CHAPTER XXX
THE TURNING OF THE TIDE
Susan was very sorrowful when she saw the beautiful old lawn ofIngleside ploughed up that spring and planted with potatoes. Yet shemade no protest, even when her beloved peony bed was sacrificed. Butwhen the Government passed the Daylight Saving law Susan balked. Therewas a Higher Power than the Union Government, to which Susan owedallegiance.
"Do you think it right to meddle with the arrangements of theAlmighty?" she demanded indignantly of the doctor. The doctor, quiteunmoved, responded that the law must be observed, and the Inglesideclocks were moved on accordingly. But the doctor had no power overSusan's little alarm.
"I bought that with my own money, Mrs. Dr. dear," she said firmly, "andit shall go on God's time and not Borden's time."
Susan got up and went to bed by "God's time," and regulated her owngoings and comings by it. She served the meals, under protest, byBorden's time, and she had to go to church by it, which was thecrowning injury. But she said her prayers by her own clock, and fed thehens by it; so that there was always a furtive triumph in her eye whenshe looked at the doctor. She had got the better of him by so much atleast.
"Whiskers-on-the-moon is very much delighted with this daylight savingbusiness," she told him one evening. "Of course he naturally would be,since I understand that the Germans invented it. I hear he came nearlosing his entire wheat-crop lately. Warren Mead's cows broke into thefield one day last week--it was the very day the Germans captured theChemang-de-dam, which may have been a coincidence or may not--and weremaking fine havoc of it when Mrs. Dick Clow happened to see them fromher attic window. At first she had no intention of letting Mr. Pryorknow. She told me she had just gloated over the sight of those cowspasturing on his wheat. She felt it served him exactly right. Butpresently she reflected that the wheat-crop was a matter of greatimportance and that 'save and serve' meant that those cows must berouted out as much as it meant anything. So she went down and phonedover to Whiskers about the matter. All the thanks she got was that hesaid something queer right out to her. She is not prepared to statethat it was actually swearing for you cannot be sure just what you hearover the phone; but she has her own opinion, and so have I, but I willnot express it for here comes Mr. Meredith, and Whiskers is one of hiselders, so we must be discreet."
"Are you looking for the new star?" asked Mr. Meredith, joining MissOliver and Rilla, who were standing among the blossoming potatoesgazing skyward.
"Yes--we have found it--see, it is just above the tip of the tallestold pine."
"It's wonderful to be looking at something that happened three thousandyears ago, isn't it?" said Rilla. "That is when astronomers think thecollision took place which produced this new star. It makes me feelhorribly insignificant," she added under her breath.
"Even this event cannot dwarf into what may be the proper perspectivein star systems the fact that the Germans are again only one leap fromParis," said Gertrude restlessly.
"I think I would like to have been an astronomer," said Mr. Meredithdreamily, gazing at the star.
"There must be a strange pleasure in it," agreed Miss Oliver, "anunearthly pleasure, in more senses than one. I would like to have a fewastronomers for my friends."
"Fancy talking the gossip of the hosts of heaven," laughed Rilla.
"I wonder if astronomers feel a very deep interest in earthly affairs?"said the doctor. "Perhaps students of the canals of Mars would not beso keenly sensitive to the significance of a few yards of trenches lostor won on the western front."
"I have read somewhere," said Mr. Meredith, "that Ernest Renan wroteone of his books during the siege of Paris in 1870 and 'enjoyed thewriting of it very much.' I suppose one would call him a philosopher."
"I have read also," said Miss Oliver, "that shortly before his death hesaid that his only regret in dying was that he must die before he hadseen what that 'extremely interesting young man, the German Emperor,'would do in his life. If Ernest Renan 'walked' today and saw what thatinteresting young man had done to his beloved France, not to speak ofthe world, I wonder if his mental detachment would be as complete as itwas in 1870."
"I wonder where Jem is tonight," thought Rilla, in a sudden bitterinrush of remembrance.
