Chapter 15: An Ingleside Christmas
The world slipped past in dreamy whirls of deep green sprinkled with pearlescent, sugary white as the train hummed eastward across the Island. Nan took in this confection of scenes a trifle absentmindedly, her head tipped back against the seat. She was buttoned up in a handsome new coat and matching hat, the color of fir boughs, but for all her woodsy charm, which turned a fair few heads of fellow passengers, Nan's soul felt weary.
The thrilling success of the Red Cross gala, which saw the total sum of donations exceed their hoped-for goal and resulted in a front page mention on the Kingsport Gazette, was punctured by the affair of the white feather. Nan had immediately sought out Di at her post that night to tensely, hastily whisper an account of what had happened and to see if anything might be done, as Miss Grenville's voice spun a web of magic around the concert hall.
The audience, their faces reflecting pure rapture, seemed wholly undisturbed. This was confirmed by Di, who — though her eyes flashed dangerously as Nan recounted her tale — admitted she hadn't noted anyone out of place.
"Whoever did this simply must have been too subtle to draw notice," Di said, her brows drawn together in a frown. "Between our committee members and the lads in khaki circulating for donations, it's no wonder, unfortunately."
"And the culprit couldn't have had many recipients in mind," Nan conceded, catching Di's eye.
Di held her gaze, and they were both silent. Although the twins could never think their brother a coward, neither could deny that there was not a young man present who wasn't in khaki, or was very soon to be so.
"They must have been targeting Walter for some days, now," Nan continued softly, uneasiness prodding her heart. "They obviously knew he was going to be in attendance tonight, unless they just carry those dreadful feathers with them everywhere in hopes of handing one out. Oh, is there really nothing we can do?"
Thunderous applause, punctuated by intermittent shouts of "brava!," erupted around the hall — the concert, it seemed, had reached its end. Lillian Grenville, sparkling and smiling under the heat of the lights, dropped into a graceful bow.
Di sighed. "I think whomever was responsible is long gone by now, Nan."
The twins saw not a trace of Walter until they met at the station to board their train home for the Christmas break. By then, Nan and Di had resolved not to question him, but to keep a subtle yet watchful eye on his expressions and moods. Once at Ingleside, they concluded, they could safely divulge their tale to Dr. Blythe.
The journey had been a pleasant, if not entirely jolly, affair thus far, given the dark cloud that seemed permanently settled over Walter. Di, Nan, and Faith — whom the girls had confided in before leaving Kingsport — succeeded in light chatter for a while, before giving over to silence, each nestled in their own thoughts. They remained this way for some time, as brisk grey morning gave way to blustery afternoon.
The train flew eastward and a feathery snow began to fall upon the hardened ground like fairy dust to mingle with the shimmering frost. To one side, the ground sloped gently away towards the restless sea, bemoaning its winter loneliness, but Nan's south facing view was of wide meadows and hushed woodlands, interspersed with various villages whose chimneys sent dutiful threads of smoke trailing into the pale sky.
Gazing at the softly falling flakes, Nan wondered if the little shaded dells in Rainbow Valley had seen their first snow, yet. How she and Jem used to love tearing down after school to traipse across the undisturbed blanket of white, stomping their prints into it and relishing the crunch of each step, their breath leaving fleeting traces in the air. One could nearly taste the magic then, when the cold was like a mischievous friend. How differently Jem must feel about such things now, on the training ground for war.
"I'm going to grab a bite," Walter said abruptly, shattering Nan's daydreams. He got to his feet and was halfway out the carriage door when he paused, as though arrested by some afterthought. "You girls want anything?" He asked over his shoulder — a trifle halfheartedly, or so Nan thought.
"I wouldn't say no to a cocoa," Di replied.
"Nothing for me, thanks," Faith said, flashing one of her bright smiles.
Nan didn't answer but watched him go. Once the door had clicked safely shut behind him, she and Di instinctively turned to one another in whispers.
"Well, it's good to see his brotherly affection hasn't entirely deserted him, I suppose," Nan said sarcastically.
Di smiled wryly. "Yes, that is one consolation."
"Carrying on in this way, as though nothing is really amiss, without getting to the root of the matter…it feels ridiculous, doesn't it?" Nan breathed, exasperated, tucking an errant curl back under hat.
"I agree, but what can we do? I've seen Walter low, but never like this. He's never before kept anything from me, either, in our entire lives! I can't understand what's changed — the white feather, now that I can understand being upset over — but I admit, I cannot for the life of me work out what, exactly, has been eating away at him since Jem left."
