CHAPTER XXIV
MARY IS JUST IN TIME
The autumn of 1916 was a bitter season for Ingleside. Mrs. Blythe'sreturn to health was slow, and sorrow and loneliness were in allhearts. Every one tried to hide it from the others and "carry on"cheerfully. Rilla laughed a good deal. Nobody at Ingleside was deceivedby her laughter; it came from her lips only, never from her heart. Butoutsiders said some people got over trouble very easily, and IreneHoward remarked that she was surprised to find how shallow Rilla Blythereally was. "Why, after all her pose of being so devoted to Walter, shedoesn't seem to mind his death at all. Nobody has ever seen her shed atear or heard her mention his name. She has evidently quite forgottenhim. Poor fellow--you'd really think his family would feel it more. Ispoke of him to Rilla at the last Junior Red meeting--of how fine andbrave and splendid he was--and I said life could never be just the sameto me again, now that Walter had gone--we were such friends, youknow--why I was the very first person he told about havingenlisted--and Rilla answered, as coolly and indifferently as if shewere speaking of an entire stranger, 'He was just one of many fine andsplendid boys who have given everything for their country.' Well, Iwish I could take things as calmly--but I'm not made like that. I'm sosensitive--things hurt me terribly--I really never get over them. Iasked Rilla right out why she didn't put on mourning for Walter. Shesaid her mother didn't wish it. But every one is talking about it."
"Rilla doesn't wear colours--nothing but white," protested Betty Mead.
"White becomes her better than anything else," said Irenesignificantly. "And we all know black doesn't suit her complexion atall. But of course I'm not saying that is the reason she doesn't wearit. Only, it's funny. If my brother had died I'd have gone into deepmourning. I wouldn't have had the heart for anything else. I confessI'm disappointed in Rilla Blythe."
"I am not, then," cried Betty Meade, loyally, "I think Rilla is just awonderful girl. A few years ago I admit I did think she was rather toovain and gigglesome; but now she is nothing of the sort. I don't thinkthere is a girl in the Glen who is so unselfish and plucky as Rilla, orwho has done her bit as thoroughly and patiently. Our Junior Red Crosswould have gone on the rocks a dozen times if it hadn't been for hertact and perseverance and enthusiasm--you know that perfectly well,Irene."
"Why, I am not running Rilla down," said Irene, opening her eyeswidely. "It was only her lack of feeling I was criticizing. I supposeshe can't help it. Of course, she's a born manager--everyone knowsthat. She's very fond of managing, too--and people like that are verynecessary I admit. So don't look at me as if I'd said somethingperfectly dreadful, Betty, please. I'm quite willing to agree thatRilla Blythe is the embodiment of all the virtues, if that will pleaseyou. And no doubt it is a virtue to be quite unmoved by things thatwould crush most people."
Some of Irene's remarks were reported to Rilla; but they did not hurther as they would once have done. They didn't matter, that was all.Life was too big to leave room for pettiness. She had a pact to keepand a work to do; and through the long hard days and weeks of thatdisastrous autumn she was faithful to her task. The war news wasconsistently bad, for Germany marched from victory to victory over poorRumania. "Foreigners--foreigners," Susan muttered dubiously. "Russiansor Rumanians or whatever they may be, they are foreigners and youcannot tie to them. But after Verdun I shall not give up hope. And canyou tell me, Mrs. Dr. dear, if the Dobruja is a river or a mountainrange, or a condition of the atmosphere?"
The Presidential election in the United States came off in November,and Susan was red-hot over that--and quite apologetic for herexcitement.
"I never thought I would live to see the day when I would be interestedin a Yankee election, Mrs. Dr. dear. It only goes to show we can neverknow what we will come to in this world, and therefore we should not beproud."
Susan stayed up late on the evening of the eleventh, ostensibly tofinish a pair of socks. But she 'phoned down to Carter Flagg's store atintervals, and when the first report came through that Hughes had beenelected she stalked solemnly upstairs to Mrs. Blythe's room andannounced it in a thrilling whisper from the foot of the bed.
"I thought if you were not asleep you would be interested in knowingit. I believe it is for the best. Perhaps he will just fall to writingnotes, too, Mrs. Dr. dear, but I hope for better things. I never wasvery partial to whiskers, but one cannot have everything."
