LITTLE DOG MONDAY KNOWS
"It is two years tonight since the dance at the light, when Jack
Elliott brought us news of the war. Do you remember, Miss Oliver?"
Cousin Sophia answered for Miss Oliver. "Oh, indeed, Rilla, I remember
that evening only too well, and you a-prancing down here to show off
your party clothes. Didn't I warn you that we could not tell what was
before us? Little did you think that night what was before you."
"Little did any of us think that," said Susan sharply, "not being
gifted with the power of prophecy. It does not require any great
foresight, Sophia Crawford, to tell a body that she will have some
trouble before her life is over. I could do as much myself."
"We all thought the war would be over in a few months then," said Rilla
wistfully. "When I look back it seems so ridiculous that we ever could
have supposed it."
"And now, two years later, it is no nearer the end than it was then,"
said Miss Oliver gloomily.
Susan clicked her knitting-needles briskly.
"Now, Miss Oliver, dear, you know that is not a reasonable remark. You
know we are just two years nearer the end, whenever the end is
appointed to be."
"Albert read in a Montreal paper today that a war expert gives it as
his opinion that it will last five years more," was Cousin Sophia's
cheerful contribution.
"It can't," cried Rilla; then she added with a sigh, "Two years ago we
would have said 'It can't last two years.' But five more years of this!"
"If Rumania comes in, as I have strong hopes now of her doing, you will
see the end in five months instead of five years," said Susan.
"I've no faith in furriners," sighed Cousin Sophia.
"The French are foreigners," retorted Susan, "and look at Verdun. And
think of all the Somme victories this blessed summer. The Big Push is
on and the Russians are still going well. Why, General Haig says that
the German officers he has captured admit that they have lost the war."
"You can't believe a word the Germans say," protested Cousin Sophia.
"There is no sense in believing a thing just because you'd like to
believe it, Susan Baker. The British have lost millions of men at the
Somme and how far have they got? Look facts in the face, Susan Baker,
look facts in the face."
"They are wearing the Germans out and so long as that happens it does
not matter whether it is done a few miles east or a few miles west. I
am not," admitted Susan in tremendous humility, "I am not a military
expert, Sophia Crawford, but even I can see that, and so could you if
you were not determined to take a gloomy view of everything. The Huns
have not got all the cleverness in the world. Have you not heard the
story of Alistair MacCallum's son Roderick, from the Upper Glen? He is
a prisoner in Germany and his mother got a letter from him last week.
He wrote that he was being very kindly treated and that all the
prisoners had plenty of food and so on, till you would have supposed
everything was lovely. But when he signed his name, right in between
Roderick and MacCallum, he wrote two Gaelic words that meant 'all lies'
and the German censor did not understand Gaelic and thought it was all
part of Roddy's name. So he let it pass, never dreaming how he was
diddled. Well, I am going to leave the war to Haig for the rest of the
day and make a frosting for my chocolate cake. And when it is made I
shall put it on the top shelf. The last one I made I left it on the
lower shelf and little Kitchener sneaked in and clawed all the icing
off and ate it. We had company for tea that night and when I went to
get my cake what a sight did I behold!"
"Has that pore orphan's father never been heerd from yet?" asked Cousin
Sophia.
"Yes, I had a letter from him in July," said Rilla. "He said that when
he got word of his wife's death and of my taking the baby--Mr. Meredith
wrote him, you know--he wrote right away, but as he never got any
answer he had begun to think his letter must have been lost."
"It took him two years to begin to think it," said Susan scornfully.
"Some people think very slow. Jim Anderson has not got a scratch, for
all he has been two years in the trenches. A fool for luck, as the old
proverb says."
"He wrote very nicely about Jims and said he'd like to see him," said
Rilla. "So I wrote and told him all about the wee man, and sent him
snapshots. Jims will be two years old next week and he is a perfect
duck."
"You didn't used to be very fond of babies," said Cousin Sophia.
