Rilla of Ingleside

Chapter 7 — A War-Baby and a Soup Tureen

“Liege and Namur — and now Brussels!” The doctor shook his head. “I don’t like it — I don’t like it.”

“Do not you lose heart, Dr. dear; they were just defended by foreigners,” said Susan superbly. “Wait you till the Germans come against the British; there will be a very different story to tell and that you may tie to.”

The doctor shook his head again, but a little less gravely; perhaps they all shared subconsciously in Susan’s belief that “the thin grey line” was unbreakable, even by the victorious rush of Germany’s ready millions. At any rate, when the terrible day came — the first of many terrible days — with the news that the British army was driven back they stared at each other in blank dismay.

“It — it can’t be true,” gasped Nan, taking a brief refuge in temporary incredulity.

“I felt that there was to be bad news today,” said Susan, “for that cat-creature turned into Mr. Hyde this morning without rhyme or reason for it, and that was no good omen.”

“‘A broken, a beaten, but not a demoralized, army,’” muttered the doctor, from a London dispatch. “Can it be England’s army of which such a thing is said?”

“It will be a long time now before the war is ended,” said Mrs. Blythe despairingly.

Susan’s faith, which had for a moment been temporarily submerged, now reappeared triumphantly.

“Remember, Mrs. Dr. dear, that the British army is not the British navy. Never forget that. And the Russians are on their way, too, though Russians are people I do not know much about and consequently will not tie to.”

“The Russians will not be in time to save Paris,” said Walter gloomily. “Paris is the heart of France — and the road to it is open. Oh, I wish” — he stopped abruptly and went out.

After a paralyzed day the Ingleside folk found it was possible to “carry on” even in the face of ever-darkening bad news. Susan worked fiercely in her kitchen, the doctor went out on his round of visits, Nan and Di returned to their Red Cross activities; Mrs. Blythe went to Charlottetown to attend a Red Cross Convention; Rilla after relieving her feelings by a stormy fit of tears in Rainbow Valley and an outburst in her diary, remembered that she had elected to be brave and heroic. And, she thought, it really was heroic to volunteer to drive about the Glen and Four Winds one day, collecting promised Red Cross supplies with Abner Crawford’s old grey horse. One of the Ingleside horses was lame and the doctor needed the other, so there was nothing for it but the Crawford nag, a placid, unhasting, thick-skinned creature with an amiable habit of stopping every few yards to kick a fly off one leg with the foot of the other. Rilla felt that this, coupled with the fact that the Germans were only fifty miles from Paris, was hardly to be endured. But she started off gallantly on an errand fraught with amazing results.

Late in the afternoon she found herself, with a buggy full of parcels, at the entrance to a grassy, deep-rutted lane leading to the harbor shore, wondering whether it was worth while to call down at the Anderson house. The Andersons were desperately poor and it was not likely Mrs. Anderson had anything to give. On the other hand, her husband, who was an Englishman by birth and who had been working in Kingsport when the war broke out, had promptly sailed for England to enlist there, without, it may be said, coming home or sending much hard cash to represent him. So possibly Mrs. Anderson might feel hurt if she were overlooked. Rilla decided to call. There were times afterwards when she wished she hadn’t, but in the long run she was very thankful that she did.

The Anderson house was a small and tumbledown affair, crouching in a grove of battered spruces near the shore as if rather ashamed of itself and anxious to hide. Rilla tied her grey nag to the rickety fence and went to the door. It was open; and the sight she saw bereft her temporarily of the power of speech or motion.

Through the open door of the small bedroom opposite her, Rilla saw Mrs. Anderson lying on the untidy bed; and Mrs. Anderson was dead. There was no doubt of that; neither was there any doubt that the big, frowzy, red-headed, red-faced, over-fat woman sitting near the door-way, smoking a pipe quite comfortably, was very much alive. She rocked idly back and forth amid her surroundings of squalid disorder, and paid no attention whatever to the piercing wails proceeding from a cradle in the middle of the room.

Rilla knew the woman by sight and reputation. Her name was Mrs. Conover; she lived down at the fishing village; she was a great-aunt of Mrs. Anderson; and she drank as well as smoked.

Rilla’s first impulse was to turn and flee. But that would never do. Perhaps this woman, repulsive as she was, needed help — though she certainly did not look as if she were worrying over the lack of it.

“Come in,” said Mrs. Conover, removing her pipe and staring at Rilla with her little, rat-like eyes.

“Is — is Mrs. Anderson really dead?” asked Rilla timidly, as she stepped over the sill.

“Dead as a door nail,” responded Mrs. Conover cheerfully. “Kicked the bucket half an hour ago. I’ve sent Jen Conover to ‘phone for the undertaker and get some help up from the shore. You’re the doctor’s miss, ain’t ye? Have a cheer?”

Rilla did not see any chair which was not cluttered with something. She remained standing.

“Wasn’t it — very sudden?”

“Well, she’s been a-pining ever since that worthless Jim lit out for England — which I say it’s a pity as he ever left. It’s my belief she was took for death when she heard the news. That young un there was born a fortnight ago and since then she’s just gone down and today she up and died, without a soul expecting it.”

“Is there anything I can do to — to help?” hesitated Rilla.

“Bless yez, no — unless ye’ve a knack with kids. I haven’t. That young un there never lets up squalling, day or night. I’ve just got that I take no notice of it.”

Rilla tiptoed ginger…