When news came in the morning that after all Wilson was re-elected,Susan tacked to catch another breeze of optimism.
"Well, better a fool you know than a fool you do not know, as the oldproverb has it," she remarked cheerfully. "Not that I hold Woodrow tobe a fool by any means, though by times you would not think he has thesense he was born with. But he is a good letter writer at least, and wedo not know if the Hughes man is even that. All things being consideredI commend the Yankees. They have shown good sense and I do not mindadmitting it. Cousin Sophia wanted them to elect Roosevelt, and is muchdisgruntled because they would not give him a chance. I had a hankeringfor him myself, but we must believe that Providence over-rules thesematters and be satisfied--though what the Almighty means in this affairof Rumania I cannot fathom--saying it with all reverence."
Susan fathomed it--or thought she did--when the Asquith ministry wentdown and Lloyd George became Premier.
"Mrs. Dr. dear, Lloyd George is at the helm at last. I have beenpraying for this for many a day. Now we shall soon see a blessedchange. It took the Rumanian disaster to bring it about, no less, andthat is the meaning of it, though I could not see it before. There willbe no more shilly-shallying. I consider that the war is as good as won,and that I shall tie to, whether Bucharest falls or not."
Bucharest did fall--and Germany proposed peace negotiations. WhereatSusan scornfully turned a deaf ear and absolutely refused to listen tosuch proposals. When President Wilson sent his famous December peacenote Susan waxed violently sarcastic.
"Woodrow Wilson is going to make peace, I understand. First Henry Fordhad a try at it and now comes Wilson. But peace is not made with ink,Woodrow, and that you may tie to," said Susan, apostrophizing theunlucky President out of the kitchen window nearest the United States."Lloyd George's speech will tell the Kaiser what is what, and you maykeep your peace screeds at home and save postage."
"What a pity President Wilson can't hear you, Susan," said Rilla slyly.
"Indeed, Rilla dear, it is a pity that he has no one near him to givehim good advice, as it is clear he has not, in all those Democrats andRepublicans," retorted Susan. "I do not know the difference betweenthem, for the politics of the Yankees is a puzzle I cannot solve, studyit as I may. But as far as seeing through a grindstone goes, I amafraid--" Susan shook her head dubiously, "that they are all tarredwith the same brush."
"I am thankful Christmas is over," Rilla wrote in her diary during thelast week of a stormy December. "We had dreaded it so--the firstChristmas since Courcelette. But we had all the Merediths down fordinner and nobody tried to be gay or cheerful. We were all just quietand friendly, and that helped. Then, too, I was so thankful that Jimshad got better--so thankful that I almost felt glad--almost but notquite. I wonder if I shall ever feel really glad over anything again.It seems as if gladness were killed in me--shot down by the same bulletthat pierced Walter's heart. Perhaps some day a new kind of gladnesswill be born in my soul--but the old kind will never live again.
"Winter set in awfully early this year. Ten days before Christmas wehad a big snowstorm--at least we thought it big at the time. As ithappened, it was only a prelude to the real performance. It was finethe next day, and Ingleside and Rainbow Valley were wonderful, with thetrees all covered with snow, and big drifts everywhere, carved into themost fantastic shapes by the chisel of the northeast wind. Father andmother went up to Avonlea. Father thought the change would do mothergood, and they wanted to see poor Aunt Diana, whose son Jock had beenseriously wounded a short time before. They left Susan and me to keephouse, and father expected to be back the next day. But he never gotback
for a week. That night it began to storm again, and it stormedunbrokenly for four days. It was the worst and longest storm thatPrince Edward Island has known for years. Everything wasdisorganized--the roads were completely choked up, the trainsblockaded, and the telephone wires put entirely out of commission.
"And then Jims took ill.
"He had a little cold when father and mother went away, and he keptgetting worse for a couple of days, but it didn't occur to me thatthere was danger of anything serious. I never even took histemperature, and I can't forgive myself, because it was sheercarelessness. The truth is I had slumped just then. Mother was away, soI let myself go. All at once I was tired of keeping up and pretendingto be brave and cheerful, and I just gave up for a few days and spentmost of the time lying on my face on my bed, crying. I neglectedJims--that is the hateful truth--I was cowardly and false to what Ipromised Walter--and if Jims had died I could never have forgivenmyself.
