"I think the main theme of the text exactly illustrates what's going on in our world today. Just look at the war – there's evil over there on the side of the Germans and we – all of us – have got to destroy it, just like in the story."
"Mm, if only we could throw Dickens at the Germans and make them see sense," Liza Jenkins quipped, to some tittering amongst the class. Nan smiled but didn't allow herself to laugh.
"Of course I'm not suggesting that," Ben Edwards spluttered hotly.
"Let us endeavor to keep things civil," Professor Warnock warned in his deep, smooth voice. "Now Mr. Edwards. You make an interesting point, but I would draw your attention to the fact that it is, in itself, rooted in the ideology of our modern society. Which is not to say it is not valuable," he continued over a few protestations from the class, "nevertheless, it is only one interpretation."
The class was silent for a moment as Professor Warnock's words settled over them. Benjamin Edwards, fresh in khaki, stared down at his desk, a slight frown furrowing his brow. Situated by one of the classroom's broad windows, his tall frame was silhouetted against the grey November clouds, the soft light of which illuminated and softened his features, as though painted by a holy brush. Glancing at him, Nan felt it was an image that belonged in some great cathedral.
"It is my job to encourage you to examine matters from all angles," Professor Warnock continued, straightening up from where he perched against his desk to pace the classroom. "I am not here to tell you what to think, nor will I ever do so. However, if we, as citizens of Canada, cannot choose our viewpoints without first carefully examining all others, and then determine why we have chosen the way we have, we will do our communities a disservice. We must endeavor to know our convictions."
Nan shivered. The freshman level English class had taken to deep discussions on the sociological themes found in the texts they studied. Rather than saving such probing topics for the upper levels, Dr. Warnock – a favorite of many students – encouraged such critical thinking among his new students as soon as they set foot in his classroom, preferring to "crack open their minds to new possibilities," as he liked to say, from the very beginning. Literature was a natural passion for Nan, whose imagination reveled in the magic of the written word, but the conversations their studies sparked, expertly guided and shaped by Dr. Warnock, completely absorbed her. There was so much to ponder and examine – things Nan had never before thought to dissect. What a strange and exciting thing it was to have one's mind thus challenged, thus broadened. Still, Nan couldn't help but wonder what Susan would say to hear the Kaiser's campaign labeled an ideological viewpoint.
"I have a feeling Dr. Warnock will be receiving some angry letters," Di said as she, Nan, and Liza filed out into the hallway after class. "Some parents may think he's pro-German."
"But he didn't mean his comments that way at all," Nan cried. "Besides, his own sons are in khaki."
"That is true, but anyone who hasn't taken his class may misunderstand his meaning," Liza replied. "Although I do hope no one actually sends any letters home about it – Dr. Warnock is an excellent teacher."
Di nodded in agreement and Nan suddenly laughed aloud. "Oh Liza, you were an absolute minx today! I can't believe you responded as you did to Ben Edwards."
Liza smiled conspiratorially. "The funny thing is, I don't even disagree with him, of course – I just couldn't stand to listen to him drone on for a second longer. Ben Edwards is insufferable, you know, khaki or not." She tossed her head with its curls of brightest gold.
Nan laughed again and then sighed, as though some thoughtful melancholy had suddenly settled upon her like a veil.
"What is it, Nan?" Di inquired, looking askance at her twin.
"Oh – you mustn't mind me," Nan said trying to smile again, though the sparkle had quite gone from it. "I was just thinking how carefree I felt for a moment – the day's headlines already came through and contained nothing terribly dreadful, so I was almost lighthearted, jolly, even. And then I remembered new headlines are due tomorrow and that Jem and Jerry are on a ship somewhere at sea, bound for the front, and it all came crashing down once more."
Di threaded an arm about Nan's waist. She, too, had Jem constantly in her thoughts.
"I understand what you mean, dearest," Liza said gently. "In Kingsport, we're so busy with studies and our work at the Red Cross that one nearly forgets what's going on in the world. When it comes back to you, well…" she trailed off, something unreadable clouding her usually flashing green eyes. Word had come the previous week that her own brother was shipping out from Valcartier.