"I'm not a bit fonder of babies in the abstract than ever I was," said
Rilla, frankly. "But I do love Jims, and I'm afraid I wasn't really
half as glad as I should have been when Jim Anderson's letter proved
that he was safe and sound."
"You wasn't hoping the man would be killed!" cried Cousin Sophia in
horrified accents.
"No--no--no! I just hoped he would go on forgetting about Jims, Mrs.
Crawford."
"And then your pa would have the expense of raising him," said Cousin
Sophia reprovingly. "You young creeturs are terrible thoughtless."
Jims himself ran in at this juncture, so rosy and curly and kissable,
that he extorted a qualified compliment even from Cousin Sophia.
"He's a reel healthy-looking child now, though mebbee his colour is a
mite too high--sorter consumptive looking, as you might say. I never
thought you'd raise him when I saw him the day after you brung him
home. I reely did not think it was in you and I told Albert's wife so
when I got home. Albert's wife says, says she, 'There's more in Rilla
Blythe than you'd think for, Aunt Sophia.' Them was her very words.
'More in Rilla Blythe than you'd think for.' Albert's wife always had a
good opinion of you."
Cousin Sophia sighed, as if to imply that Albert's wife stood alone in
this against the world. But Cousin Sophia really did not mean that. She
was quite fond of Rilla in her own melancholy way; but young creeturs
had to be kept down. If they were not kept down society would be
demoralized.
"Do you remember your walk home from the light two years ago tonight?"
whispered Gertrude Oliver to Rilla, teasingly.
"I should think I do," smiled Rilla; and then her smile grew dreamy and
absent; she was remembering something else--that hour with Kenneth on
the sandshore. Where would Ken be tonight? And Jem and Jerry and Walter
and all the other boys who had danced and moonlighted on the old Four
Winds Point that evening of mirth and laughter--their last joyous
unclouded evening. In the filthy trenches of the Somme front, with the
roar of the guns and the groans of stricken men for the music of Ned
Burr's violin, and the flash of star shells for the silver sparkles on
the old blue gulf. Two of them were sleeping under the Flanders
poppies--Alec Burr from the Upper Glen, and Clark Manley of Lowbridge.
Others were wounded in the hospitals. But so far nothing had touched
the manse and the Ingleside boys. They seemed to bear charmed lives.
Yet the suspense never grew any easier to bear as the weeks and months
of war went by.
"It isn't as if it were some sort of fever to which you might conclude
they were immune when they hadn't taken it for two years," sighed
Rilla. "The danger is just as great and just as real as it was the
first day they went into the trenches. I know this, and it tortures me
every day. And yet I can't help hoping that since they've come this far
unhurt they'll come through. Oh, Miss Oliver, what would it be like not
to wake up in the morning feeling afraid of the news the day would
bring? I can't picture such a state of things somehow. And two years
ago this morning I woke wondering what delightful gift the new day
would give me. These are the two years I thought would be filled with
fun."
"Would you exchange them--now--for two years filled with fun?"
"No," said Rilla slowly. "I wouldn't. It's strange--isn't it?--They
have been two terrible years--and yet I have a queer feeling of
thankfulness for them--as if they had brought me something very
precious, with all their pain. I wouldn't want to go back and be the
girl I was two years ago, not even if I could. Not that I think I've
made any wonderful progress--but I'm not quite the selfish, frivolous
little doll I was then. I suppose I had a soul then, Miss Oliver--but I
didn't know it. I know it now--and that is worth a great deal--worth
all the suffering of the past two years. And still"--Rilla gave a
little apologetic laugh, "I don't want to suffer any more--not even for
the sake of more soul growth. At the end of two more years I might look
back and be thankful for the development they had brought me, too; but
I don't want it now."