"Then, the third night after father and mother went away, Jims suddenlygot worse--oh, so much worse--all at once. Susan and I were all alone.Gertrude had been at Lowbridge when the storm began and had never gotback. At first we were not much alarmed. Jims has had several bouts ofcroup and Susan and Morgan and I have always brought him throughwithout much trouble. But it wasn't very long before we were dreadfullyalarmed.
"'I never saw croup like this before,' said Susan.
"As for me, I knew, when it was too late, what kind of croup it was. Iknew it was not the ordinary croup--'false croup' as doctors callit--but the 'true croup'--and I knew that it was a deadly and dangerousthing. And father was away and there was no doctor nearer thanLowbridge--and we could not 'phone and neither horse nor man could getthrough the drifts that night.
"Gallant little Jims put up a good fight for his life,--Susan and Itried every remedy we could think of or find in father's books, but hecontinued to grow worse. It was heart-rending to see and hear him. Hegasped so horribly for breath--the poor little soul--and his faceturned a dreadful bluish colour and had such an agonized expression,and he kept struggling with his little hands, as if he were appealingto us to help him somehow. I found myself thinking that the boys whohad been gassed at the front must have looked like that, and thethought haunted me amid all my dread and misery over Jims. And all thetime the fatal membrane in his wee throat grew and thickened and hecouldn't get it up.
"Oh, I was just wild! I never realized how dear Jims was to me untilthat moment. And I felt so utterly helpless."
"And then Susan gave up. 'We cannot save him! Oh, if your father washere--look at him, the poor little fellow! I know not what to do.'
"I looked at Jims and I thought he was dying. Susan was holding him upin his crib to give him a better chance for breath, but it didn't seemas if he could breathe at all. My little war-baby, with his dear waysand sweet roguish face, was choking to death before my very eyes, and Icouldn't help him. I threw down the hot poultice I had ready indespair. Of what use was it? Jims was dying, and it was my fault--Ihadn't been careful enough!
"Just then--at eleven o'clock at night--the door bell rang. Such aring--it pealed all over the house above the roar of the storm. Susancouldn't go--she dared not lay Jims down--so I rushed downstairs. Inthe hall I paused just a minute--I was suddenly overcome by an absurddread. I thought of a weird story Gertrude had told me once. An aunt ofhers was alone in a house one night with her sick husband. She heard aknock at the door. And when she went and opened it there was nothingthere--nothing that could be seen, at least. But when she opened thedoor a deadly cold wind blew in and seemed to sweep past her right upthe stairs, although it was a calm, warm summer night outside.Immediately she heard a cry. She ran upstairs--and her husband wasdead. And she always believed, so Gertrude said, that when she openedthat door she let Death in.
"It was so ridiculous of me to feel so frightened. But I was distractedand worn out, and I simply felt for a moment that I dared not open thedoor--that death was waiting outside. Then I remembered that I had notime to waste--must not be so foolish--I sprang forward and opened thedoor.
"Certainly a cold wind did blow in and filled the hall with a whirl ofsnow. But there on the threshold stood a form of flesh and blood--MaryVance, coated from head to foot with snow--and she brought Life, notDeath, with her, though I didn't know that then. I just stared at her.
"'I haven't been turned out,' grinned Mary, as she stepped in and shutthe door. 'I came up to Carter Flagg's two days ago and I've beenstormed-stayed there ever since. But old Abbie Flagg got on my nervesat last, and tonight I just made up my mind to come up here. I thoughtI could wade this far, but I can tell you it was as much as a bargain.Once I thought I was stuck for keeps. Ain't it an awful night?'
"I came to myself and knew I must hurry upstairs. I explained asquickly as I could to Mary, and left her trying to brush the snow off.Upstairs I found that Jims was over that paroxysm, but almost as soonas I got back to the room he was in the grip of another. I couldn't doanything but moan and cry--oh, how ashamed I am when I think of it; andyet what could I do--we had tried everything we knew--and then all atonce I heard Mary Vance saying loudly behind me, 'Why, that child isdying!'
"I whirled around. Didn't I know he was dying--my little Jims! I couldhave thrown Mary Vance out of the door or the window--anywhere--at thatmoment. There she stood, cool and composed, looking down at my baby,with those, weird white eyes of hers, as she might look at a chokingkitten. I had always disliked Mary Vance--and just then I hated her.