"Some days I wake feeling strong and ready for whatever the day brings," Di mused. "Others, I wake with a heavy heart that's full of dread."
"I almost can't remember what it was like to wake without a mist of fear around me," Nan said wistfully. "Mornings at Ingleside used to be so beautiful, with the wind in the trees and the warmth of fresh sunlight streaming in. But then I think of dear little Dog Monday and his vigil at the station and try to 'take a brace,' as Susan says."
"Dearest Monday," Di said. "I daresay he's braver than the rest of us left here to wait – he never doubts as we do. Well," she sighed, "We'd better dash over to the Red Cross — we'll need to hurry if we're to oversee the event planning and still have time to start on Professor Lansing's paper."
Linking arms, the girls pulled their collars tight around their necks against the winter chill and set briskly off across the town square. The Kingsport Red Cross had plans to mount a spectacular Christmas gala to fundraise for the war effort before the town emptied for the holiday break. During terms, Kingsport was a sparkling, bustling town, full of life and sound, but when the students went away, it folded its hands quietly on its breast and became a soft, dreamy thing, waiting for the younger generation to come and shake it awake once more.
Nan and Di had quickly caught the eye of the Kingsport chapter President Mrs. Hastings, thanks to their combined creativity and pragmatism, and had been named co-chairs of the gala planning committee, with Mrs. Hastings overseeing the entire affair. They were tasked with the booking of the venue, the arrangement of decorations, and the organization of the guest list on top of their regular coursework — Dr. Blythe worried from afar that his daughters were overtaxing themselves, but Nan couldn't slow down, despite the purple smudges that lingered beneath her eyes. She would rest when she was back at Ingleside — she would!
Thus, the following weeks slipped by in a whirl of classes and gala details, dreary headlines and drearier weather. An early winter waved its wand, hardening the ground and frosting the cobbled streets with palest glimmers of blue and white, which glinted and winked in the lamplight. With the cold came the dawning realization that the trench warfare of the Western Front was to prolong the great conflict for many months yet, sending a chill into the hearts of those that waited at home. The world was beautiful in its December finery, but this very beauty — the little silent woodlands standing bare against palest skies, the homey scent of wood smoke mingling with the spice of evergreen — served as a grim reminder of numb fingers on rifles and frozen fields slick with blood. Yet, life carried on, as it must.
As Redmond bore down on the close of first term, its students settled down to exam preparation. When not overseeing myriad details for the upcoming gala, Nan, Di, and Faith curled up before the fire, books and pages spread out before them as though they were ironing out military tactics, not essays on Euclid and history of art. Liza joined them many a night, as did Mary Sewell and, very occasionally, their other housemate Bess Forsythe, though she often preferred to keep her own company in her room. With Miss Cora bringing them hot cocoas and various small nibbles ("to entice the brain, my dears") and presiding over them with her Kingsport Gazette and bits of gossip from the older set, their study parties became cozy, jovial affairs.
"To think that this time in two weeks we'll be warming ourselves before the Ingleside fire!" Di said dreamily one such evening.
"A lovely thought, but we must get through exams and this gala first," Nan replied without looking up, for once prosaic. Di only scoffed.
"I've heard so much about your Ingleside," Mary sighed. "It does sound lovely." She was a shy, wistful girl who seemed much younger than the rest, though she was in truth a year older.
"Why don't you come with us for a visit sometime?" Di asked brightly.
A sad smile bloomed across Mary's face, her pale blue eyes watery in the firelight. "That's kind of you to ask, but mother needs me at home."
"Mary, how is your mother?" Nan asked, setting down her pen.
"She worries about John a great deal. She hinted that I should leave Redmond to look after her, but I can't — I won't. Father worked hard to save for my tuition before he died. I think it's the only reason she hasn't simply demanded I drop out." Her face darkened, an uncharacteristic determination steeling her features.