"It seems to go deeper than worry over Jem and Jerry's safety, too."
"Could it be that Walter is ashamed of not being well enough to enlist?" Faith queried, looking up from her magazine.
Nan and Di looked at one another.
"I know he appears sturdy, but the typhoid did weaken him so," Nan mused after a moment's thought. "But Walter never was much of one for playing soldier; I remember back in Rainbow Valley days, he wouldn't join in with Jem and Jerry in their pretend wars."
"Walter's is such a poetic soul, he hates anything that isn't beautiful," Di said, "And war certainly isn't beautiful…"
"Would that send him so low, though?" Nan questioned her twin. "After all, you know him best, Di."
A shadow crossed Di's porcelain brow. "I thought I knew him — lately I haven't been so sure," she said quietly. Her tone belied a sadness that ran deep. Nan took her hand. "I simply don't know. Walter detests war, of course…I can't really imagine him wanting to enlist, but then Jem and Jerry both went…," she shook her red head. "Faith must be nearer to the truth. He looks well on the outside, so nobody at Redmond understands why he isn't in khaki and circulates horrid rumors about him. Walter must simply feel the shame of that…" Di trailed off.
Observing her, Nan could detect that there was still a missing puzzle piece that troubled Di greatly. It was clear that Walter's change in behavior had affected her twin more than she let on. "Let's just stick to our plan and see Walter safely back home," Nan said gently. "I'm sure father will have some sensible advice, Di darling. Now look — isn't that pattern of snow against the window pane delicious? Each drop looks just like a fairy jewel."
The train steamed into Glen St. Mary at half past five. By then, it was nearly dark, though a gentle snow continued to fall, glistening in the lamplight. Dr. and Mrs. Blythe, Shirley, Rilla, Mr. and Mrs. Meredith, and Carl were all there to greet them. Dog Monday raced over as the college bunch alighted onto the platform, sinking into a morose yet friendly sort of acceptance upon discovering that Jem was, once again, absent from the arrivals.
Nan bent down to hug him, receiving a few complimentary wags of the tail in response. "Oh Monday, you absolute dear. I wish you'd come home with us, at least for Christmas."
"We brought extra blankets when the weather began to turn last month. The station master says Monday seems contented with his lot," Dr. Blythe said, patting the faithful dog on the head.
"And we promised Jem we'd bring him extra treats this Christmas," Mrs. Blythe added, wearing the same wistful smile she always wore these days when speaking of her eldest son.
"Susan's got a neat store set aside for him, just you wait and see," Rilla trilled brightly, clinging to Walter, whose countenance seemed to have lifted a little at her welcome. Nan looked to Di, but her expression remained neutral.
"Where is Una?" Faith asked amid the commotion of conversation and the gathering of trunks.
"She wanted to stay behind to prepare a welcome home supper."
"How do you figure — she never goes to such trouble for me when I return from Harbour Head every evening," Carl quipped to much laughter. He seemed to have grown up overnight — the boyish softness about his face had disappeared, so that now the curve of his cheek and the angle of his jaw greatly resembled that of Mr. Meredith and Jerry. His eyes, however, would always be his mother's.
"Be sure to bring her up to Ingleside tomorrow," Di said to Faith as the the families made to part. "It seems like ages since the four of us were last together."
"We'll actually all be up tomorrow evening after the Christmas Eve carols," Rosemary remarked. "Bruce has special gifts that he made for each of you that he absolutely insisted on delivering in person."
"It will be lovely to be altogether again…well, mostly together," Anne said, reaching for her daughters' hands. Nan and Di clasped their mother's, still so smooth and girlish — Jem and Jerry's absence was keenly felt, but especially so now, during a time that should be full of shimmering, sacred magic.
With promises of further fellowship and mirth to follow on the morrow, the Manse and Ingleside folk parted. The moon was out in fine form as the Blythes made their way home, frosting the ice-tipped trees with a chilly, ethereal glow. Everyone was merry — or very nearly merry — in a softly jovial sort of way, swapping news and sharing stories, as recently reunited kin are wont to do. The flickering lights of Glen St. Mary spread out before them, nestled in the hush of the crisp December air, wonderfully welcoming and familiar. Enveloped by the spirit of home, Nan's weariness began to fall away as she walked arm-in-arm with Di and Shirley. When they reached the dearly loved front gate and tripped up the path, a rush of full fledged joy came to meet Nan. Ingleside was waiting, warm and inviting, as safe and sure as any stronghold. Oh, how good it was to be back, with the trees standing sentinel in the half-shadows and fresh holly twined about the verandah! And there was Susan, the front door thrown wide to usher them in.
