THE TROUBLES OF RILLA
October passed out and the dreary days of November and December dragged
by. The world shook with the thunder of contending armies; Antwerp
fell--Turkey declared war--gallant little Serbia gathered herself
together and struck a deadly blow at her oppressor; and in quiet,
hill-girdled Glen St. Mary, thousands of miles away, hearts beat with
hope and fear over the varying dispatches from day to day.
"A few months ago," said Miss Oliver, "we thought and talked in terms
of Glen St. Mary. Now, we think and talk in terms of military tactics
and diplomatic intrigue."
There was just one great event every day--the coming of the mail. Even
Susan admitted that from the time the mail-courier's buggy rumbled over
the little bridge between the station and the village until the papers
were 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 heart
is going like a trip-hammer and the pit of your stomach feels all gone
and your thoughts are catawampus. Then when I see the headlines, be
they good or be they bad, I calm down and am able to go about my
business again. It is an unfortunate thing that the mail comes in just
when our dinner rush is on, and I think the Government could arrange
things better. But the drive on Calais has failed, as I felt perfectly
sure it would, and the Kaiser will not eat his Christmas dinner in
London this year. Do you know, Mrs. Dr. dear,"--Susan's voice lowered
as a token that she was going to impart a very shocking piece of
information,--"I have been told on good authority--or else you may be
sure I would not be repeating it when it concerns a minster--that the
Rev. Mr. Arnold goes to Charlottetown every week and takes a Turkish
bath for his rheumatism. The idea of him doing that when we are at war
with Turkey? One of his own deacons has always insisted that Mr.
Arnold's theology was not sound and I am beginning to believe that
there is some reason to fear it. Well, I must bestir myself this
afternoon and get little Jem's Christmas cake packed up for him. He
will enjoy it, if the blessed boy is not drowned in mud before that
time."
Jem was in camp on Salisbury Plain and was writing gay, cheery letters
home in spite of the mud. Walter was at Redmond and his letters to
Rilla were anything but cheerful. She never opened one without a dread
tugging at her heart that it would tell her he had enlisted. His
unhappiness made her unhappy. She wanted to put her arm round him and
comfort him, as she had done that day in Rainbow Valley. She hated
everybody who was responsible for Walter's unhappiness.
"He will go yet," she murmured miserably to herself one afternoon, as
she sat alone in Rainbow Valley, reading a letter from him, "he will go
yet--and if he does I just can't bear it."
Walter wrote that some one had sent him an envelope containing a white
feather.
"I deserved it, Rilla. I felt that I ought to put it on and wear
it--proclaiming myself to all Redmond the coward I know I am. The boys
of 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 myself
thrusting a bayonet through another man--some woman's husband or
sweetheart or son--perhaps the father of little children--I see myself
lying 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 face
even the thought of it. How could I face the reality? There are times
when I wish I had never been born. Life has always seemed such a
beautiful 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 is
really a little brick, isn't she? There's a wonderful fineness and
firmness under all that shy, wistful girlishness of her. She hasn't
your knack of writing laugh-provoking epistles, but there's something
in her letters--I don't know what--that makes me feel at least while
I'm reading them, that I could even go to the front. Not that she ever
says a word about my going--or hints that I ought to go--she isn't that
kind. 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 a
coward."
"Oh, I wish Walter wouldn't write such things," sighed Rilla. "It hurts
me. He isn't a coward--he isn't--he isn't!"
She looked wistfully about her--at the little woodland valley and the
grey, lonely fallows beyond. How everything reminded her of Walter! The
red leaves still clung to the wild sweet-briars that overhung a curve
of the brook; their stems were gemmed with the pearls of the gentle
rain that had fallen a little while before. Walter had once written a
poem describing them. The wind was sighing and rustling among the
frosted brown bracken ferns, then lessening sorrowfully away down the
brook. Walter had said once that he loved the melancholy of the autumn
wind on a November day. The old Tree Lovers still clasped each other in
a faithful embrace, and the White Lady, now a great white-branched
tree, stood out beautifully fine, against the grey velvet sky. Walter
had named them long ago; and last November, when he had walked with her
and Miss Oliver in the Valley, he had said, looking at the leafless
Lady, with a young silver moon hanging over her, "A white birch is a
beautiful Pagan maiden who has never lost the Eden secret of being
naked 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 a
short thing with goblin imagination in every line of it. Oh, how happy
they had been then!
Well--Rilla scrambled to her feet--time was up. Jims would soon be
awake--his lunch had to be prepared--his little slips had to be
ironed--there was a committee meeting of the Junior Reds that
night--there was her new knitting bag to finish--it would be the
handsomest bag in the Junior Society--handsomer even than Irene
Howard's--she must get home and get to work. She was busy these days
from morning till night. That little monkey of a Jims took so much
time. But he was growing--he was certainly growing. And there were
times when Rilla felt sure that it was not merely a pious hope but an
absolute fact that he was getting decidedly better looking. Sometimes
she 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 December
evening, when she, Mrs. Blythe, and Susan were busy sewing or knitting
in the cosy living-room. "This war is at least extending my knowledge
of geography. Schoolma'am though I am, three months ago I didn't know
there was such a place in the world such as Lodz. Had I heard it
mentioned I would have known nothing about it and cared as little. I
know all about it now--its size, its standing, its military
significance. Yesterday the news that the Germans have captured it in
their second rush to Warsaw made my heart sink into my boots. I woke up
in the night and worried over it. I don't wonder babies always cry when
they wake up in the night. Everything presses on my soul then and no
cloud has a silver lining."
