CHAPTER X
THE TROUBLES OF RILLA
October passed out and the dreary days of November and December draggedby. The world shook with the thunder of contending armies; Antwerpfell--Turkey declared war--gallant little Serbia gathered herselftogether and struck a deadly blow at her oppressor; and in quiet,hill-girdled Glen St. Mary, thousands of miles away, hearts beat withhope and fear over the varying dispatches from day to day.
"A few months ago," said Miss Oliver, "we thought and talked in termsof Glen St. Mary. Now, we think and talk in terms of military tacticsand diplomatic intrigue."
There was just one great event every day--the coming of the mail. EvenSusan admitted that from the time the mail-courier's buggy rumbled overthe little bridge between the station and the village until the paperswere brought home and read, she could not work properly.
"I must take up my knitting then and knit hard till the papers come,Mrs. Dr. dear. Knitting is something you can do, even when your heartis going like a trip-hammer and the pit of your stomach feels all goneand your thoughts are catawampus. Then when I see the headlines, bethey good or be they bad, I calm down and am able to go about mybusiness again. It is an unfortunate thing that the mail comes in justwhen our dinner rush is on, and I think the Government could arrangethings better. But the drive on Calais has failed, as I felt perfectlysure it would, and the Kaiser will not eat his Christmas dinner inLondon this year. Do you know, Mrs. Dr. dear,"--Susan's voice loweredas a token that she was going to impart a very shocking piece ofinformation,--"I have been told on good authority--or else you may besure I would not be repeating it when it concerns a minster--that theRev. Mr. Arnold goes to Charlottetown every week and takes a Turkishbath for his rheumatism. The idea of him doing that when we are at warwith Turkey? One of his own deacons has always insisted that Mr.Arnold's theology was not sound and I am beginning to believe thatthere is some reason to fear it. Well, I must bestir myself thisafternoon and get little Jem's Christmas cake packed up for him. Hewill enjoy it, if the blessed boy is not drowned in mud before thattime."
Jem was in camp on Salisbury Plain and was writing gay, cheery lettershome in spite of the mud. Walter was at Redmond and his letters toRilla were anything but cheerful. She never opened one without a dreadtugging at her heart that it would tell her he had enlisted. Hisunhappiness made her unhappy. She wanted to put her arm round him andcomfort him, as she had done that day in Rainbow Valley. She hatedeverybody who was responsible for Walter's unhappiness.
"He will go yet," she murmured miserably to herself one afternoon, asshe sat alone in Rainbow Valley, reading a letter from him, "he will goyet--and if he does I just can't bear it."
Walter wrote that some one had sent him an envelope containing a whitefeather.
"I deserved it, Rilla. I felt that I ought to put it on and wearit--proclaiming myself to all Redmond the coward I know I am. The boysof my year are going--going. Every day two or three of them join up.Some days I almost make up my mind to do it--and then I see myselfthrusting a bayonet through another man--some woman's husband orsweetheart or son--perhaps the father of little children--I see myselflying alone torn and mangled, burning with thirst on a cold, wet field,surrounded by dead and dying men--and I know I never can. I can't faceeven the thought of it. How could I face the reality? There are timeswhen I wish I had never been born. Life has always seemed such abeautiful thing to me--and now it is a hideous thing. Rilla-my-Rilla,if it weren't for your letters--your dear, bright, merry, funny,comical, believing letters--I think I'd give up. And Una's! Una isreally a little brick, isn't she? There's a wonderful fineness andfirmness under all that shy, wistful girlishness of her. She hasn'tyour knack of writing laugh-provoking epistles, but there's somethingin her letters--I don't know what--that makes me feel at least whileI'm reading them, that I could even go to the front. Not that she eversays a word about my going--or hints that I ought to go--she isn't thatkind. It's just the spirit of them--the personality that is in them.Well, I can't go. You have a brother and Una has a friend who is acoward."
"Oh, I wish Walter wouldn't write such things," sighed Rilla. "It hurtsme. He isn't a coward--he isn't--he isn't!"
She looked wistfully about her--at the little woodland valley and thegrey, lonely fallows beyond. How everything reminded her of Walter! Thered leaves still clung to the wild sweet-briars that overhung a curveof the brook; their stems were gemmed with the pearls of the gentlerain that had fallen a little while before. Walter had once written apoem describing them. The wind was sighing and rustling among thefrosted brown bracken ferns, then lessening sorrowfully away down thebrook. Walter had said once that he loved the melancholy of the autumnwind on a November day. The old Tree Lovers still clasped each other ina faithful embrace, and the White Lady, now a great white-branchedtree, stood out beautifully fine, against the grey velvet sky. Walterhad named them long ago; and last November, when he had walked with herand Miss Oliver in the Valley, he had said, looking at the leaflessLady, with a young silver moon hanging over her, "A white birch is abeautiful Pagan maiden who has never lost the Eden secret of beingnaked and unashamed." Miss Oliver had said, "Put that into a poem,Walter," and he had done so, and read it to them the next day--just ashort thing with goblin imagination in every line of it. Oh, how happythey had been then!
