CHAPTER XXIII
"AND SO, GOODNIGHT"
The fierce flame of agony had burned itself out and the grey dust ofits ashes was over all the world. Rilla's younger life recoveredphysically sooner than her mother. For weeks Mrs. Blythe lay ill fromgrief and shock. Rilla found it was possible to go on with existence,since existence had still to be reckoned with. There was work to bedone, for Susan could not do all. For her mother's sake she had to puton calmness and endurance as a garment in the day; but night afternight she lay in her bed, weeping the bitter rebellious tears of youthuntil at last tears were all wept out and the little patient ache thatwas to be in her heart until she died took their place.
She clung to Miss Oliver, who knew what to say and what not to say. Sofew people did. Kind, well-meaning callers and comforters gave Rillasome terrible moments.
"You'll get over it in time," Mrs. William Reese said, cheerfully. Mrs.Reese had three stalwart sons, not one of whom had gone to the front.
"It's such a blessing it was Walter who was taken and not Jem," saidMiss Sarah Clow. "Walter was a member of the church, and Jem wasn't.I've told Mr. Meredith many a time that he should have spoken seriouslyto Jem about it before he went away."
"Pore, pore Walter," sighed Mrs. Reese.
"Do not you come here calling him poor Walter," said Susan indignantly,appearing in the kitchen door, much to the relief of Rilla, who feltthat she could endure no more just then. "He was not poor. He wasricher than any of you. It is you who stay at home and will not letyour sons go who are poor--poor and naked and mean and small--pisenpoor, and so are your sons, with all their prosperous farms and fatcattle and their souls no bigger than a flea's--if as big."
"I came here to comfort the afflicted and not to be insulted," saidMrs. Reese, taking her departure, unregretted by anyone. Then the firewent out of Susan and she retreated to her kitchen, laid her faithfulold head on the table and wept bitterly for a time. Then she went towork and ironed Jims's little rompers. Rilla scolded her gently for itwhen she herself came in to do it.
"I am not going to have you kill yourself working for any war-baby,"Susan said obstinately.
"Oh, I wish I could just keep on working all the time, Susan," criedpoor Rilla. "And I wish I didn't have to go to sleep. It is hideous togo to sleep and forget it for a little while, and wake up and have itall rush over me anew the next morning. Do people ever get used tothings like this, Susan? And oh, Susan, I can't get away from what Mrs.Reese said. Did Walter suffer much--he was always so sensitive to pain.Oh, Susan, if I knew that he didn't I think I could gather up a littlecourage and strength."
This merciful knowledge was given to Rilla. A letter came from Walter'scommanding officer, telling them that he had been killed instantly by abullet during a charge at Courcelette. The same day there was a letterfor Rilla from Walter himself.
Rilla carried it unopened to Rainbow Valley and read it there, in thespot where she had had her last talk with him. It is a strange thing toread a letter after the writer is dead--a bitter-sweet thing, in whichpain and comfort are strangely mingled. For the first time since theblow had fallen Rilla felt--a different thing from tremulous hope andfaith--that Walter, of the glorious gift and the splendid ideals, stilllived, with just the same gift and just the same ideals. That could notbe destroyed--these could suffer no eclipse. The personality that hadexpressed itself in that last letter, written on the eve ofCourcelette, could not be snuffed out by a German bullet. It must carryon, though the earthly link with things of earth were broken.
"We're going over the top tomorrow, Rilla-my-Rilla," wrote Walter. "Iwrote mother and Di yesterday, but somehow I feel as if I must writeyou tonight. I hadn't intended to do any writing tonight--but I've gotto. Do you remember old Mrs. Tom Crawford over-harbour, who was alwayssaying that it was 'laid on her' to do such and such a thing? Well,that is just how I feel. It's 'laid on me' to write you tonight--you,sister and chum of mine. There are some things I want to saybefore--well, before tomorrow.
"You and Ingleside seem strangely near me tonight. It's the first timeI've felt this since I came. Always home has seemed so far away--sohopelessly far away from this hideous welter of filth and blood. Buttonight it is quite close to me--it seems to me I can almost seeyou--hear you speak. And I can see the moonlight shining white andstill on the old hills of home. It has seemed to me ever since I camehere that it was impossible that there could be calm gentle nights andunshattered moonlight anywhere in the world. But tonight somehow, allthe beautiful things I have always loved seem to have become possibleagain--and this is good, and makes me feel a deep, certain, exquisitehappiness. It must be autumn at home now--the harbour is a-dream andthe old Glen hills blue with haze, and Rainbow Valley a haunt ofdelight with wild asters blowing all over it--our old"farewell-summers." I always liked that name better than 'aster'--itwas a poem in itself.
