’s advice and example Mrs. Blythe, who had sent Jem off with a smile, could not quite manage one for Walter. But at least no one cried. Dog Monday came out of his lair in the shipping-shed and sat down close to Walter, thumping his tail vigorously on the boards of the platform whenever Walter spoke to him, and looking up with confident eyes, as if to say, “I know you’ll find Jem and bring him back to me.”
“So long, old fellow,” said Carl Meredith cheerfully, when the good-byes had to be said. “Tell them over there to keep their spirits up — I am coming along presently.”
“Me too,” said Shirley laconically, proffering a brown paw. Susan heard him and her face turned very grey.
Una shook hands quietly, looking at him with wistful, sorrowful, dark-blue eyes. But then Una’s eyes had always been wistful. Walter bent his handsome black head in its khaki cap and kissed her with the warm, comradely kiss of a brother. He had never kissed her before, and for a fleeting moment Una’s face betrayed her, if anyone had noticed. But nobody did; the conductor was shouting “all aboard”; everybody was trying to look very cheerful. Walter turned to Rilla; she held his hands and looked up at him. She would not see him again until the day broke and the shadows vanished — and she knew not if that daybreak would be on this side of the grave or beyond it.
“Good-bye,” she said.
On her lips it lost all the bitterness it had won through the ages of parting and bore instead all the sweetness of the old loves of all the women who had ever loved and prayed for the beloved.
“Write me often and bring Jims up faithfully, according to the gospel of Morgan,” Walter said lightly, having said all his serious things the night before in Rainbow Valley. But at the last moment he took her face between his hands and looked deep into her gallant eyes. “God bless you, Rilla-my-Rilla,” he said softly and tenderly. After all it was not a hard thing to fight for a land that bore daughters like this.
He stood on the rear platform and waved to them as the train pulled out. Rilla was standing by herself, but Una Meredith came to her and the two girls who loved him most stood together and held each other’s cold hands as the train rounded the curve of the wooded hill.
Rilla spent an hour in Rainbow Valley that morning about which she never said a word to anyone; she did not even write in her diary about it; when it was over she went home and made rompers for Jims. In the evening she went to a Junior Red Cross committee meeting and was severely businesslike.
“You would never suppose,” said Irene Howard to Olive Kirk afterwards, “that Walter had left for the front only this morning. But some people really have no depth of feeling. I often wish I could take things as lightly as Rilla Blythe.”
CHAPTER XVI
REALISM AND ROMANCE
“Warsaw has fallen,” said Dr. Blythe with a resigned air, as he brought the mail in one warm August day.
Gertrude and Mrs. Blythe looked dismally at each other, and Rilla, who was feeding Jims a Morganized diet from a carefully sterilized spoon, laid the said spoon down on his tray, utterly regardless of germs, and said, “Oh, dear me,” in as tragic a tone as if the news had come as a thunderbolt instead of being a foregone conclusion from the preceding week’s dispatches. They had thought they were quite resigned to Warsaw’s fall but now they knew they had, as always, hoped against hope.
“Now, let us take a brace,” said Susan. “It is not the terrible thing we have been thinking. I read a dispatch three columns long in the Montreal Herald yesterday that proved that Warsaw was not important from a military point of view at all. So let us take the military point of view, doctor dear.”
“I read that dispatch, too, and it has encouraged me immensely,” said Gertrude. “I knew then and I know now that it was a lie from beginning to end. But I am i
n that state of mind where even a lie is a comfort, providing it is a cheerful lie.”
“In that case, Miss Oliver dear, the German official reports ought to be all you need,” said Susan sarcastically. “I never read them now because they make me so mad I cannot put my thoughts properly on my work after a dose of them. Even this news about Warsaw has taken the edge off my afternoon’s plans. Misfortunes never come singly. I spoiled my baking of bread today — and now Warsaw has fallen — and here is little Kitchener bent on choking himself to death.”
Jims was evidently trying to swallow his spoon, germs and all. Rilla rescued him mechanically and was about to resume the operation of feeding him when a casual remark of her father’s sent such a shock and thrill over her that for the second time she dropped that doomed spoon.
