Chapter 19

By the time Rilla holds Walter's next letter in her hands, he's already dead.

It was Shirley who brought her the news, appearing in the doorway to her room one evening after Rilla had already retired to do some schoolwork. She was impatient at having been disturbed and looked up to say so, but the words died in her lips upon seeing his face.

Of them all, Shirley was always the one who expressed the least emotions. An observer by nature, he preferred, even as a child, to step back and watch others, keeping his own thoughts and feelings to himself. Thus, reading what was going on in her brother's mind had never been one of Rilla's best talents, but this time, one look at his blanched face immediately told her that something was greatly amiss.

"What is it?" she asked him tonelessly, before correcting herself, "Who is it?"

For in times like these, there was only one possible explanation for Shirley to come into her room in the evening, looking the way he did.

Jem or Walter?

There was a pause and as the seconds ticked by, Rilla felt unable to breathe.

"Walter," Shirley replied finally, sounding stricken.

Just that name, and the floor dropped away from under Rilla. If she hadn't been sitting, surely, her legs would have collapsed, unable to carry her any longer. As it was, she fell back in her chair, first motionless, before a shiver took over her body, making her shake uncontrollably.

"Walter," she breathed, and while she had known that Shirley bore no good news, hearing it confirmed felt too much to bear.

"Father called a few minutes ago to inform us," Shirley continued, voice low. "He was killed in action at Courcelette last week."

Struggling to breathe, Rilla doubled over, the emotional pain of the loss becoming physical in its intensity.

"Did he suffer?" she choked out, because just thinking of Walter being in pain, Walter lying alone as he perished, Walter suffering while his life seeped out of him… she balked at the very thought.

Shirley shrugged, helpless. "Father didn't have any more information. He received a telegram today, but there wasn't anything more in it. He hopes to get a letter from the commanding officer soon."

Rilla nodded, but little over half of Shirley's words actually registered with her. Her mind was too caught up with reminding her to keep breathing. In that moment, just the small task of breathing in and breathing out seemed almost too hard to do, and anything beyond that was unthinkable.

"I'm sorry," Shirley muttered, stepping from one foot to the other, so clearly at a loss as to what to say or do. "Is there anything…?" He trailed off, probably upon realising that there was nothing in his power to make anything better at all.

Understanding the unspoken question anyway, Rilla shook her head, because no-one could make this better, not Shirley and not anyone else.

"He was your brother, too," she instead remarked, at first absently as the words left her lips before her mind caught up to them. When it did, she looked up, and repeated, more decidedly, "He was your brother, too."

Shirley, if anything, looked even more uncomfortable. "We were never as close."

"He was our brother, yours as much as mine," Rilla insisted anyway, and the past tense of it hurt like a dagger to her heart.

"He was," Shirley agreed quietly, lowering his head.

They remained that way for several moments, both lost in the memories of their older brother. Perhaps, other people would have shared those memories, would have spent the night remembering, but Shirley had never been one to talk much and Rilla was only just learning to reclaim her voice after months of silence, so they remained quiet, each of them alone with their memories.

Memories of Walter, kind and soulful Walter, who always felt everything so acutely and for whom the pain of others forever mattered more than his own. Walter, who saw beauty where others didn't and who had the gift to ensnare that beauty with his words, to capture it and make it shine. Walter, whose faith in those beloved by him was as absolute as the love he felt for them in his heart.

The memories came slowly at first, just snatches, one by one, a smile, a line of poetry, a glance from those remarkable grey eyes. Then, gradually, they increased, memories building on one another as one memory evoked a dozen new ones, until what had been but a trickle at first became an onslaught, itself difficult to bear but far more difficult to banish.

They were also colourful, those memories, Rilla realised with a jolt, as if death had intensified them by turning what had previously become a pale, grey simile back into something that mimicked living so closely it would have been easy to be fooled by it. Where hitherto the image of Walter in her memories had been threatened to be blotted out by the lifelessness of that black-and-white photograph, she now saw him as plainly as she ever had. In her mind, she could see Walter so clearly that for one breathless, irrational second she expected him to appear behind Shirley, alive and well and Walter, like she knew him to be.

He didn't, as she knew he wouldn't, and that moment, perhaps, was the moment when she understood.

He would never again come back. She would never see him again. He would forever remain a memory in her mind now, and one day, inevitably, the life and colour would drain from that memory, would leave but a vague imprint in black and white.

Too stunned to cry before, it was then when her tears began to fall, and as she looked up, she could see that Shirley's eyes, too, had became watery. He was, she realised, trying to hold the tears back, to remain strong in the face of her own pain, but what a ridiculous thing that was to do!