"When I wake up in the night and cannot go to sleep again," remarked
Susan, who was knitting and reading at the same time, "I pass the
moments by torturing the Kaiser to death. Last night I fried him in
boiling oil and a great comfort it was to me, remembering those Belgian
babies."
"If the Kaiser were here and had a pain in his shoulder you'd be the
first to run for the liniment bottle to rub him down," laughed Miss
Oliver.
"Would I?" cried outraged Susan. "Would I, Miss Oliver? I would rub him
down with coal oil, Miss Oliver--and leave it to blister. That is what
I would do and that you may tie to. A pain in his shoulder, indeed! He
will have pains all over him before he is through with what he has
started."
"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 over
this flattening out of the doctor completely that she even smiled as
she 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 war
news--and not a dispatch got by her. "Can you tell me, Miss Oliver, how
to 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 the others."
"These foreign names are far from being decent, in my opinion," said
disgusted Susan.
"I dare say the Austrians and Russians would think Saskatchewan and
Musquodoboit about as bad, Susan," said Miss Oliver. "The Serbians have
done wonderfully of late. They have captured Belgrade."
"And sent the Austrian creatures packing across the Danube with a flea
in their ear," said Susan with a relish, as she settled down to examine
a map of Eastern Europe, prodding each locality with the knitting
needle to brand it on her memory. "Cousin Sophia said awhile ago that
Serbia was done for, but I told her there was still such a thing as an
over-ruling Providence, doubt it who might. It says here that the
slaughter was terrible. For all they were foreigners it is awful to
think of so many men being killed, Mrs. Dr. dear--for they are scarce
enough as it is."
Rilla was upstairs relieving her over-charged feelings by writing in
her 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 be
equally unhappy over both parts.
"I went to town the other day to buy a new winter hat. It was the first
time nobody insisted on coming with me to help me select it, and I felt
that mother had really given up thinking of me as a child. And I found
the dearest hat--it was simply bewitching. It was a velvet hat, of the
very shade of rich green that was made for me. It just goes with my
hair and complexion beautifully, bringing out the red-brown shades and
what Miss Oliver calls my 'creaminess' so well. Only once before in my
life have I come across that precise shade of green. When I was twelve
I had a little beaver hat of it, and all the girls in school were wild
over it. Well, as soon as I saw this hat I felt that I simply must have
it--and have it I did. The price was dreadful. I will not put it down
here because I don't want my descendants to know I was guilty of paying
so much for a hat, in war-time, too, when everybody is--or should
be--trying to be economical.
"When I got home and tried on the hat again in my room I was assailed
by qualms. Of course, it was very becoming; but somehow it seemed too
elaborate and fussy for church going and our quiet little doings in the
Glen--too conspicuous, in short. It hadn't seemed so at the milliner's
but 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 just
looked at me. Mother is some expert at looking. Father says she looked
him into love with her years ago in Avonlea school and I can well
believe it--though I have heard a weird tale of her banging him over
the 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 up
to the time when Jem went away she was full of ginger. But let me
return to my mutton--that is to say, my new green velvet hat.
"'Do you think, Rilla,' mother said quietly--far too quietly--'that it
was right to spend so much for a hat, especially when the need of the
world 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 a
reasonable amount for each thing you need. If you pay too much for one
thing you must cut off somewhere else and that is not satisfactory. But
if you think you did right, Rilla, I have no more to say. I leave it to
your 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 a
concert in town--I had to keep it! I was so uncomfortable that I flew
into 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 in
doubtful 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 and
calmer 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 not
get another hat for three years or for the duration of the war, if it
lasts 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 at
least three years.'
"'You will be very tired of that hat before three years, Rilla,' said
mother, with a provoking grin, which, being interpreted, meant that I
wouldn't stick it out.
"'Tired or not, I will wear it that long,' I said: and then I marched
upstairs 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, I
said, and three years or the duration of the war it shall be. I vowed
and I shall keep my vow, cost what it will.
"That is one of the 'catawampus' things. The other is that I have
quarrelled with Irene Howard--or she quarrelled with me--or, no, we
both quarrelled.
"The Junior Red Cross met here yesterday. The hour of meeting was
half-past two but Irene came at half-past one, because she got the
chance of a drive down from the Upper Glen. Irene hasn't been a bit
nice to me since the fuss about the eats; and besides I feel sure she
resents not being president. But I have been determined that things
should go smoothly, so I have never taken any notice, and when she came
yesterday she seemed so nice and sweet again that I hoped she had got
over 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 saw
her cast a look at my new knitting-bag. All the girls have always said
Irene was jealous-minded and I would never believe them before. But now
I feel that perhaps she is.