It was over a month since the news had come about Jem. Nothing had beendiscovered concerning him, in spite of all efforts. Two or threeletters had come from him, written before the trench raid, and sincethen there had been only unbroken silence. Now the Germans were againat the Marne, pressing nearer and nearer Paris; now rumours were comingof another Austrian offensive against the Piave line. Rilla turned awayfrom the new star, sick at heart. It was one of the moments when hopeand courage failed her utterly--when it seemed impossible to go on evenone more day. If only they knew what had happened to Jem--you can faceanything you know. But a beleaguerment of fear and doubt and suspenseis a hard thing for the morale. Surely, if Jem were alive, some wordwould have come through. He must be dead. Only--they would neverknow--they could never be quite sure; and Dog Monday would wait for thetrain until he died of old age. Monday was only a poor, faithful,rheumatic little dog, who knew nothing more of his master's fate thanthey did.
Rilla had a "white night" and did not fall asleep until late. When shewakened Gertrude Oliver was sitting at her window leaning out to meetthe silver mystery of the dawn. Her clever, striking profile, with themasses of black hair behind it, came out clearly against the pallidgold of the eastern sky. Rilla remembered Jem's admiration of the curveof Miss Oliver's brow and chin, and she shuddered. Everything thatreminded her of Jem was beginning to give intolerable pain. Walter'sdeath had inflicted on her heart a terrible wound. But it had been aclean wound and had healed slowly, as such wounds do, though the scarmust remain for ever. But the torture of Jem's disappearance wasanother thing: there was a poison in it that kept it from healing. Thealternations of hope and despair, the endless watching each day for theletter that never came--that might never come--the newspaper tales ofill-usage of prisoners--the bitter wonder as to Jem's wound--all wereincreasingly hard to bear.
Gertrude Oliver turned her head. There was an odd brilliancy in hereyes.
"Rilla, I've had another dream."
"Oh, no--no," cried Rilla, shrinking. Miss Oliver's dreams had alwaysforetold coming disaster.
"Rilla, it was a good dream. Listen--I dreamed just as I did four yearsago, that I stood on the veranda steps and looked down the Glen. And itwas still covered by waves that lapped about my feet. But as I lookedthe waves began to ebb--and they ebbed as swiftly as, four years ago,they rolled in--ebbed out and out, to the gulf; and the Glen lay beforeme, beautiful and green, with a rainbow spanning Rainbow Valley--arainbow of such splendid colour that it dazzled me--and I woke.Rilla--Rilla Blythe--the tide has turned."
"I wish I could believe it," sighed Rilla.
"Sooth was my prophecy of fear Believe it when it augurs cheer,"
quoted Gertrude, almost gaily. "I tell you I have no doubt."
Yet, in spite of the great Italian victory at the Piave that came a fewdays later, she had doubt many a time in the hard month that followed;and when in mid-July the Germans crossed the Marne again despair camesickeningly. It was idle, they all felt, to hope that the miracle ofthe Marne would be repeated. But it was: again, as in 1914, the tideturned at the Marne. The French and the American troops struck theirsudden smashing blow on the exposed flank of the enemy and, with thealmost inconceivable rapidity of a dream, the whole aspect of the warchanged.
"The Allies have won two tremendous victories," said the doctor on 20thJuly.
"It is the beginning of the end--I feel it--I feel it," said Mrs.Blythe.
"Thank God," said Susan, folding her trembling old hands, Then sheadded, under her breath, "but it won't bring our boys back."
Nevertheless she went out and ran up the flag, for the first time sincethe fall of Jerusalem. As it caught the breeze and swelled gallantlyout above her, Susan lifted her hand and saluted it, as she had see
nShirley do. "We've all given something to keep you flying," she said."Four hundred thousand of our boys gone overseas--fifty thousand ofthem killed. But--you are worth it!" The wind whipped her grey hairabout her face and the gingham apron that shrouded her from head tofoot was cut on lines of economy, not of grace; yet, somehow, just thenSusan made an imposing figure. She was one of the women--courageous,unquailing, patient, heroic--who had made victory possible. In her,they all saluted the symbol for which their dearest had fought.Something of this was in the doctor's mind as he watched her from thedoor.
"Susan," he said, when she turned to come in, "from first to last ofthis business you have been a brick!"