RILLA DECIDES
Families and individuals alike soon become used to new conditions and
accept them unquestioningly. By the time a week had elapsed it seemed
as it the Anderson baby had always been at Ingleside. After the first
three distracted nights Rilla began to sleep again, waking
automatically to attend to her charge on schedule time. She bathed and
fed and dressed it as skilfully as if she had been doing it all her
life. She liked neither her job nor the baby any the better; she still
handled it as gingerly as if it were some kind of a small lizard, and a
breakable lizard at that; but she did her work thoroughly and there was
not a cleaner, better-cared-for infant in Glen St. Mary. She even took
to weighing the creature every day and jotting the result down in her
diary; but sometimes she asked herself pathetically why unkind destiny
had ever led her down the Anderson lane on that fatal day. Shirley,
Nan, and Di did not tease her as much as she had expected. They all
seemed rather stunned by the mere fact of Rilla adopting a war-baby;
perhaps, too, the doctor had issued instructions. Walter, of course,
never had teased her over anything; one day he told her she was a brick.
"It took more courage for you to tackle that five pounds of new infant,
Rilla-my-Rilla, than it would be for Jem to face a mile of Germans. I
wish I had half your pluck," he said ruefully.
Rilla was very proud of Walter's approval; nevertheless, she wrote
gloomily in her diary that night:--
"I wish I could like the baby a little bit. It would make things
easier. But I don't. I've heard people say that when you took care of a
baby you got fond of it--but you don't--I don't, anyway. And it's a
nuisance--it interferes with everything. It just ties me down--and now
of all times when I'm trying to get the Junior Reds started. And I
couldn't go to Alice Clow's party last night and I was just dying to.
Of course father isn't really unreasonable and I can always get an hour
or two off in the evening when it's necessary; but I knew he wouldn't
stand for my being out half the night and leaving Susan or mother to
see to the baby. I suppose it was just as well, because the thing did
take colic--or something--about one o'clock. It didn't kick or stiffen
out, so I knew that, according to Morgan, it wasn't crying for temper;
and it wasn't hungry and no pins were sticking in it. It screamed till
it was black in the face; I got up and heated water and put the
hot-water bottle on its stomach, and it howled worse than ever and drew
up its poor wee thin legs. I was afraid I had burnt it but I don't
believe I did. Then I walked the floor with it although 'Morgan on
Infants' says that should never be done. I walked miles, and oh, I was
so tired and discouraged and mad--yes, I was. I could have shaken the
creature if it had been big enough to shake, but it wasn't. Father was
out on a case, and mother had had a headache and Susan is squiffy
because when she and Morgan differ I insist upon going by what Morgan
says, so I was determined I wouldn't call her unless I had to.
"Finally, Miss Oliver came in. She has rooms with Nan now, not me, all
because of the baby, and I am broken-hearted about it. I miss our long
talks after we went to bed, so much. It was the only time I ever had
her to myself. I hated to think the baby's yells had wakened her up,
for she has so much to bear now. Mr. Grant is at Valcartier, too, and
Miss Oliver feels it dreadfully, though she is splendid about it. She
thinks he will never come back and her eyes just break my heart--they
are so tragic. She said it wasn't the baby that woke her--she hadn't
been able to sleep because the Germans are so near Paris; she took the
little wretch and laid it flat on its stomach across her knee and
thumped its back gently a few times, and it stopped shrieking and went
right off to sleep and slept like a lamb the rest of the night. I
didn't--I was too worn out.
"I'm having a perfectly dreadful time getting the Junior Reds started.
I succeeded in getting Betty Mead as president, and I am secretary, but
they put Jen Vickers in as treasurer and I despise her. She is the sort
of girl who calls any clever, handsome, or distinguished people she
knows slightly by their first names--behind their backs. And she is sly
and two-faced. Una doesn't mind, of course. She is willing to do
anything that comes to hand and never minds whether she has an office
or not. She is just a perfect angel, while I am only angelic in spots
and demonic in other spots. I wish Walter would take a fancy to her,
but he never seems to think about her in that way, although I heard him
say once she was like a tea rose. She is too. And she gets imposed
upon, just because she is so sweet and willing; but I don't allow
people to impose on Rilla Blythe and 'that you may tie to,' as Susan
says.