"The first thing she did was to pounce on Jims--Irene pretends to adore
babies--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 like
that. It is not hygienic. After she had worried him till he began to
fuss, she looked at me and gave quite a nasty little laugh but she
said, oh, so sweetly,
"'Why, Rilla, darling, you look as if you thought I was poisoning the
baby.'
"'Oh, no, I don't, Irene,' I said--every bit as sweetly, 'but you know
Morgan says that the only place a baby should be kissed is on its
forehead, for fear of germs, and that is my rule with Jims.'
"'Dear me, am I so full of germs?' said Irene plaintively. I knew she
was making fun of me and I began to boil inside--but outside no sign of
a simmer. I was determined I would not scrap with Irene.
"Then she began to bounce Jims. Now, Morgan says bouncing is almost the
worst thing that can be done to a baby. I never allow Jims to be
bounced. But Irene bounced him and that exasperating child liked it. He
smiled--for the very first time. He is four months old and he has never
smiled once before. Not even mother or Susan have been able to coax
that thing to smile, try as they would. And here he was smiling because
Irene Howard bounced him! Talk of gratitude!
"I admit that smile made a big difference in him. Two of the dearest
dimples came out in his cheeks and his big brown eyes seemed full of
laughter. The way Irene raved over those dimples was silly, I consider.
You would have supposed she thought she had really brought them into
existence. But I sewed steadily and did not enthuse, and soon Irene got
tired of bouncing Jims and put him back in his cradle. He did not like
that after being played with, and he began to cry and was fussy the
rest of the afternoon, whereas if Irene had only left him alone he
would not have been a bit of trouble.
"Irene looked at him and said, 'Does he often cry like that?' as if she
had never heard a baby crying before.
"I explained patiently that children have to cry so many minutes per
day 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 least
twenty 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 have
convinced her. Then she said Jims didn't have much hair--she had never
seen a four months' old baby so bald.
"Of course, I knew Jims hadn't much hair--yet; but Irene said it in a
tone that seemed to imply it was my fault that he hadn't any hair. I
said I had seen dozens of babies every bit as bald as Jims, and Irene
said, Oh very well, she hadn't meant to offend me--when I wasn't
offended.
"It went on like that the rest of the hour--Irene kept giving me little
digs all the time. The girls have always said she was revengeful like
that 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 find
she could stoop to this. But I corked up my feelings and sewed away for
dear life on a Belgian child's nightgown.
"Then Irene told me the meanest, most contemptible thing that someone
had said about Walter. I won't write it down--I can't. Of course, she
said it made her furious to hear it and all that--but there was no need
for her to tell me such a thing even if she did hear it. She simply did
it to hurt me.
"I just exploded. 'How dare you come here and repeat such a thing about
my brother, Irene Howard?' I exclaimed. 'I shall never forgive
you--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 was
Mrs. George Burr. And I told her--'
"'I don't want to hear what you told her. Don't you ever speak to me
again, Irene Howard.'
"Oh course, I shouldn't have said that. But it just seemed to say
itself. Then the other girls all came in a bunch and I had to calm down
and act the hostess' part as well as I could. Irene paired off with
Olive Kirk all the rest of the afternoon and went away without so much
as a look. So I suppose she means to take me at my word and I don't
care, for I do not want to be friends with a girl who could repeat such
a 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 to
me; and now another illusion has been stripped from my eyes and I feel
as 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 corner
of the shipping-shed today. We thought perhaps Monday would come home
when the cold weather came but he wouldn't. No earthly influence can
coax Monday away from that shed even for a few minutes. There he stays
and meets every train. So we had to do something to make him
comfortable. Joe built the kennel so that Monday could lie in it and
still see the platform, so we hope he will occupy it.
"Monday has become quite famous. A reporter of the Enterprise came out
from town and photographed him and wrote up the whole story of his
faithful vigil. It was published in the Enterprise and copied all over
Canada. But that doesn't matter to poor little Monday, Jem has gone
away--Monday doesn't know where or why--but he will wait until he comes
back. Somehow it comforts me: it's foolish, I suppose, but it gives me
a feeling that Jem will come back or else Monday wouldn't keep on
waiting for him.
"Jims is snoring beside me in his cradle. It is just a cold that makes
him snore--not adenoids. Irene had a cold yesterday and I know she gave
it to him, kissing him. He is not quite such a nuisance as he was; he
has got some backbone and can sit up quite nicely, and he loves his
bath now and splashes unsmilingly in the water instead of twisting and
shrieking. Oh, shall I ever forget those first two months! I don't know
how I lived through them. But here I am and here is Jims and we both
are going to 'carry on.' I tickled him a little bit tonight when I
undressed him--I wouldn't bounce him but Morgan doesn't mention
tickling--just to see if he would smile for me as well as Irene. And he
did--and out popped the dimples. What a pity his mother couldn't have
seen them!
"I finished my sixth pair of socks today. With the first three I got
Susan to set the heel for me. Then I thought that was a bit of
shirking, so I learned to do it myself. I hate it--but I have done so
many things I hate since 4th of August that one more or less doesn't
matter. I just think of Jem joking about the mud on Salisbury Plain and
I go at them."