After all, hadn't they both lost a brother?

Getting up from her chair, hoping that her shaking legs would carry her, she carefully made her way through the room, to where Shirley still stood rooted to the spot. Words failed her, too, so she just reached out and put her arms around him, a hug that had to stand in lieu of speech.

At first, it felt awkward. He had never, she thought, been hugged much by anyone not Susan and no-one had hugged her at all recently, but gradually, it became more natural, a simple gesture of mutual support in light of a loss too devastating to fathom. No more words passed between them, their respective memories of their brother remaining their own, but at least, like this, they were no longer alone with their pain.

Later, after Shirley had left and she had gone to bed, Rilla would still sob herself into an uneasy sleep, but in that moment, having just lost one brother, she clung to the closeness of another. She thought and she hoped that maybe, Shirley felt the same way.

Certainly, when she came down for breakfast the next morning, the prevailing sense of grief and loss, was, for a brief moment, intermingled with something like relief when she saw him. Yes, he was as pale as the night before and she knew that her own face was puffy and blotched from crying, but at the very least, they were not alone.

Loneliness, she had learned, had the dreadful power of making everything worse, even those things that seemed like they could not become more awful at all.

"Morning," Shirley greeted her, and she thought he intentionally left out the 'good'.

The table in front of him was laden with even more food than normally and in the distance, she could hear the sound of Mrs Procter working in the kitchen. It reminded her of Susan, and suddenly, the memory was painful.

"I told her," Shirley offered by way of explanation.

It had been a sensible thing to do, Rilla reflected, to explain to their landlady why they might both not be themselves this morning, or the next, or the one after that. As always, one could trust Shirley to do the sensible thing, even in light of such catastrophic loss.

"It feels unreal, doesn't it?" Rilla heard herself asking as she sat down at the table. She surveyed the feast spread out in front of her and felt vaguely sorry for their landlady, for she was absolutely certain she couldn't eat a single bite without chocking on it.

"It does," Shirley confirmed. He, too, was only nursing a cup of tea, his plate sitting clean and unused in front of him.

"I just hope…" Rilla swallowed, fighting for composure. "I just hope it was quick. He always hated it so, the ugliness of pain. I hope…" Unable to continue, she broke off, blinking away tears.

Over the table, Shirley surveyed her with a look of concern. "We will know soon, I believe. Father said it's customary for the commanding officer to write a letter to the family."

The content of said letter could, Rilla realised, be as comforting as they could be terrifying. It could confirm to them their hope of a clean, quick end, or it could confirm their fears of drawn-out suffering. There was no knowing what the letter would say, and she didn't envy her father the task of having to read it. She knew that she herself couldn't.

She said nothing of this to Shirley. Instead, she asked, "How are they? Mother and father?"

Her brother shrugged. "Father was… composed. He's hanging on, I think. He knows how to. He said that mother had taken to bed. He'd given her something to help her sleep."

Rilla nodded, considering the information. After everything, she once thought she'd never again be able to look them in the eye, but now, she felt for them. What greater loss is there, after all, than that of a child?

"Do you think we should…?" She gestured, vaguely, to the north, to far-away Glen.

Shirley, used to listening as he was, understood even what wasn't being said. "Father said not to. He and Susan are caring for mother. He said there was nothing we could do."

No, Rilla thought, because there was nothing anyone could do.

"Would you prefer staying at home today?" Shirley offered when she said nothing more. "I could explain what happened at school. They'd understand, I'm sure."

He hadn't finished speaking before Rilla began shaking her head. "No," she replied, conviction and horror filling her voice equally. "No. Don't… don't leave here to the silence. Let me come! Let me work! I want to work and think and…"

…and forget, if only for a little while.

That's what she does, too. Over the next few days, she throws herself into her schoolwork with little joy but much zeal, finding some much needed distraction and predictability in the mundanity of Latin vocabulary and algebra. The very thought of poetry makes her sick, but numbers and grammatic rules hold no pain, so she embraces them gratefully.

At Queen's, no-one knows about the loss suffered by the Blythe siblings, and no-one has cause to guess it either. Everyone is used to them keeping to themselves, Shirley by nature and Rilla by experience, and if one or another notices that Rilla Blythe has suddenly become more sociable, laughing and talking more than she did before, no-one knows her well enough to see that it is but a façade, put up to keep hidden the pain behind.

It takes more effort to keep up that façade than Rilla cares to admit, especially because her nights are spent nearly sleepless, through tears and memories and loneliness alike. She keeps going on, because she knows she has to and because she realised that she can, but it tires her, the false laughs of day taking more energy than the few hours of restless sleep can provide her with at night.