"Welcome back, girls — come in now, this chill is enough to rob anyone of breath. Yes, come right on in and have some fresh apple tarts by the fire. You could both use some replenishment, by the looks of it — has Redmond no better sense than to work its students to the bone?"
"Oh Nan, this cap of yours is ever so much handsomer than that horrid velvet thing of mine," Rilla breathed enviously in the front hall.
There was much laughter and commotion as Nan and Di found themselves relieved of their things and settled before of a roaring fire, under Gog and Magog's watchful gaze.
"Now that I can take a proper look at you in good lighting, I see there is some sense in Susan's words," Gilbert remarked firmly, surveying the twins with what the Blythe children growing up had called his doctor's eye. "You both seem in fine enough form, but I don't like those dark smudges under your eyes. I plan to send my daughters back with their usual vim and vigor."
"And you are right, doctor dear," Susan echoed as she bustled in, arms full of piping hot drinks. "We shall see to it."
Susan promptly "saw to it" and treated the college students as veritable kings and queens, refusing to let them lift a finger around the house. After just one full day's proper rest and quiet conversation by the fire, Nan's eyes brightened and her spirits restored. The Merediths came up for Christmas Eve as promised, and then it was Christmas. The wind whistled through the bare maples all day, whipping up a damp chill from the Gulf to settle into every crook and crevice, but indoors, Ingleside was resplendent with warmth and gentle merriment. Everyone was determined to carry on, in honor of their brave two overseas, but Walter, whose subtle lift in mood had swiftly fizzled into dreariness once more, remained aloof.
"Rilla seems to be taking it hard," Di said that evening, after the Christmas dinner had been cleared away and she and Nan had followed their father into his office.
"Your sister has shown admirable determination and pluck these last months, but she's still quite young," Gilbert replied. "With Jem being gone, I know she looks up to Walter…Rilla has yet to learn that one can only carry so much of another's troubles, even if they are family."
They regarded one another solemnly.
"I can't say I blame her," Di went on after a moment. "I've tried to work out what the matter is, to lend support, but Walter simply won't talk. We can barely even get him to come around Lennox House lately."
Nan nodded in agreement. "There were times where he nearly seemed like his old self, but they never lasted. Walter looks strong and robust, you know — Faith and Di and I concluded that it must weigh on him heavily to have been so invisibly weakened by the typhoid."
Dr. Blythe frowned, lost in thought. He had looked grave, indeed, when the twins had told him of the white feather. After another pause, he sighed and straightened up. "Walter does appear healthier in body than when we first sent you off to Redmond, which heartens me greatly. Whatever is troubling him has not effected that, at least." Gilbert put a hand on his daughters' shoulders. "You girls have been good sisters, to keep such a protective and close watch on Walter as you have. Continue to keep an eye on him when you go back, but try not to worry. I'll have a word with him myself, father to son…see if I can't get at what's troubling him in spirit…what on earth?" This, as a triumphant whoop came from the dining room.
"Now, see you there, Mrs. Dr. Dear," Susan was saying, a paper brandished in her hand like a rapier, which she set before a bewildered Anne. "Is this not a clear sign that God Himself is watching over our boys and will have the last word?"
Nan and Di rushed to peer over their mother's shoulder, where Walter, Shirley, and Rilla were already clustered. CHRISTMAS TRUCE AT THE FRONT, the headline screamed in bold print, SOLDIERS TAKE DAY OFF FROM KILLING AND SWAP CHRISTMAS GIFTS WITH THEIR ENEMIES.
A chorus of exclamations went up all around.
"What a lovely thought!" Nan said, clasping her hands.
"Oh yes, wait you and see that the Big Push doesn't come by springtime," Susan said, smiling with such satisfaction as to suggest that she, herself, had orchestrated the temporary ceasefire at the front.
"It's wonderful news, Susan, but let us not get ahead of ourselves," the doctor replied gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye.
"I don't ordinarily contradict you outright, doctor dear, but Providence is already ahead of us."
Walter slipped quietly out of the room.
"We must simply trust to hope, as always, Susan," said Dr. Blythe, "And the strategy of those in command."
At this, Susan sniffed but did not deign to reply.
"Oh, but it is lovely, Gilbert," Anne said, something of her old lightness shining momentarily in her face. "And although I can't quite hold to the same optimism as you, Susan, I think, for once, I shall dream more sweetly tonight."