"My dear, your mother could do with a good reminder that she isn't the only one affected by this war and by your John going off to fight it," Miss Cora piped up from behind her knitting needles. "I'm an old maid and can sympathize with the trepidation of going through the trials of life alone, but at our age, we must stick to our mettle. You're young and a good daughter and ought to be able to find your own way." She looked gently at Mary, then added,"If you need me to have a word with Mrs. Sewell the next time she calls, you just let me know."
Mary's cheeks flushed, surprised by this unexpected support, impressing upon Nan that this was a girl who had spent much of the time since her father's death firmly under her mother's thumb.
"Now, my dears," Miss Cora said, turning her gaze on Nan and Di, "Is everything ready for your gala? Mrs. Weston was just telling me she thought it was to be quite the event."
"Very nearly. Would you believe, Mrs. Hastings secured Lillian Grenville to sing in the night's top slot? We still don't know how she pulled it off."
"Mrs. Hastings has always had a deviously resourceful streak in her, Nan dear; she simply likes to pretend otherwise."
At this, Nan and Di dissolved into laughter.
"It's quite true, my dears. Her mother before her was the same. All the Hastings women, since they first set foot in Kingsport, have put on airs of having such good luck, while all the while pulling strings behind the scenes. It's not how anyone of truly good Kingsport breeding would behave, but the Hastings have got away with it for decades."
"How like the Shakespeare Drews that sounds," Di winked.
"Or the Avonlea Sloanes!"
"Still," Di conceded, wiping her eyes, "Mrs. Hastings has made invaluable strides with the Red Cross. The Kingsport chapter has brought in some of the highest donations in the Maritimes, we're told, and with Lillian Grenville secured for the gala program, tickets are nearly sold out already."
"It is wartime, my dears. Even the Hastings must be tolerated and their efforts, dare I say it, appreciated."
"Well, I do hope you'll appreciate all the hard work we humble Red Cross volunteers have put into the gala and will make an appearance, dear Miss Cora," Nan remarked, her eyes dancing.
"Of course, Nan dear. You girls have done splendid work and should be proud. Besides," she added with a wry smile, "The Lennox family name still means something in Kingsport, I hope!"
The first college exams came and went, but as the rest of Redmond worried over their results and talked of Christmas vacation, Nan, Di, Faith, and Liza turned all of their energy towards the Red Cross gala. Kingsport was fairly buzzing by the night of the event, with the town's oldest and most prestigious families slated to attend. Redmond's concert hall had been transformed by Nan and Di's planning committee into a dazzling display of patriotic colors, pinned up with festive bouquets of holly, and special strands of twinkling lights, which cast a fairly glow over everything. Mrs. Hastings, deploying more of what Nan and Di now, with secret laughter, called her devious resourcefulness, had booked a celebrated quintet from Charlottetown to play between individual performances, adding a final sheen to the night's illustrious program.
The concert hall filled up quickly, the hum of conversation tempered gently by the quintet's sweet melodies, which floated out and up to the vaulted ceiling like a celestial offering. Spirits seemed high, as though everyone had dearly longed for a reason to be merry. Jewels glimmered deliciously in the low light, silks rustled and whispered — Nan, holding her post by the performer's entrance, observed it all and thought how almost like normal everything felt. Then, a sturdy Redmond student, fresh in khaki and simply biding his time to Valcartier, would cross by, or Mrs. Hastings would announce the latest donation amount between performances, and the illusion of the evening was shattered.
Nan smoothed the creamy overlay of her best dress and directed her attention to the carefully detailed schedule she held in her hands. Di was acting as an usher, of sorts, with Liza, Faith, and the other Red Cross girls operating donation boxes and refreshment tables; it was Nan's task to ensure the performers were in their places at the appropriate time, to keep the program running smoothly. She mustn't think of the headlines, the latest grim tales coming out of Europe, or of Jerry and Jem, in the mud of the Salisbury Plains. They were doing this for them — all of them — after all. Every delighted audience member meant more donations, more supplies for the boys at the front. She must keep her focus.