"We never do," said Miss Oliver. "That is why we are not left to choose
our own means and measure of development, I suppose. No matter how much
we value what our lessons have brought us we don't want to go on with
the bitter schooling. Well, let us hope for the best, as Susan says;
things are really going well now and if Rumania lines up, the end may
come with a suddenness that will surprise us all."
Rumania did come in--and Susan remarked approvingly that its king and
queen were the finest looking royal couple she had seen pictures of. So
the summer passed away. Early in September word came that the Canadians
had been shifted to the Somme front and anxiety grew tenser and deeper.
For the first time Mrs. Blythe's spirit failed her a little, and as the
days of suspense wore on the doctor began to look gravely at her, and
veto this or that special effort in Red Cross work.
"Oh, let me work--let me work, Gilbert," she entreated feverishly.
"While I'm working I don't think so much. If I'm idle I imagine
everything--rest is only torture for me. My two boys are on the
frightful Somme front--and Shirley pores day and night over aviation
literature and says nothing. But I see the purpose growing in his eyes.
No, I cannot rest--don't ask it of me, Gilbert."
But the doctor was inexorable.
"I can't let you kill yourself, Anne-girl," he said. "When the boys
come back I want a mother here to welcome them. Why, you're getting
transparent. It won't do--ask Susan there if it will do."
"Oh, if Susan and you are both banded together against me!" said Anne
helplessly.
One day the glorious news came that the Canadians had taken Courcelette
and Martenpuich, with many prisoners and guns. Susan ran up the flag
and said it was plain to be seen that Haig knew what soldiers to pick
for a hard job. The others dared not feel exultant. Who knew what price
had been paid?
Rilla woke that morning when the dawn was beginning to break and went
to her window to look out, her thick creamy eyelids heavy with sleep.
Just at dawn the world looks as it never looks at any other time. The
air was cold with dew and the orchard and grove and Rainbow Valley were
full of mystery and wonder. Over the eastern hill were golden deeps and
silvery-pink shallows. There was no wind, and Rilla heard distinctly a
dog howling in a melancholy way down in the direction of the station.
Was it Dog Monday? And if it were, why was he howling like that? Rilla
shivered; the sound had something boding and grievous in it. She
remembered that Miss Oliver said once, when they were coming home in
the darkness and heard a dog howl, "When a dog cries like that the
Angel of Death is passing." Rilla listened with a curdling fear at her
heart. It was Dog Monday--she felt sure of it. Whose dirge was he
howling--to whose spirit was he sending that anguished greeting and
farewell?
Rilla went back to bed but she could not sleep. All day she watched and
waited in a dread of which she did not speak to anyone. She went down
to see Dog Monday and the station-master said, "That dog of yours
howled from midnight to sunrise something weird. I dunno what got into
him. I got up once and went out and hollered at him but he paid no
'tention to me. He was sitting all alone in the moonlight out there at
the end of the platform, and every few minutes the poor lonely little
beggar'd lift his nose and howl as if his heart was breaking. He never
did it afore--always slept in his kennel real quiet and canny from
train to train. But he sure had something on his mind last night."
Dog Monday was lying in his kennel. He wagged his tail and licked
Rilla's hand. But he would not touch the food she brought for him.
"I'm afraid he's sick," she said anxiously. She hated to go away and
leave him. But no bad news came that day--nor the next--nor the next.
Rilla's fear lifted. Dog Monday howled no more and resumed his routine
of train meeting and watching. When five days had passed the Ingleside
people began to feel that they might be cheerful again. Rilla dashed
about the kitchen helping Susan with the breakfast and singing so
sweetly and clearly that Cousin Sophia across the road heard her and
croaked out to Mrs. Albert,
"'Sing before eating, cry before sleeping,' I've always heard."
But Rilla Blythe shed no tears before the nightfall. When her father,
his face grey and drawn and old, came to her that afternoon and told
her that Walter had been killed in action at Courcelette she crumpled
up in a pitiful little heap of merciful unconsciousness in his arms.
Nor did she waken to her pain for many hours.