“Kenneth Ford is down at Martin West’s over-harbour,” the doctor was saying. “His regiment was on its way to the front but was held up in Kingsport for some reason, and Ken got leave of absence to come over to the Island.”
“I hope he will come up to see us,” exclaimed Mrs. Blythe.
“He only has a day or two off, I believe,” said the doctor absently.
Nobody noticed Rilla’s flushed face and trembling hands. Even the most thoughtful and watchful of parents do not see everything that goes on under their very noses. Rilla made a third attempt to give the long-suffering Jims his dinner, but all she could think of was the question — Would Ken come to see her before he went away? She had not heard from him for a long while. Had he forgotten her completely? If he did not come she would know that he had. Perhaps there was even — some other girl back there in Toronto. Of course there was. She was a little fool to be thinking about him at all. She would not think about him. If he came, well and good. It would only be courteous of him to make a farewell call at Ingleside where he had often been a guest. If he did not come — well and good, too. It did not matter very much. Nobody was going to fret. That was all settled comfortably — she was quite indifferent — but meanwhile Jims was being fed with a haste and recklessness that would have filled the soul of Morgan with horror. Jims himself didn’t like it, being a methodical baby, accustomed to swallowing spoonfuls with a decent interval for breath between each. He protested, but his protests availed him nothing. Rilla, as far as the care and feeding of infants was concerned, was utterly demoralized.
Then the telephone-bell rang. There was nothing unusual about the telephone ringing. It rang on an average every ten minutes at Ingleside. But Rilla dropped Jims’ spoon again — on the carpet this time — and flew to the ‘phone as if life depended on her getting there before anybody else. Jims, his patience exhausted, lifted up his voice and wept.
“Hello, is this Ingleside?”
“Yes.”
“That you, Rilla?” “Yeth — yeth.” Oh, why couldn’t Jims stop howling for just one little minute? Why didn’t somebody come in and choke him?
“Know who’s speaking?”
Oh, didn’t she know! Wouldn’t she know that voice anywhere — at any time?
“It’s Ken — isn’t it?”
“Sure thing. I’m here for a look-in. Can I come up to Ingleside tonight and see you?”
“Of courthe.”
Had he used “you” in the singular or plural sense? Presently she would wring Jims’ neck — oh, what was Ken saying?
“See here, Rilla, can you arrange that there won’t be more than a few dozen people round? Understand? I can’t make my meaning clearer over this bally rural line. There are a dozen receivers down.”
Did she understand! Yes, she understood.
“I’ll try,” she said.
“I’ll be up about eight then. By-by.”
Rilla hung up the ‘phone and flew to Jims. But she did not wring that injured infant’s neck. Instead she snatched him bodily out of his chair, crushed him against her face, kissed him rapturously on his milky mouth, and danced wildly around the room with him in her arms. After this Jims was relieved to find that she returned to sanity, gave him the rest of his dinner properly, and tucked him away for his afternoon nap with the little lullaby he loved best of all. She sewed at Red Cross shirts for the rest of the afternoon and built a crystal castle of dreams, all a-quiver with rainbows. Ken wanted to see her — to see her alone. That could be easily managed. Shirley wouldn’t bother them, father and mother were going to the Manse, Miss Oliver never played gooseberry, and Jims always slept the clock round from seven to seven. She would entertain Ken on the veranda — it would be moonlight — she would wear her white georgette dress and do her hair up — yes, she would — at least in a low knot at the nape of her neck. Mother couldn’t object to that, surely. Oh, how wonderful and romantic it would be! Would Ken say anything — he must mean to say something or why should he be so particular about seeing her alone? What if it rained — Susan had been complaining about Mr. Hyde that morning! What if some officious Junior Red called to discuss Belgians and shirts? Or, worst of all, what if Fred Arnold dropped in? He did occasionally.
The evening came at last and was all that could be desired in an evening. The doctor and his wife went to the Manse, Shirley and Miss Oliver went they alone knew where, Susan went to the store for household supplies, and Jims went to Dreamland. Rilla put on her georgette gown, knotted up her hair and bound a little double string of pearls around it. Then she tucked a cluster of pale pink baby roses at her belt. Would Ken ask her for a rose for a keepsake? She knew that Jem had carried to the trenches in Flanders a faded rose that Faith Meredith had kissed and given him the night before he left.