Well--Rilla scrambled to her feet--time was up. Jims would soon beawake--his lunch had to be prepared--his little slips had to beironed--there was a committee meeting of the Junior Reds thatnight--there was her new knitting bag to finish--it would be thehandsomest bag in the Junior Society--handsomer even than IreneHoward's--she must get home and get to work. She was busy these daysfrom morning till night. That little monkey of a Jims took so muchtime. But he was growing--he was certainly growing. And there weretimes when Rilla felt sure that it was not merely a pious hope but anabsolute fact that he was getting decidedly better looking. Sometimesshe felt quite proud of him; and sometimes she yearned to spank him.But she never kissed him or wanted to kiss him.
"The Germans captured Lodz today," said Miss Oliver, one Decemberevening, when she, Mrs. Blythe, and Susan were busy sewing or knittingin the cosy living-room. "This war is at least extending my knowledgeof geography. Schoolma'am though I am, three months ago I didn't knowthere was such a place in the world such as Lodz. Had I heard itmentioned I would have known nothing about it and cared as little. Iknow all about it now--its size, its standing, its militarysignificance. Yesterday the news that the Germans have captured it intheir second rush to Warsaw made my heart sink into my boots. I woke upin the night and worried over it. I don't wonder babies always cry whenthey wake up in the night. Everything presses on my soul then and nocloud has a silver lining."
"When I wake up in the night and cannot go to sleep again," remarkedSusan, who was knitting and reading at the same time, "I pass themoments by torturing the Kaiser to death. Last night I fried him inboiling oil and a great comfort it was to me, remembering those Belgianbabies."
"If the Kaiser were here and had a pain in his shoulder you'd be thefirst to run for the liniment bottle to rub him down," laughed MissOliver.
"Would I?" cried outraged Susan. "Would I, Miss Oliver? I would rub himdown with coal oil, Miss Oliver--and leave it to blister. That is whatI would do and that you may tie to. A pain in his shoulder, indeed! Hewill have pains all over him before he is through with what he hasstarted."
"We are told to love our enemies, Susan," said the doctor solemnly.
"Yes, our enemies, but not King George's enemies, doctor dear,"retorted Susan crushingly. She was so well pleased with herself overthis flattening out of the doctor completely that she even smiled asshe polished her glasses. Susan had never given in to glasses before,but she had done so at last in order to be able to read the warnews--and not a dispatch got by her. "Can you tell me, Miss Oliver, howto pronounce M-l-a-w-a and B-z-u-r-a and P-r-z-e-m-y-s-l?"
"That last is a conundrum which nobody seems to have solved yet, Susan.And I can make only a guess at th
e others."
"These foreign names are far from being decent, in my opinion," saiddisgusted Susan.
"I dare say the Austrians and Russians would think Saskatchewan andMusquodoboit about as bad, Susan," said Miss Oliver. "The Serbians havedone wonderfully of late. They have captured Belgrade."
"And sent the Austrian creatures packing across the Danube with a fleain their ear," said Susan with a relish, as she settled down to examinea map of Eastern Europe, prodding each locality with the knittingneedle to brand it on her memory. "Cousin Sophia said awhile ago thatSerbia was done for, but I told her there was still such a thing as anover-ruling Providence, doubt it who might. It says here that theslaughter was terrible. For all they were foreigners it is awful tothink of so many men being killed, Mrs. Dr. dear--for they are scarceenough as it is."
Rilla was upstairs relieving her over-charged feelings by writing inher diary.
"Things have all 'gone catawampus,' as Susan says, with me this week.Part of it was my own fault and part of it wasn't, and I seem to beequally unhappy over both parts.
"I went to town the other day to buy a new winter hat. It was the firsttime nobody insisted on coming with me to help me select it, and I feltthat mother had really given up thinking of me as a child. And I foundthe dearest hat--it was simply bewitching. It was a velvet hat, of thevery shade of rich green that was made for me. It just goes with myhair and complexion beautifully, bringing out the red-brown shades andwhat Miss Oliver calls my 'creaminess' so well. Only once before in mylife have I come across that precise shade of green. When I was twelveI had a little beaver hat of it, and all the girls in school were wildover it. Well, as soon as I saw this hat I felt that I simply must haveit--and have it I did. The price was dreadful. I will not put it downhere because I don't want my descendants to know I was guilty of payingso much for a hat, in war-time, too, when everybody is--or shouldbe--trying to be economical.