"'We have tried everything,' said poor Susan dully. 'It is not ordinarycroup.'
"'No, it's the dipthery croup,' said Mary briskly, snatching up anapron. 'And there's mighty little time to lose--but I know what to do.When I lived over-harbour with Mrs. Wiley, years ago, Will Crawford'skid died of dipthery croup, in spite of two doctors. And when old AuntChristina MacAllister heard of it--she was the one brought me roundwhen I nearly died of pneumonia you know--she was a wonder--no doctorwas a patch on her--they don't hatch her breed of cats nowadays, let metell you--she said she could have saved him with her grandmother'sremedy if she'd been there. She told Mrs. Wiley what it was and I'venever forgot it. I've the greatest memory ever--a thing just lies inthe back of my head till the time comes to use it. Got any sulphur inthe house, Susan?'
"Yes, we had sulphur. Susan went down with Mary to get it, and I heldJims. I hadn't any hope--not the least. Mary Vance might brag as sheliked--she was always bragging--but I didn't believe any grandmother'sremedy could save Jims now. Presently Mary came back. She had tied apiece of thick flannel over her mouth and nose, and she carried Susan'sold tin chip pan, half full of burning coals.
"'You watch me,' she said boastfully. 'I've never done this, but it'skill or cure that child is dying anyway.'
"She sprinkled a spoonful of sulphur over the coals; and then shepicked up Jims, turned him over, and held him face downward, right overthose choking, blinding fumes. I don't know why I didn't spring forwardand snatch him away. Susan says it was because it was fore-ordainedthat I shouldn't, and I think she is right, because it did really seemthat I was powerless to move. Susan herself seemed transfixed, watchingMary from the doorway. Jims writhed in those big, firm, capable handsof Mary--oh yes, she is capable all right--and choked and wheezed--andchoked and wheezed--and I felt that he was being tortured to death--andthen all at once, after what seemed to me an hour, though it reallywasn't long, he coughed up the membrane that was killing him. Maryturned him over and laid him back on his bed. He was white as marbleand the tears were pouring out of his brown eyes--but that awful lividlook was gone from his face and he could breathe quite easily.
"'Wasn't that some trick?' said Mary gaily. 'I hadn't any idea how itwould work, but I just took a chance. I'll smoke his throat out againonce or twice before morning, just to kill all the germs, but you'llsee he'll be all right now.'
"Jims went right to sleep--real sleep, not coma, as I feared at first.Mary 'smoked him,' as she called it, twice through the night, and atdaylight his t
hroat was perfectly clear and his temperature was almostnormal. When I made sure of that I turned and looked at Mary Vance. Shewas sitting on the lounge laying down the law to Susan on some subjectabout which Susan must have known forty times as much as she did. But Ididn't mind how much law she laid down or how much she bragged. She hada right to brag--she had dared to do what I would never have dared, andhad saved Jims from a horrible death. It didn't matter any more thatshe had once chased me through the Glen with a codfish; it didn'tmatter that she had smeared goose-grease all over my dream of romancethe night of the lighthouse dance; it didn't matter that she thoughtshe knew more than anybody else and always rubbed it in--I would neverdislike Mary Vance again. I went over to her and kissed her.
"'What's up now?' she said.
"'Nothing--only I'm so grateful to you, Mary.'
"'Well, I think you ought to be, that's a fact. You two would have letthat baby die on your hands if I hadn't happened along,' said Mary,just beaming with complacency. She got Susan and me a tip-top breakfastand made us eat it, and 'bossed the life out of us,' as Susan says, fortwo days, until the roads were opened so that she could get home. Jimswas almost well by that time, and father turned up. He heard our talewithout saying much. Father is rather scornful generally about what hecalls 'old wives' remedies.' He laughed a little and said, 'After this,Mary Vance will expect me to call her in for consultation in all myserious cases.'
"So Christmas was not so hard as I expected it to be; and now the NewYear is coming--and we are still hoping for the 'Big Push' that willend the war--and Little Dog Monday is getting stiff and rheumatic fromhis cold vigils, but still he 'carries on,' and Shirley continues toread the exploits of the aces. Oh, nineteen-seventeen, what will youbring?"