"Just as I expected, Olive was determined we should have lunch served
at our meetings. We had a battle royal over it. The majority was
against eats and now the minority is sulking. Irene Howard was on the
eats side and she has been very cool to me ever since and it makes me
feel miserable. I wonder if mother and Mrs. Elliott have problems in
the Senior Society too. I suppose they have, but they just go on calmly
in spite of everything. I go on--but not calmly--I rage and cry--but I
do it all in private and blow off steam in this diary; and when it's
over I vow I'll show them. I never sulk. I detest people who sulk.
Anyhow, we've got the society started and we're to meet once a week,
and we're all going to learn to knit.
"Shirley and I went down to the station again to try to induce Dog
Monday to come home but we failed. All the family have tried and
failed. Three days after Jem had gone Walter went down and brought
Monday home by main force in the buggy and shut him up for three days.
Then Monday went on a hunger strike and howled like a Banshee night and
day. We had to let him out or he would have starved to death.
"So we have decided to let him alone and father has arranged with the
butcher near the station to feed him with bones and scraps. Besides,
one of us goes down nearly every day to take him something. He just
lies curled up in the shipping-shed, and every time a train comes in he
will rush over to the platform, wagging his tail expectantly, and tear
around to every one who comes off the train. And then, when the train
goes and he realizes that Jem has not come, he creeps dejectedly back
to his shed, with his disappointed eyes, and lies down patiently to
wait for the next train. Mr. Gray, the station master, says there are
times when he can hardly help crying from sheer sympathy. One day some
boys threw stones at Monday and old Johnny Mead, who never was known to
take notice of anything before, snatched up a meat axe in the butcher's
shop and chased them through the village. Nobody has molested Monday
since.
"Kenneth Ford has gone back to Toronto. He came up two evenings ago to
say good-bye. I wasn't home--some clothes had to be made for the baby
and Mrs. Meredith offered to help me, so I was over at the manse, and I
didn't see Kenneth. Not that it matters; he told Nan to say good-bye to
Spider for him and tell me not to forget him wholly in my absorbing
maternal duties. If he could leave such a frivolous, insulting message
as that for me it shows plainly that our beautiful hour on the
sandshore meant nothing to him and I am not going to think about him or
it again.
"Fred Arnold was at the manse and walked home with me. He is the new
Methodist minister's son and very nice and clever, and would be quite
handsome if it were not for his nose. It is a really dreadful nose.
When he talks of commonplace things it does not matter so much, but
when he talks of poetry and ideals the contrast between his nose and
his conversation is too much for me and I want to shriek with laughter.
It is really not fair, because everything he said was perfectly
charming and if somebody like Kenneth had said it I would have been
enraptured. When I listened to him with my eyes cast down I was quite
fascinated; but as soon as I looked up and saw his nose the spell was
broken. He wants to enlist, too, but can't because he is only
seventeen. Mrs. Elliott met us as we were walking through the village
and could not have looked more horrified if she caught me walking with
the Kaiser himself. Mrs. Elliott detests the Methodists and all their
works. Father says it is an obsession with her."
About 1st September there was an exodus from Ingleside and the manse.
Faith, Nan, Di and Walter left for Redmond; Carl betook himself to his
Harbour Head school and Shirley was off to Queen's. Rilla was left
alone at Ingleside and would have been very lonely if she had had time
to be. She missed Walter keenly; since their talk in Rainbow Valley
they had grown very near together and Rilla discussed problems with
Walter which she never mentioned to others. But she was so busy with
the Junior Reds and her baby that there was rarely a spare minute for
loneliness; sometimes, after she went to bed, she cried a little in her
pillow over Walter's absence and Jem at Valcartier and Kenneth's
unromantic farewell message, but she was generally asleep before the
tears got fairly started.
"Shall I make arrangements to have the baby sent to Hopetown?" the
doctor asked one day two weeks after the baby's arrival at Ingleside.
For a moment Rilla was tempted to say "Yes." The baby could be sent to
Hopetown--it would be decently looked after--she could have her free
days and untrammelled nights back again. But--but--that poor young
mother who hadn't wanted it to go to the asylum! Rilla couldn't get
that out of her thoughts. And that very morning she discovered that the
baby had gained eight ounces since its coming to Ingleside. Rilla had
felt such a thrill of pride over this.
"You--you said it mightn't live if it went to Hopetown," she said.
"It mightn't. Somehow, institutional care, no matter how good it may
be, doesn't always succeed with delicate babies. But you know what it
means if you want it kept here, Rilla."
"I've taken care of it for a fortnight--and it has gained half a
pound," cried Rilla. "I think we'd better wait until we hear from its
father anyhow. He mightn't want to have it sent to an orphan asylum,
when he is fighting the battles of his country."
