Our Own Languages

December 1919

On Christmas Eve, Shirley sat at the oak table in the big kitchen at Ingleside, peeling potatoes. He had not asked Susan whether he could help, knowing that she would refuse. Instead, he had merely plucked a knife from the block and settled into the chair across from hers, giving her no time to object.

Shirley had cheated Susan last summer in his starvation, always running off with his fishing tackle at dawn and only occasionally surfacing for meals. Susan had never complained. She had packed picnics and laid out fresh clothes and gloated over him when he deigned to show up for supper.

Things were different now.

Shirley came to this holiday already replete. For the first time since Carl had graduated from Queen's, Shirley was not searching out hidden places or existing between stolen moments. They had to be apart for these few weeks, yes, but it was a finite separation, like a satisfying day's work with the promise of home and hearth at the end. Carl had promised he would send Una to Ingleside if he had an attack or a nightmare, but so far, so good. Thus, Shirley found himself able to enjoy Ingleside and the people in it more than he had in many years. It was as if in being full himself, he suddenly had excess to bestow on others.

Susan was the primary beneficiary of this abundance, but not the only one. Shirley helped Nan tune the piano and hiked off with Jem to cut holly and evergreen boughs. When Anne could not find the brass candlesticks she wanted for the bayberry tapers, Shirley searched from cellar to garret until he found them hidden in a box of unused picture frames in the spare room closet. No one could remember when Shirley had last played a game of chess with Gilbert, but they went 3-3 in the week before Christmas. Shirley even coaxed Jims, visiting for the holiday, to let Rilla have a nap one afternoon, swinging the shrieking child onto his shoulders and tramping off to the Glen Pond to challenge Carl and Bruce to a hockey match. No one had bothered to teach Jims how to skate before, which was a crying shame for a five-year-old, but by the end of the afternoon he was wobbling creditably under his own power. He even managed to slap a shot at Carl, who bungled the save with broad theatricality, collapsing to the ice lamenting his failure, much to Jims' delight. When they climbed back up the hill to Ingleside, hale and crimson-cheeked in the purple dim of a December evening, Anne was startled to find that her youngest son had inherited the Blythe grin after all.

Now Shirley sat across from Susan, dismantling the potato pile one peel at a time. He watched her covertly, comforted to find that she seemed largely unchanged. The spiky knot of gray hair was just the same as ever, the work-worn hands were just as steady, the questions just as shrewd.

"You're getting along in your studies?" Susan asked, her knife flashing eel-like through the mud-brown potato skins.

"I'm keeping up," Shirley assured her.

"And the courses? They're not too difficult?"

Shirley reached for another potato. "They aren't easy. But I enjoy them, and I'm getting good marks."

Susan, who had only a vague idea of what engineering entailed, grunted her satisfaction. "What will you do after college?" she asked. "Build bridges and roads?"

"That's civil engineering," Shirley said, infinitely patient. "I'm studying mechanical engineering. Machines. Engines. Aeronautics."

"Aeronautics? So you're going to build aeroplanes, as well as fly them?"

"Maybe. But that's a long way off. For now, I'm just getting to grips with the basics. I have courses in physics and free-hand drawing and analytical geometry . . ."

"Geometry?" This from Anne, who had just entered the kitchen bearing the remains of Jims's tea. "He must have gotten that from you, Susan, never me."

"Indeed not, Mrs. Doctor Dear," Susan scoffed. "I have no head for mathematics."

"But you do," Shirley protested. "Baking is math and materials science, with a little chemistry thrown in. It's quite like engineering, really. I'm sure anyone who could have built Rilla's wedding cake from scratch could build the Eiffel Tower."

"Well, it's true enough that not everyone has a hand for baking, especially wedding cakes" Susan said, endeavoring to affect modesty when she was beaming from the tips of her fingers to the top of her bun. "Still, I never had any fancy schooling and I'm sure I couldn't understand half of what you're learning nowadays, even if you explained it to me a hundred times over. I am an old maid, not an engineer."

Shirley stopped his peeling, looking over the pile of potatoes with an expression of gentle fondness. "You're sufficient as you are, Susan."

At the sink, Anne turned to study her son. It was not so unusual for the denizens of Ingleside to sprinkle their conversation with poetry, but most quotations announced themselves in rhythm or rhyme. Not Whitman, though. Susan had not even noticed the reference, though perhaps she would not have scolded her little brown boy for speaking in poetry even if she had.

"Do they keep you awfully busy with mathematics, darling?" Anne asked cautiously. "Or do you have time for other subjects?"

"I do have some electives," Shirley confirmed, returning to his work. "All the engineers have to take Military Science, but I'm exempt because I outrank the instructor and that would never do. We have a choice between French and German . . ."

"German!" Susan exclaimed, hacking off a slice of peel with quite a lot of potato still stuck to it. "Do they mean to make a Hun of you at college?"

"German science is very important," Shirley explained. "Just ask Dad. They're quite advanced in physics, medicine, manufacturing . . ."

Susan harrumphed. "Much good may it do them."

"Don't fret, Susan. I'm studying French."