Glancing down the list of names, Nan realized with a start that they were already nearing the end of the program. How quickly it flew by, after months of rigorous planning! Lillian Grenville was to close the night with two stirring soprano arias — the final, precious jewel in their program's crown. Nan slipped through the side door that led to the empty classroom that served as a makeshift green room for the night. Mrs. Hastings, a broad, mousy-haired woman, made mousier by comparison with the glamorous, glittering singer beside her, was already waiting by the stage door, speaking to Lillian in a soft, almost reverent tone.
"Oh — Nan, good. Is it time?" Mrs. Hastings breathed when she saw Nan come through.
Nan nodded, giving Lillian a warm smile. "You're on next, Miss Grenville. Why, you look absolutely radiant!"
Lillian Grenville turned luminous eyes upon her. "Do you think so? I really wasn't sure whether this suited me anymore or not. I feel rather like an overdressed lampshade."
Mrs. Hastings looked flustered but Nan only giggled. "Not a bit, Miss Grenville."
"You're quite sure? Well, I suppose it'll have to do, won't it?" Her smile was sparkling, open, with a touch of conspiratorial mirth at its edges.
Nan felt immediately that Lillian Grenville belonged to the race that knew Joseph.
Mrs. Hastings fluttered her hands. "Of course it suits you, Miss Grenville. The audience will simply love it, and your performance. Shall we?"
Brooking no further delay, Mrs. Hastings escorted Lillian up the little staircase behind the stage. There were muted words as she introduced the soprano, a ripple of echoing applause, and then a sudden hush. Tingling anticipation hovered in the air before a single note — high, clear, and pure — pierced the silence, swelling and soaring, then tumbling down in a rich waterfall of melody. Nan closed her eyes, transported. Even secluded in the back hallway as she was, she felt the full magic of the music.
A door shut, pulling Nan out of her reverie. Someone had abruptly left the concert hall and was lingering now at the far end of the hall. Peering through the dim light, she perceived Walter's slim figure and black hair.
"Why Walter, I didn't know you were here tonight!" she whispered, hurrying towards him. "Have you enjoyed the program? Isn't Lillian just like something out of a poem? You should write about her." The click of Nan's shoes on the floor faded away as she paused just behind him, yet Walter still did not face her. "Is something the matter?"
After a breath, Walter seemed to come back to himself. He turned, slowly, and Nan saw the white feather clutched between his fingers. Her eyes widened, a strange bevy of emotions circulating through her in quick succession. "Oh Walter, how — "
"It's nothing," he cut across her quietly, sharply.
"It isn't nothing," Nan said firmly, taking his shoulder. "Someone here has given you that feather and I want to know who! Such actions are absolutely reprehensible, not just at an event like this, but anywhere! It's cruel, horrible. Where is Di? I'm getting Di."
She frantically made to rush into the concert hall — Lillian's voice was still dancing and dipping through the crowd, wrapping the room in its ethereal sphere, but the spell had been broken. She must find Di. They must discover who had done this. Before she had taken a full step, however, Walter's hand shot out.
"For God's sake, will you just leave it, Nan!" he spat.
Nan froze, feeling as though she had been slapped. Her face drained of all color. Never before had Walter — her gentle, dreamy brother — spoken to her thus. In fact, the brother she'd always known seemed to have vanished suddenly, replaced by a stranger — one with a brooding, hunted expression. Nan regarded him cautiously, as though he were a cornered animal that might lash out again at any moment, unsure of what to say. What could she say?
Walter stared at the floor, seemingly locked in some internal conflict, then glanced up at Nan once more. When he did so, she saw, for the merest of moments, a kind of pain pooling there, deep and abiding and overwhelming — but it was only a flash and then it was gone, masked, and in its place was the dreary moodiness that had taken up residence in him since the start of the war.
"Nan, —" he began more gently then paused, twirling the feather between his fingers. Whatever Walter had been about to say vanished in the air between them. Instead, as the concert hall filled with applause, he simply whispered again, "It's nothing," and slipped outside.