"Rilla, you know I've always had premonitions. You remember the PiedPiper--but no, of course you wouldn't--you were too young. One eveninglong ago when Nan and Di and Jem and the Merediths and I were togetherin Rainbow Valley I had a queer vision or presentiment--whatever youlike to call it. Rilla, I saw the Piper coming down the Valley with ashadowy host behind him. The others thought I was only pretending--butI saw him for just one moment. And Rilla, last night I saw him again. Iwas doing sentry-go and I saw him marching across No-man's-land fromour trenches to the German trenches--the same tall shadowy form, pipingweirdly--and behind him followed boys in khaki. Rilla, I tell you I sawhim--it was no fancy--no illusion. I heard his music, and then--he wasgone. But I had seen him--and I knew what it meant--I knew that I wasamong those who followed him.
"Rilla, the Piper will pipe me 'west' tomorrow. I feel sure of this.And Rilla, I'm not afraid. When you hear the news, remember that. I'vewon my own freedom here--freedom from all fear. I shall never be afraidof anything again--not of death--nor of life, if after all, I am to goon living. And life, I think, would be the harder of the two toface--for it could never be beautiful for me again. There would alwaysbe such horrible things to remember--things that would make life uglyand painful always for me. I could never forget them. But whether it'slife or death, I'm not afraid, Rilla-my-Rilla, and I am not sorry thatI came. I'm satisfied. I'll never write the poems I once dreamed ofwriting--but I've helped to make Canada safe for the poets of thefuture--for the workers of the future--ay, and the dreamers, too--forif no man dreams, there will be nothing for the workers to fulfil--thefuture, not of Canada only but of the world--when the 'red rain' ofLangemarck and Verdun shall have brought forth a golden harvest--not ina year or two, as some foolishly think, but a generation later, whenthe seed sown now shall have had time to germinate and grow. Yes, I'mglad I came, Rilla. It isn't only the fate of the little sea-bornisland I love that is in the balance--nor of Canada nor of England.It's the fate of mankind. That is what we're fighting for. And we shallwin--never for a moment doubt that, Rilla. For it isn't only the livingwho are fighting--the dead are fighting too. Such an army cannot bedefeated.
"Is there laughter in your face yet, Rilla? I hope so. The world willneed laughter and courage more than ever in the years that will comenext. I don't want to preach--this isn't any time for it. But I justwant to say something that may help you over the worst when you hearthat I've gone 'west.' I've a premonition about you, Rilla, as well asabout myself. I think Ken will go back to you--and that there are longyears of happiness for you by-and-by. And you will tell your childrenof the Idea we fought and died for--teach them it must be lived for aswell as died for, else the price paid for it will have been given fornought. This will be part of your work, Rilla. And if you--all yougirls back in the homeland--do it, then we who don't come back willknow that you have not 'broken faith' with us.
"I meant to write to Una tonight, too, but I won't have time now. Readthis letter to her and tell her it's really meant for you both--you twodear, fine loyal girls. Tomorrow, when we go over the top--I'll thinkof you both--of your laughter, Rilla-my-Rilla, and the st
eadfastness inUna's blue eyes--somehow I see those eyes very plainly tonight, too.Yes, you'll both keep faith--I'm sure of that--you and Una. Andso--goodnight. We go over the top at dawn."
Rilla read her letter over many times. There was a new light on herpale young face when she finally stood up, amid the asters Walter hadloved, with the sunshine of autumn around her. For the moment at least,she was lifted above pain and loneliness.
"I will keep faith, Walter," she said steadily. "I will work--andteach--and learn--and laugh, yes, I will even laugh--through all myyears, because of you and because of what you gave when you followedthe call."
Rilla meant to keep Walter's letter as a a sacred treasure. But, seeingthe look on Una Meredith's face when Una had read it and held it backto her, she thought of something. Could she do it? Oh, no, she couldnot give up Walter's letter--his last letter. Surely it was notselfishness to keep it. A copy would be such a soulless thing. ButUna--Una had so little--and her eyes were the eyes of a woman strickento the heart, who yet must not cry out or ask for sympathy.
"Una, would you like to have this letter--to keep?" she asked slowly.
"Yes--if you can give it to me," Una said dully.
"Then--you may have it," said Rilla hurriedly.
"Thank you," said Una. It was all she said, but there was something inher voice which repaid Rilla for her bit of sacrifice.
Una took the letter and when Rilla had gone she pressed it against herlonely lips. Una knew that love would never come into her life now--itwas buried for ever under the blood-stained soil "Somewhere in France."No one but herself--and perhaps Rilla--knew it--would ever know it. Shehad no right in the eyes of her world to grieve. She must hide and bearher long pain as best she could--alone. But she, too, would keep faith.