Susan Baker said, when she saw the child, that it resembled no one she knew – and she knew every person in both Glens, Upper and Lower. And Susan was not of the opinion that a baby could theoretically, resemble no one at all but rather look only like itself.
"Has not little Jem been the spitting image of the doctor from the moment he was born?" she asked Rilla, who had not been there and consequently did not know. "And there is no denying your own chin, Rilla dear."
"It is a sweet baby, whoever it belongs to," smiled Anne, her eyes limpid. There was something about a new life – no matter whence and whither it had come – that made her heart thrill. "Aren't you, you dear wittle twickums! Rilla, you must never speak to your children in baby talk – it isn't good for them. I read it in a medical journal, didn't I, you tweet ickle ting?"
"What are we going to do with it?" asked Rilla bluntly. She was not about to let herself be drawn into an argument on looks or child-rearing when there was a more urgent matter at hand!
The baby gave a small cry and Anne deftly passed it off to Susan.
"We haven't come unprepared," she said. "Susan packed the old baby-basket full of nappies and bottles and we've a few garments left over from Jims. They will do nicely for tonight."
"It can't – stay – here," gasped poor Rilla.
"Of course it can," said Mother matter-of-factly. "For the night, at least – in the morning your father can make inquires 'round the place – if anyone we know of has had a baby in the past few months he will know about it, or else Dr. Mead in Lowbridge will know, if he doesn't."
"I can't take care of it!" Rilla stammered.
"Nonsense! You raised Jims with the skill of a dozen mothers."
"But Jims had – nobody – else – and this baby belongs to someone," said Rilla desperately. "It is too great a responsibility, Mother! And oh – what will Kenneth say?"
Mother's eyes smiled. "What can he say? You can't leave it in a basket on the porch all night."
Rilla cursed the out of the way location of the House of Dreams. If only they had nearer neighbors – maybe the basket would have ended up on someone else's porch!
Susan deposited the baby, in a fresh nappy, in Rilla's limp arms.
"She is not an especially pretty baby," said Susan. "Not like any of you children – but I cannot see anything wrong with her. She has a little brown skin that reminds me of Shirley – but I have never seen such big black eyes. She is a good, strong thing and there is no reason to think that there is anything wrong with her when you hear her cry."
Cry the baby did, and something in Rilla's heart turned over. Suppose, she asked herself, you were just a little baby – surrounded by strange people – and your mother had left you somewhere that wasn't home? She settled herself, almost without thinking, into Captain Jim's old chair and began to rock the baby until it settled.
"Susan – can you please take the basket up to my room?" she said, resigned. "Mother, if you could make me a bottle, I'll feed her."
The ladies snapped into action, and the scrawny little baby fed and then fell limply into sleep.
"You are – sweet," said Rilla as the baby gave sleepy, milky, fitful sighs. "But then all babies are – it's no great feat. You belong to someone, and I won't let myself get attached. I wish you could tell us where your mother is!"
"You do have an extraordinary talent for acquiring kiddies," laughed Mother.
Rilla nodded grimly – and took the baby up to lay in her basket. Then she got to work mending some of the rips in Jims's old things – this baby had nothing but a sleazy little dress and that would never do.
Kenneth came home to see them sitting there, dimly lit and cosy-looking, and gave a great exclamation of greeting. It was nice to come home. And then stood electrified as the women told him to hush – or he'd wake the baby!
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Rilla slept fitfully – she was tormented by dreams where a faceless mother tormented her for the thousand crimes she had committed against her child. Perhaps she was too warm in her basket? Or too cold? She would not take another bottle but what if she was really hungry? Perhaps the diaper pins were sticking her – what if she was sick, or there was something wrong with her? Rilla hopped up out of bed at least a dozen times to check on the child. Then reflected that the faceless mother couldn't have cared too much if she had left the child on any old doorstep!
Still, she wrapped the baby in a blanket and went down to the window seat and cuddled her.