"When I got home and tried on the hat again in my room I was assailedby qualms. Of course, it was very becoming; but somehow it seemed tooelaborate and fussy for church going and our quiet little doings in theGlen--too conspicuous, in short. It hadn't seemed so at the milliner'sbut here in my little white room it did. And that dreadful price tag!And the starving Belgians! When mother saw the hat and the tag she justlooked at me. Mother is some expert at looking. Father says she lookedhim into love with her years ago in Avonlea school and I can wellbelieve it--though I have heard a weird tale of her banging him overthe head with a slate at the very beginning of their acquaintance.Mother was a limb when she was a little girl, I understand, and even upto the time when Jem went away she was full of ginger. But let mereturn to my mutton--that is to say, my new green velvet hat.
"'Do you think, Rilla,' mother said quietly--far too quietly--'that itwas right to spend so much for a hat, especially when the need of theworld is so great?'
"'I paid for it out of my own allowance, mother,' I exclaimed.
"'That is not the point. Your allowance is based on the principle of areasonable amount for each thing you need. If you pay too much for onething you must cut off somewhere else and that is not satisfactory. Butif you think you did right, Rilla, I have no more to say. I leave it toyour conscience.'
"I wish mother would not leave things to my conscience! And anyway,what was I to do? I couldn't take that hat back--I had worn it to aconcert in town--I had to keep it! I was so uncomfortable that I flewinto a temper--a cold, calm, deadly temper.
"'Mother,' I said haughtily, 'I am sorry you disapprove of my hat--'
"'Not of the hat exactly,' said mother, 'though I consider it indoubtful taste for so young a girl--but of the price you paid for it.'
"Being interrupted didn't improve my temper, so I went on, colder andcalmer and deadlier than ever, just as if mother had not spoken.
"'--but I have to keep it now. However, I promise you that I will notget another hat for three years or for the duration of the war, if itlasts longer than that. Even you'--oh, the sarcasm I put into the'you'--'cannot say that what I paid was too much when spread over atleast three years.'
"'You will be very tired of that hat before three years, Rilla,' saidmother, with a provoking grin, which, being interpreted, meant that Iwouldn't stick it out.
"'Tired or not, I will wear it that long,' I said: and then I marchedupstairs and cried to think that I had been sarcastic to mother.
"I hate that hat already. But three years or the duration of the war, Isaid, and three years or the duration of the war it shall be. I vowedand I shall keep my vow, cost what it will.
"That is one of the 'catawampus' things. The other is that I havequarrelled with Irene Howard--or she quarrelled with me--or, no, weboth quarrelled.
"The Junior Red Cross met here yesterday. The hour of meeting washalf-past two but Irene came at half-past one, because she got thechance of a drive down from the Upper Glen. Irene hasn't been a bitnice to me since the fuss about the eats; and besides I feel sure sheresents not being president. But I have been determined that thingsshould go smoothly, so I have never taken any notice, and when she cameyesterday she seemed so nice and sweet again that I hoped she had gotover her huffiness and we could be the chums we used to be.
"But as soon as we sat down Irene began to rub me the wrong way. I sawher cast a look at my new knitting-bag. All the girls have always saidIrene was jealous-minded and I would never believe them before. But nowI feel that perhaps she is.
"The first thing she did was to pounce on Jims--Irene pretends to adorebabies--pick him out of his cradle and kiss him all over his face. Now,Irene knows perfectly well that I don't like to have Jims kissed likethat. It is not hygienic. After she had worried him till he began tofuss, she looked at me and gave quite a nasty little laugh but shesaid, oh, so sweetly,
"'Why, Rilla, darling, you look as if you thought I was poisoning thebaby.'
"'Oh, no, I don't, Irene,' I said--every bit as sweetly, 'but you knowMorgan says that the only place a baby should be kissed is on itsforehead, for fear of germs, and that is my rule with Jims.'
"'Dear me, am I so full of germs?' said Irene plaintively. I knew shewas making fun of me and I began to boil inside--but outside no sign ofa simmer. I was determined I would not scrap with Irene.
"Then she began to bounce Jims. Now, Morgan says bouncing is almost theworst thing that can be done to a baby. I never allow Jims to bebounced. But Irene bounced him and that exasperating child liked it. Hesmiled--for the very first time. He is four months old and he has neversmiled once before. Not even mother or Susan have been able to coaxthat thing to smile, try as they would. And here he was smiling becauseIrene Howard bounced him! Talk of gratitude!