Anne tied her own apron and began to cut the peeled potatoes, plunking them into a stock pot for boiling. "It sounds as if you have rather a lot of coursework," she said. "I hope you make some time for a bit of fun as as well."

Shirley hummed something like assent, but Susan spared him the necessity of replying in detail. "Not too much fun, mind," she said, knife biting deeply into her potato. "Girls these days talk something scandalous. I overheard Amy Taylor talking to her chum at Carter Flagg's store the other day, saying she meant to make up for lost time now that the boys were all home. I imagine the Kingsport girls have much the same idea, and that you may tie to."

"And why shouldn't they, Susan?" Anne asked. "I think all our young folks are entitled to a little happiness."

"Indeed they are. But from what I hear, co-eds these days are apt to do nothing but flirt."

"They must study a little," Anne said with a smile.

"Precious little," sniffed Susan.*

Shirley, devoutly thankful that his thoughts were his own, placated Susan with a warm smile. "I can promise you, Susan, I'm quite devoted to my studies."

St. Elizabeth's Anglican Church in Lowbridge was a treasurebox: fieldstone walls set with gem-bright windows, mosaic floors in ochre and cream with flashes of mother-of-pearl, cherry-wood pews carved with deep moulding and rose roundels. Every wall was stenciled with scrolled psalms in gold and crimson, and geometric patterns interrupted only by bronze memorial plaques, themselves richly embellished. Una loved the apse best of all, the exposed beams of its rounded peak interspersed with a stained-glass choir of pre-Raphaelite angels, all flowing robes and unbound hair in jewel tones so rich you could nearly taste them.

It had scared her at first. The differences between St. Elizabeth's and the Glen St. Mary Presbyterian Church were not merely aesthetic. Wasn't it frightfully wicked to expend so much energy on material splendor? After all, what did anyone need other than the Word and divine Grace?

But from the day she had stepped over the threshold and into the candle-lit sanctuary, St. Elizabeth's had enveloped Una as only the soul's own home could. She had attended St. Elizabeth's a few times with Rosemary over the years, but she had only started coming on her own during the winter of 1916. When Rainbow Valley had grown cold, and her lonely vigils under the Tree Lovers began to turn her fingers blue despite mittens and muffs, she had sought refuge here. She could have gone to sit in the Presbyterian church, she supposed. But its stark lines and simple geometry did nothing to satisfy her, to say nothing of the awful new memorial tablet on the wall above the Blythe pew, Sacred to the Memory of Walter Cuthbert Blythe. He had no other monument, no known grave. Perhaps someday she could face that grim cenotaph with equanimity. But not yet.

On this Christmas Eve, Una arrived at St. Elizabeth's long before the service started. She had been away for months, yearning for this place, though she felt as if she oughtn't. In Kingsport, Una attended All Saints Cathedral every Sunday, but she still wasn't quite sure what to make of it. The soaring ceilings and white pointed arches always made her feel insignificant, but in an oddly pleasant way. Sometimes, when she lifted her eyes up and up and up, a little shiver of sublimity transported her out of ordinary space. All Saints sounded lovely, too. Una liked especially when the men's choir sang, accompanied by the magnificent Casavant organ with a voice like the sea. After years of listening to members of the Glen St. Mary Ladies' Aid warble through the psalms with more enthusiasm than grace, a chorus of Alleluias ringing through the arcades of All Saints resounded like a heavenly host.

On the other hand, All Saints was cold. The interior was restrained, with unembellished white arches and tiers of glass windows that were mostly clear. Plain wooden benches set across the nave would have been at home in any meetinghouse, and were even plainer than the box pews of her father's church. If the Cathedral sometimes made Una feel tiny in a glorious, exalted sort of way, it could also make her feel tiny in a puny, lonely sort of way.

Not like St. Elizabeth's. Una had feared that it would have lost its magic, but that worry had dissolved the instant she arrived. Everything was just exactly the right size, and if the acoustics were perhaps less sublime, Una was happy to trade them for this snug security.

Now, she sat under the stained glass window depicting St. Elizabeth of Hungary, crowned and regal, her skirt held out before her like a basket, bursting with her miraculous roses in vivid red and white. Father Kirkland had told Una the story of the roses, how Elizabeth's family did not approve of her charity toward the poor and outcast, so that she had to smuggle bread out of the castle to feed the hungry. When her husband passed her on the road and demanded to know what she concealed beneath her skirts, Elizabeth had cast off the covering to find the loaves miraculously transformed into roses.

Una sat a long while under St. Elizabeth's beneficent gaze, holding each of her own secret burdens before her for a moment and feeling them lighten as if shared. It shouldn't work this way. She should be able to trust in God alone and not need any sort of intercession. She knew that an infinite Power must be infinitely little as well as infinitely great, but Una still liked the idea of saints more than she thought she ought to.** God was God, but St. Elizabeth was a friend.

Absorbed in her meditations, Una did not hear Rosemary approaching her pew, and jumped when she sat down beside her.

"I thought I might find you here," Rosemary smiled. "How is St. Elizabeth today?"

"Quiet."