The doctor and Mrs. Blythe exchanged amused, satisfied smiles behind
Rilla's back; and nothing more was said about Hopetown.
Then the smile faded from the doctor's face; the Germans were twenty
miles from Paris. Horrible tales were beginning to appear in the papers
of deeds done in martyred Belgium. Life was very tense at Ingleside for
the older people.
"We eat up the war news," Gertrude Oliver told Mrs. Meredith, trying to
laugh and failing. "We study the maps and nip the whole Hun army in a
few well-directed strategic moves. But Papa Joffre hasn't the benefit
of our advice--and so Paris--must--fall."
"Will they reach it--will not some mighty hand yet intervene?" murmured
John Meredith.
"I teach school like one in a dream," continued Gertrude; "then I come
home and shut myself in my room and walk the floor. I am wearing a path
right across Nan's carpet. We are so horribly near this war."
"Them German men are at Senlis. Nothing nor nobody can save Paris now,"
wailed Cousin Sophia. Cousin Sophia had taken to reading the newspapers
and had learned more about the geography of northern France, if not
about the pronunciation of French names, in her seventy-first year than
she had ever known in her schooldays.
"I have not such a poor opinion of the Almighty, or of Kitchener," said
Susan stubbornly. "I see there is a Bernstoff man in the States who
says that the war is over and Germany has won--and they tell me
Whiskers-on-the-moon says the same thing and is quite pleased about it,
but I could tell them both that it is chancy work counting chickens
even the day before they are hatched, and bears have been known to live
long after their skins were sold."
"Why ain't the British navy doing more?" persisted Cousin Sophia.
"Even the British navy cannot sail on dry land, Sophia Crawford. I have
not given up hope, and I shall not, Tomascow and Mobbage and all such
barbarous names to the contrary notwithstanding. Mrs. Dr. dear, can you
tell me if R-h-e-i-m-s is Rimes or Reems or Rames or Rems?"
"I believe it's really more like 'Rhangs,' Susan."
"Oh, those French names," groaned Susan.
"They tell me the Germans has about ruined the church there," sighed
Cousin Sophia. "I always thought the Germans was Christians."
"A church is bad enough but their doings in Belgium are far worse,"
said Susan grimly. "When I heard the doctor reading about them
bayonetting the babies, Mrs. Dr. dear, I just thought, 'Oh, what if it
were our little Jem!' I was stirring the soup when that thought came to
me and I just felt that if I could have lifted that saucepan full of
that boiling soup and thrown it at the Kaiser I would not have lived in
vain."
"Tomorrow--tomorrow--will bring the news that the Germans are in
Paris," said Gertrude Oliver, through her tense lips. She had one of
those souls that are always tied to the stake, burning in the suffering
of the world around them. Apart from her own personal interest in the
war, she was racked by the thought of Paris falling into the ruthless
hands of the hordes who had burned Louvain and ruined the wonder of
Rheims.
But on the morrow and the next morrow came the news of the miracle of
the Marne. Rilla rushed madly home from the office waving the
Enterprise with its big red headlines. Susan ran out with trembling
hands to hoist the flag. The doctor stalked about muttering "Thank
God." Mrs. Blythe cried and laughed and cried again.
"God just put out His hand and touched them--'thus far--no farther',"
said Mr. Meredith that evening.
Rilla was singing upstairs as she put the baby to bed. Paris was
saved--the war was over--Germany had lost--there would soon be an end
now--Jem and Jerry would be back. The black clouds had rolled by.
"Don't you dare have colic this joyful night," she told the baby. "If
you do I'll clap you back into your soup tureen and ship you off to
Hopetown--by freight--on the early train. You have got beautiful
eyes--and you're not quite as red and wrinkled as you were--but you
haven't a speck of hair--and your hands are like little claws--and I
don't like you a bit better than I ever did. But I hope your poor
little white mother knows that you're tucked in a soft basket with a
bottle of milk as rich as Morgan allows instead of perishing by inches
with old Meg Conover. And I hope she doesn't know that I nearly drowned
you that first morning when Susan wasn't there and I let you slip right
out of my hands into the water. Why will you be so slippery? No, I
don't like you and I never will but for all that I'm going to make a
decent, upstanding infant of you. You are going to get as fat as a
self-respecting child should be, for one thing. I am not going to have
people saying 'what a puny little thing that baby of Rilla Blythe's is'
as old Mrs. Drew said at the senior Red Cross yesterday. If I can't
love you I mean to be proud of you at least."