"I admit that smile made a big difference in him. Two of the dearestdimples came out in his cheeks and his big brown eyes seemed full oflaughter. The way Irene raved over those dimples was silly, I consider.You would have supposed she thought she had really brought them intoexistence. But I sewed steadily and did not enthuse, and soon Irene gottired of bouncing Jims and put him back in his cradle. He did not likethat after being played with, and he began to cry and was fussy therest of the afternoon, whereas if Irene had only left him alone hewould not have been a bit of trouble.
"Irene looked at him and said, 'Does he often cry like that?' as if shehad never heard a baby crying before.
"I explained patiently that children have to cry so many minutes perday in order to expand their lungs. Morgan says so.
"'If Jims didn't cry at all I'd have to make him cry for at leasttwenty minutes,' I said.
"'Oh, indeed!' said Irene, laughing as if she didn't believe me.'Morgan on the Care of Infants' was upstairs or I would soon haveconvinced her. Then she said Jims didn't have much hair--she had neverseen a four months' old baby so bald.
"Of course, I knew Jims hadn't much hair--yet; but Irene said it in atone that seemed to imply it was my fault that he hadn't any hair. Isaid I had seen dozens of babies every bit as bald as Jims, and Irenesaid, Oh very well, she ha
dn't meant to offend me--when I wasn'toffended.
"It went on like that the rest of the hour--Irene kept giving me littledigs all the time. The girls have always said she was revengeful likethat if she were peeved about anything; but I never believed it before;I used to think Irene just perfect, and it hurt me dreadfully to findshe could stoop to this. But I corked up my feelings and sewed away fordear life on a Belgian child's nightgown.
"Then Irene told me the meanest, most contemptible thing that someonehad said about Walter. I won't write it down--I can't. Of course, shesaid it made her furious to hear it and all that--but there was no needfor her to tell me such a thing even if she did hear it. She simply didit to hurt me.
"I just exploded. 'How dare you come here and repeat such a thing aboutmy brother, Irene Howard?' I exclaimed. 'I shall never forgiveyou--never. Your brother hasn't enlisted--hasn't any idea of enlisting.'
"'Why Rilla, dear, I didn't say it,' said Irene. 'I told you it wasMrs. George Burr. And I told her--'
"'I don't want to hear what you told her. Don't you ever speak to meagain, Irene Howard.'
"Oh course, I shouldn't have said that. But it just seemed to sayitself. Then the other girls all came in a bunch and I had to calm downand act the hostess' part as well as I could. Irene paired off withOlive Kirk all the rest of the afternoon and went away without so muchas a look. So I suppose she means to take me at my word and I don'tcare, for I do not want to be friends with a girl who could repeat sucha falsehood about Walter. But I feel unhappy over it for all that.We've always been such good chums and until lately Irene was lovely tome; and now another illusion has been stripped from my eyes and I feelas if there wasn't such a thing as real true friendship in the world.
"Father got old Joe Mead to build a kennel for Dog Monday in the cornerof the shipping-shed today. We thought perhaps Monday would come homewhen the cold weather came but he wouldn't. No earthly influence cancoax Monday away from that shed even for a few minutes. There he staysand meets every train. So we had to do something to make himcomfortable. Joe built the kennel so that Monday could lie in it andstill see the platform, so we hope he will occupy it.
"Monday has become quite famous. A reporter of the Enterprise came outfrom town and photographed him and wrote up the whole story of hisfaithful vigil. It was published in the Enterprise and copied all overCanada. But that doesn't matter to poor little Monday, Jem has goneaway--Monday doesn't know where or why--but he will wait until he comesback. Somehow it comforts me: it's foolish, I suppose, but it gives mea feeling that Jem will come back or else Monday wouldn't keep onwaiting for him.
"Jims is snoring beside me in his cradle. It is just a cold that makeshim snore--not adenoids. Irene had a cold yesterday and I know she gaveit to him, kissing him. He is not quite such a nuisance as he was; hehas got some backbone and can sit up quite nicely, and he loves hisbath now and splashes unsmilingly in the water instead of twisting andshrieking. Oh, shall I ever forget those first two months! I don't knowhow I lived through them. But here I am and here is Jims and we bothare going to 'carry on.' I tickled him a little bit tonight when Iundressed him--I wouldn't bounce him but Morgan doesn't mentiontickling--just to see if he would smile for me as well as Irene. And hedid--and out popped the dimples. What a pity his mother couldn't haveseen them!
"I finished my sixth pair of socks today. With the first three I gotSusan to set the heel for me. Then I thought that was a bit ofshirking, so I learned to do it myself. I hate it--but I have done somany things I hate since 4th of August that one more or less doesn'tmatter. I just think of Jem joking about the mud on Salisbury Plain andI go at them."