Rilla looked very sweet when she met Ken in the mingled moonlight and vine shadows of the big veranda. The hand she gave him was cold and she was so desperately anxious not to lisp that her greeting was prim and precise. How handsome and tall Kenneth looked in his lieutenant’s uniform! It made him seem older, too — so much so that Rilla felt rather foolish. Hadn’t it been the height of absurdity for her to suppose that this splendid young officer had anything special to say to her, little Rilla Blythe of Glen St. Mary? Likely she hadn’t understood him after all — he had only meant that he didn’t want a mob of folks around making a fuss over him and trying to lionize him, as they had probably done over-harbour. Yes, of course, that was all he meant — and she, little idiot, had gone and vainly imagined that he didn’t want anybody but her. And he would think she had manoeuvred everybody away so that they could be alone together, and he would laugh to himself at her.
“This is better luck than I hoped for,” said Ken, leaning back in his chair and looking at her with very unconcealed admiration in his eloquent eyes. “I was sure someone would be hanging about and it was just you I wanted to see, Rilla-my-Rilla.”
Rilla’s dream castle flashed into the landscape again. This was unmistakable enough certainly — not much doubt as to his meaning here.
“There aren’t — so many of us — to poke around as there used to be,” she said softly.
“No, that’s so,” said Ken gently. “Jem and Walter and the girls away — it makes a big blank, doesn’t it? But—” he leaned forward until his dark curls almost brushed her hair—”doesn’t Fred Arnold try to fill the blank occasionally. I’ve been told so.”
At this moment, before Rilla could make any reply, Jims began to cry at the top of his voice in the room whose open window was just above them — Jims, who hardly ever cried in the evening. Moreover, he was crying, as Rilla knew from experience, with a vim and energy that betokened that he had been already whimpering softly unheard for some time and was thoroughly exasperated. When Jims started in crying like that he made a thorough job of it. Rilla knew that there was no use to sit still and pretend to ignore him. He wouldn’t stop; and conversation of any kind was out of the question when such shrieks and howls were floating over your head. Besides, she was afraid Kenneth would think she was utterly unfeeling if she sat still and let a baby cry like that. He was not likely acquainted with Morgan’s invaluable volume.
She got up. “Jims has had a nightmare, I think. He sometimes has one and he is always badly frightened by it. Excuse me for a moment.”
Rilla flew upstairs, wishing quite frankly that soup tureens had never been invented. But when Jims, at sight of her, lifted his little arms entreatingly and swallowed several sobs, with tears rolling down his cheeks, resentment went out of her heart. After all, the poor darling was frightened. She picked him up gently and rocked him soothingly until his sobs ceased and his eyes closed. Then she essayed to lay him down in his crib. Jims opened his eyes and shrieked a protest. This performance was repeated twice. Rilla grew desperate. She couldn’t leave Ken down there alone any longer — she had been away nearly half an hour already. With a resigned air she marched downstairs, carrying Jims, and sat down on the veranda. It was, no doubt, a ridiculous thing to sit and cuddle a contrary war-baby when your best young man was making his farewell call, but there was nothing else to be done.
Jims was supremely happy. He kicked his little pink-soled feet rapturously out under his white nighty and gave one of his rare laughs. He was beginning to be a very pretty baby; his golden hair curled in silken ringlets all over his little round head and his eyes were beautiful.
“He’s a decorative kiddy all right, isn’t he?” said Ken.
“His looks are very well,” said Rilla, bitterly, as if to imply that they were much the best of him. Jims, being an astute infant, sensed trouble in the atmosphere and realized that it was up to him to clear it away. He turned his face up to Rilla, smiled adorably and said, clearly and beguilingly, “Will — Will.”
It was the very first time he had spoken a word or tried to speak. Rilla was so delighted that she forgot her grudge against him. She forgave him with a hug and kiss. Jims, understanding that he was restored to favour, cuddled down against her just where a gleam of light from the lamp in the living-room struck across his hair and turned it into a halo of gold against her breast.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 200