"I wonder what your mother wanted to call you," asked Rilla. "What do you look like to me – are you a Mary? Or an Elizabeth? Or a Lillian – or Doris? I think you look like a black-eyed Susan – with your big dark eyes and light hair. I would called you Susan – Suzanne – if I could name you. But I won't get attached – I won't – I –"
Rilla and the baby were fast asleep.
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They had had the baby for two days by the time that Rilla finally allowed herself to love her.
She was a sweet baby – yes, all babies are sweet – but little Suzanne – Rilla could not help calling her that, in her own mind – was the sweetest. She hardly ever cried – not unless she was hungry – Rilla woke in the morning to hear her cooing from her basket. She had a thin little face – but she broke out in dimples when she smiled. Father had said that the baby was about three months old – but from that smile Rilla herself guessed it was more like four.
Even Kenneth admitted she was sweet. Something thrilled in Rilla to see his big capable hands hold such a small little being – and he talked to her as if she were a grown-up, very seriously, with a hint of humor. Rilla herself had fallen into the trap of baby talk – something she had always eschewed with Jims. But there was no Book of Morgan for this baby – Rilla did not need Dr. Morgan to tell her what this baby needed. She knew.
"What will we do with her?" asked Kenneth on the evening of the third day – had it been only three days? "Will we keep her, Rilla?"
"Can we?" asked Rilla doubtfully. "Father and Dr. Mead have canvassed every household in the Glen – Dr. Mead has even gone to Lowbridge and Dovedale – and no one knows anything about a baby, or at least they won't admit it if they do. But she belongs to someone. I don't know what the protocol is in this situation – but I can't see taking her to Hopetown. I don't know if I could bear it."
Kenneth nodded and caressed the little baby-hand – such a small but perfectly formed little hand! "We'll see," he said. "We'll see."
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On the fourth day, at twilight – a warm, windy twilight like the night she had first discovered the basket – Rilla was on the porch with the baby in the basket, knitting a pair of bootees. She had never been a great knitter like Nan or Di – and all of her attention was focused on the task at hand. She did not notice the figure coming down the lane – she did not notice a girl in white slip into the garden – but she did look up as the girl approached the porch. Shyly – and almost bashfully she came. Something in Rilla's heart turned over. Susan had been right about one thing – she recognized that light hair – and those big eyes.
Rilla thought she knew the girl – Sophy something-or-other, one of the Acadian girls from Frenchtown. The sister of that Sadie that had come to clean for Miss Cornelia. Rilla laid down her knitting and picked the baby up out of the basket.
"It's all right," she said to the girl, who was hovering by the roses. "Come and take her – you must miss her awfully. She – is – very sweet."
The girl took the baby hungrily, peering down at the little face as if she had been seeking it the world over. Something hot swelled in Rilla's chest. The baby opened her eyes then and seeing her mother gave a little cry of delight – reached her small hand up! The young mother gave a little cry of her own and said something low in French. Then she looked at Rilla almost defiantly – but with something pleading behind her eyes.
"I thought I could live without her but I was wrong," she said, in a soft, accented voice.
"You have come to take her back," said Rilla, "And I am sorry to lose her because I love her – but oh – I'm glad. Every girl – needs – her mother."
"My Paul did not come back – from sea," said the girl. "And I wanted her – to have – everysing – you understand?"
"I do," said Rilla. "But she doesn't need everything – she just needs you. But you will let me come and see her sometimes, won't you? I have grown so fond of her – and you will let me bring you things – if you need them – for her?"
The girl nodded and her eyes flashed with gratefulness. Rilla's own eyes brimmed but her heart was glad.
When Sophy had gone with the child, Rilla took the basket and put it away – but not in the garret. She put it on the window seat of the little spare room – they would need it again, soon, after all. When Kenneth came home he gave a wry smile to see his wife alone on the step, her white arms clasped around her knees.
"It's all worked out for the best, then?" he asked.
"Come and sit with me, for I've something to tell you," Rilla said, and chose that moment to tell him what she had known all along, herself.
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