Later, as a crescent moon rose to glimmer faintly above Glen St. Mary, Nan curled up before the fire once more. Her hand strayed to Jerry's delicate pendant at her throat as she saw faraway images leap and crackle — she was almost certain she could hear haunting, sacred wisps of Christmas songs floating to and fro between enemy lines. Shirley came to join her after a while and the two passed the evening in dreamy silence, chasing thoughts into the flames and out beyond the Gulf.
Susan remained assured of a springtime victory, though the magic of the Christmas truce had faded for the rest of the Blythes by stark light of day. The thunder of guns shook the battlefields of Europe and word came of heavy French casualties in Champagne as 1914 prepared to breathe her last.
"Will nothing stop this German might?" Gertrude Oliver asked through white lips.
"The French have retaken the ground they lost, we must stick to that, Miss Oliver dear," Susan said, stalwart as ever.
"Yes, but at what cost?" Nan queried, her face, too, very pale. At times, ordinary life felt impossible to contend with in the face of such horror.
"Does it make me a coward, Miss Oliver, if I cannot fully hope for victory by the spring as Susan does?" She asked quietly a little while later, when she and Gertrude were alone on the verandah.
"Of course not," Miss Oliver replied seriously, fixing Nan with her deep, mournful gaze. "We're living in a new reality and must learn to manage our hopes differently, now. Doubt shows the depth of your humanity, Nan…just don't give up on your imagination altogether. I'm sure there are many who would scoff at any lecture I could give on imagination — but I have plumbed some of the very darkest corners of my own…which tells me, of course, that it can also soar to the brightest heights, and it is that we can put to use when we feel we cannot go on. No, you are not a coward, Nan."
Nan kept Miss Oliver's words close to her heart, mulling them over a great deal as she, Di, Walter, and Faith said their goodbyes to home and hearth and made the journey back to Kingsport. Something about their sentiment had given Nan a new light in which to see matters. Perhaps it was because it was Miss Oliver who had spoken them — Miss Oliver, who never minced words for anyone — or because someone had at last given voice to the little nagging uncertainty that surely they must all feel at times, rather than simply sweeping it away. Whatever the reason, Nan found herself possessed of a new calm — a calm that allowed her to face the day's news head-on and meet it with a mixture of a little frankness and a little imagination. Oh yes, imagination would be even more precious now.
In later years, Nan would look back and wonder if it hadn't been Providence, somehow, that gave her this new resolve, for but a few weeks after her return to Redmond, a letter came from Jerry:
My dearest Nan,
By the time this reaches you, your second term will have started. I hope you had a marvelous Christmas back at home and that nobody was too down for our sakes. Jem and I quite enjoyed our own muted English Christmas — or would have, had the rain ever let up. I don't want to keep going on about the mud over here, but it really is something. It would have been perfect for our old pretend battles back in Rainbow Valley, come to think of it. Do you remember those? Funny, isn't it, how our boyish games became reality? But enough of that.
Did the bells on the Tree Lovers tinkle out over the freshly fallen snow this year? The peacefulness of that dear place is what I miss most, I think — that, and seeing the laughter in your face when you've gotten the upper hand in one of our debates. How I'd love to see you take on Redmond. We really would have all had such fun together there, wouldn't we? Perhaps once this is all over…
I haven't yet been able to discover Tom Hughes' true motive. It's abominable, I know, to suspect your fellow soldier — but would a real fellow-at-arms turn his back on his comrade during a drill and save himself? For that's exactly what happened during one of our standard drills, to prepare us for the trenches. Our sergeant saw it — I don't think Hughes meant for him to, but must have miscalculated — and gave him a fair dressing down, but still…there is something about him that makes me uneasy. I hope I am proven wrong.
Did the Christmas break do any good to lift Walter's spirits? Jem was at a loss when I showed him your last letter — said that if Di didn't know what the trouble was that it must be bad. Still, we were both thrilled to hear of the success of your gala. You girls are good and brave and strong.
Which brings me to my news: we're being sent to the front, sweetheart. Our orders came from higher up a few days ago — we Canadians are to be moved into France to shore up the western line against the Germans. Jem and I have been assigned to different divisions (Tom Hughes and I are in the same), but should still be fairly near one another. Miss Oliver's Robert will be with us, as well. Do you know, Nan…when the word came in, though we'd been expecting it, I felt fear for the first time? True fear — not just apprehension. I think Jem felt it to, just for a bit. Fear is a very humbling emotion, isn't it? But I don't want you to worry — we'll continue to look out for another, Jem and I, just as we said. You can count on that.
All my love,
Your Jerry