"That's a relief, I'm sure."

Una returned Rosemary's smile. It was.

"I always liked this pew," Rosemary said, sliding her hand across the gleaming wood. "It was my mother's favorite. After my brother died, she would come here to pray. So I always feel close to her here."

Una nodded, but did not reply. She felt an odd blockage; she could always tell Rosemary things, but she had fallen out of practice.

Rosemary knew her well enough to see that something had gone unsaid. "I remember you once told me that you used to read your mother's recipes," she said gently.

"Yes," Una said. "But not since you came to us."

"Do you have a place where you remember her?"

Una considered this. She had often wondered what it would be like to visit Maywater and Mother's little grave there. A foolish thought — she could never ask Father to make such a journey. Besides, the place should not matter.

"I used to go into the spare room closet and touch her wedding dress," Una admitted. "But only when life was too hard."

"Did that help?"

"A bit."

Rosemary nodded. "I used to come here quite a lot. Especially after I lost Martin."

Her tone had not varied and she gave no indication that she had said anything of consequence, but Una's heart leapt. They had talked of many things over the years, but never of this. Rosemary had opened a door and Una was grateful for the invitation, but she felt she must decline it.

"The place shouldn't matter," she said, knowing that this was not really what Rosemary had meant. "God is everywhere, so everywhere is sacred. The place — the things — shouldn't matter."

"Do they?

Una was reluctant but honest. "Yes."

"I remember when you gave Bruce your christening gown. That mattered, too."

"Yes."

"There's nothing wrong with having sacred things, Una."

Una bit her lip. "It just seems . . . blasphemous. To love things."

"I don't know if love can really be blasphemous," Rosemary said judiciously. "As long as it is sincere, and not idolatrous. Love is God's presence, isn't it? If you feel love in a particular place, perhaps God is speaking to you there."

"How can you tell?" Una asked. "How can you tell that it's God speaking and not just your own weakness wanting things?"

It was a serious question and Rosemary answered it seriously. "I've found that God speaks to us in our own languages," she said. "He speaks to your father in books, because He knows that that's where he can hear Him. He speaks to Carl in little creatures. I think, perhaps, that He spoke to Walter in poems, or maybe in flowers."

"Both, I think," Una murmured, so low that Rosemary could barely hear her.

"Is it so strange that He should speak to you in beautiful houses?"

Una frowned. "Houses?"

"This is God's house, isn't it? A bare, plain meetinghouse is excellent for focusing your mind on a text with nothing to distract you. Here . . ." Rosemary gestured to the sanctuary around her, the mosaics of lilies and golden roses, the stenciled walls, and woodwork polished to a living sheen, the very air a kaleidoscope of color from the opalescent windows, ". . . every inch of this house has been wrought with care and love. Every tiny tile has been laid deliberately, even the ones under the pews where we never see them."

As Rosemary spoke, two women approached the altar and knelt at the chancel rail. When they had prayed, they disappeared into the sacristy, returning with their arms full of vestments. Working together in perfect silence, they draped the altar in white and gold, smoothing and straightening every wrinkle. Una watched them dip and weave, dancing reverently back and forth as they prepared for the service. There were half a dozen layers under the chalice and at least as many over it, all placed just so and covered with the snowy linen of the chalice veil. When the linens were finished, the women set the altar with white tapers in high silver candlesticks and arranged evergreen wreaths and poinsettias before it. They prayed once more, kneeling together, and departed as silently as they had arrived.

Una sat for a long moment, contemplating the altar.

"When I was a little girl," she said, "I used to brush Father's best suit on Saturdays. When I could find the clothes-brush, that is."***

"I'm sure you did a lovely job, dearest."

"No," Una said, smiling regretfully. "I didn't. I once sewed on a button with coarse white thread. I didn't know any better, but Mary Vance — that is, Mary Douglas — says people talked about it for years."

"I suppose you did need a little guidance in the particulars," Rosemary smiled. "But you gave all you had. That's what God asks of us."

Una frowned, considering her next words carefully. "Rosemary?"

"Yes, dearest?"

"Do you think Father would be awfully cross if I joined St. Elizabeth's? As a real member? To take communion and everything?"

Rosemary took Una's hand in her own. "You know he wouldn't be."

"But it might embarrass him," Una said, flushing. "People would talk . . ."

"Let them."

"I couldn't do anything that's likely hurt him in the congregation . . ."

"Una," Rosemary said, gently, but firmly. "Your father won't care about anything except your happiness. If you feel that St. Elizabeth's is the right congregation for you, he'll be pleased and never even notice if anyone objects."

"But Miss Cornelia . . ."

"Will keep a civil tongue in her head."

Una doubted the probability of this, but was heartened by Rosemary's support.

"I think," she said, "I think I may talk to Father Kirkland about it. Before I go back to Kingsport."

Rosemary beamed. "I think he's been waiting for you."

*Anne of the Island, chapter 2, "Garlands of Autumn"

**Rilla of Ingleside, chapter 19, "They Shall Not Pass"

***Rainbow Valley, Chapter 4, "The Manse Children"