The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “But Bruce said, ‘It oughtn’t to take longer’n a week, mother. Oh, mother, Stripey was such a nice little cat. He purred so pretty. Don’t you think God ought to like him enough to let us have Jem?”

  “Mr. Meredith is worried about the effect on Bruce’s faith in God, and Mrs. Meredith is worried about the effect on Bruce himself if his hope isn’t fulfilled. And I feel as if I must cry every time I think of it. It was so splendid — and sad — and beautiful. The dear devoted little fellow! He worshipped that kitten. And if it all goes for nothing — as so many sacrifices seem to go for nothing — he will be brokenhearted, for he isn’t old enough to understand that God doesn’t answer our prayers just as we hope — and doesn’t make bargains with us when we yield something we love up to Him.”

  24th September 1918

  “I have been kneeling at my window in the moonshine for a long time, just thanking God over and over again. The joy of last night and today has been so great that it seemed half pain — as if our hearts weren’t big enough to hold it.

  “Last night I was sitting here in my room at eleven o’clock writing a letter to Shirley. Every one else was in bed, except father, who was out. I heard the telephone ring and I ran out to the hall to answer it, before it should waken mother. It was long-distance calling, and when I answered it said ‘This is the telegraph Company’s office in Charlottetown. There is an overseas cable for Dr. Blythe.’

  “I thought of Shirley — my heart stood still — and then I heard him saying, ‘It’s from Holland.’

  “The message was,

  ‘Just arrived. Escaped from Germany. Quite well. Writing.

  James Blythe.’

  “I didn’t faint or fall or scream. I didn’t feel glad or surprised. I didn’t feel anything. I felt numb, just as I did when I heard Walter had enlisted. I hung up the receiver and turned round. Mother was standing in her doorway. She wore her old rose kimono, and her hair was hanging down her back in a long thick braid, and her eyes were shining. She looked just like a young girl.

  “‘There is word from Jem?’ she said.

  “How did she know? I hadn’t said a word at the phone except ‘Yes — yes — yes.’ She says she doesn’t know how she knew, but she did know. She was awake and she heard the ring and she knew that there was word from Jem.

  “‘He’s alive — he’s well — he’s in Holland,’ I said.

  “Mother came out into the hall and said, ‘I must get your father on the ‘phone and tell him. He is in the Upper Glen.’

  “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.
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  “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 peace — and new happiness — and all the dear, sweet, sane, homey things that we can have again now, Miss Oliver. Not that I am sane just now — I don’t pretend to be. The whole world is having a little crazy spell today. Soon we’ll sober down — and ‘keep faith’ — and begin to build up our new world. But just for today let’s be mad and glad.”

  Susan came in from the outdoor sunlight looking supremely satisfied.

  “Mr. Hyde is gone,” she announced.

  “Gone! Do you mean he is dead, Susan?”

  “No, Mrs. Dr. dear, that beast is not dead. But you will never see him again. I feel sure of that.”

  “Don’t be so mysterious, Susan. What has happened to him?”

  “Well, Mrs. Dr. dear, he was sitting out on the back steps this afternoon. It was just after the news came that the Armistice had been signed and he was looking his Hydest. I can assure you he was an awesome looking beast. All at once, Mrs. Dr. dear, Bruce Meredith came around the corner of the kitchen walking on his stilts. He has been learning to walk on them lately and came over to show me how well he could do it. Mr. Hyde just took a look and one bound carried him over the yard fence. Then he went tearing through the maple grove in great leaps with his ears laid back. You never saw a creature so terrified, Mrs. Dr. dear. He has never returned.”

  “Oh, he’ll come back, Susan, probably chastened in spirit by his fright.”

  “We will see, Mrs. Dr. dear — we will see. Remember, the Armistice has been signed. And that reminds me that Whiskers-on-the-moon had a paralytic stroke last night. I am not saying it is a judgment on him, because I am not in the counsels of the Almighty, but one can have one’s own thoughts about it. Neither Whiskers-on-the-moon or Mr. Hyde will be much more heard of in Glen St. Mary, Mrs. Dr. dear, and that you may tie to.”

  Mr. Hyde certainly was heard of no more. As it could hardly have been his fright that kept him away the Ingleside folk decided that s
ome dark fate of shot or poison had descended on him — except Susan, who believed and continued to affirm that he had merely “gone to his own place.” Rilla lamented him, for she had been very fond of her stately golden pussy, and had liked him quite as well in his weird Hyde moods as in his tame Jekyll ones.

  “And now, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan, “since the fall house-cleaning is over and the garden truck is all safe in cellar, I am going to take a honeymoon to celebrate the peace.”

  “A honeymoon, Susan?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Dr. dear, a honeymoon,” repeated Susan firmly. “I shall never be able to get a husband but I am not going to be cheated out of everything and a honeymoon I intend to have. I am going to Charlottetown to visit my married brother and his family. His wife has been ailing all the fall, but nobody knows whether she is going to die not. She never did tell anyone what she was going to do until she did it. That is the main reason why she was never liked in our family. But to be on the safe side I feel that I should visit her. I have not been in town for over a day for twenty years and I have a feeling that I might as well see one of those moving pictures there is so much talk of, so as not to be wholly out of the swim. But have no fear that I shall be carried away with them, Mrs. Dr. dear. I shall be away a fortnight if you can spare me so long.”

  “You certainly deserve a good holiday, Susan. Better take a month — that is the proper length for a honeymoon.”

  “No, Mrs. Dr. dear, a fortnight is all I require. Besides, I must be home for at least three weeks before Christmas to make the proper preparations. We will have a Christmas that is a Christmas this year, Mrs. Dr. dear. Do you think there is any chance of our boys being home for it?”

  “No, I think not, Susan. Both Jem and Shirley write that they don’t expect to be home before spring — it may be even midsummer before Shirley comes. But Carl Meredith will be home, and Nan and Di, and we will have a grand celebration once more. We’ll set chairs for all, Susan, as you did our first war Christmas — yes, for all — for my dear lad whose chair must always be vacant, as well as for the others, Susan.”