Thus, when, not quite two weeks after Shirley stood in her doorway with the news to shatter their world, she returns to the boarding house to find a letter written in Walter's handwriting waiting for her in the hall, she's not sure whether she has the strength to open it. Once, seeing her name written in his elegante cursive hand brought her comfort, but now, she feels a sudden jolt of pain hit her at the sight.

She knows, of course, that her last letter never reached him. He died in that very battle when tanks were first employed and the difference of time means that when she wrote to admit to him, for the first time, what she did and what she experienced, he was alive no more. She's glad of it now, too. She'd hate for him to remember her like this, as someone who brought shame upon herself and her family.

A lie, it might be, but at least to Walter, she can remain innocent and good forever.

Very carefully, she carries the letter upstairs to her room, handling it like the treasure it is, for it is the last of the lasts. The last time she will ever read anything in his voice again.

We're going over the top tomorrow, Rilla-my-Rilla. I wrote mother and Di yesterday, but somehow I feel as if I must write you tonight. I hadn't intended to do any writing tonight – but I've got to. Do you remember old Mrs. Tom Crawford over-harbour, who was always saying that it was 'laid on her' to do such and such a thing? Well, that is just how I feel. It's 'laid on me' to write you tonight – you, sister and chum of mine. There are some things I want to say before – well, before tomorrow.
You and Ingleside seem strangely near me tonight. It's the first time I've felt this since I came. Always home has seemed so far away – so hopelessly far away from this hideous welter of filth and blood. But tonight it is quite close to me – it seems to me I can almost see you – hear you speak. And I can see the moonlight shining white and still on the old hills of home. It has seemed to me ever since I came here that it was impossible that there could be calm gentle nights and unshattered moonlight anywhere in the world. But tonight somehow, all the beautiful things I have always loved seem to have become possible again – and this is good, and makes me feel a deep, certain, exquisite happiness. It must be autumn at home now – the harbour is a-dream and the old Glen hills blue with haze, and Rainbow Valley a haunt of delight with wild asters blowing all over it—our old "farewell-summers." I always liked that name better than 'aster' – it was a poem in itself.
Rilla, you know I've always had premonitions. You remember the Pied Piper – but no, of course you wouldn't – you were too young. One evening long ago when Nan and Di and Jem and the Merediths and I were together in Rainbow Valley I had a queer vision or presentiment – whatever you like to call it. Rilla, I saw the Piper coming down the Valley with a shadowy host behind him. The others thought I was only pretending – but I saw him for just one moment. And Rilla, last night I saw him again. I was doing sentry-go and I saw him marching across No-man's-land from our trenches to the German trenches – the same tall shadowy form, piping weirdly – and behind him followed boys in khaki. Rilla, I tell you I saw him – it was no fancy – no illusion. I heard his music, and then – he was gone. But I had seen him – and I knew what it meant – I knew that I was among those who followed him.
Rilla, the Piper will pipe me 'west' tomorrow. I feel sure of this. And Rilla, I'm not afraid. When you hear the news, remember that. I've won my own freedom here – freedom from all fear. I shall never be afraid of anything again – not of death – nor of life, if after all, I am to go on living. And life, I think, would be the harder of the two to face – for it could never be beautiful for me again. There would always be such horrible things to remember – things that would make life ugly and painful always for me. I could never forget them. But whether it's life or death, I'm not afraid, Rilla-my-Rilla, and I am not sorry that I came. I'm satisfied. I'll never write the poems I once dreamed of writing – but I've helped to make Canada safe for the poets of the future – for the workers of the future – ay, and the dreamers, too – for if no man dreams, there will be nothing for the workers to fulfil – the future, not of Canada only but of the world – when the 'red rain' of Langemarck and Verdun shall have brought forth a golden harvest – not in a year or two, as some foolishly think, but a generation later, when the seed sown now shall have had time to germinate and grow. Yes, I'm glad I came, Rilla. It isn't only the fate of the little sea-born island I love that is in the balance – nor of Canada nor of England. It's the fate of mankind. That is what we're fighting for. And we shall win – never for a moment doubt that, Rilla. For it isn't only the living who are fighting – the dead are fighting too. Such an army cannot be defeated.
Is there laughter in your face yet, Rilla? I hope so. The world will need laughter and courage more than ever in the years that will come next. I don't want to preach – this isn't any time for it. But I just want to say something that may help you over the worst when you hear that I've gone 'west.' I've a premonition about you, Rilla, as well as about myself. I think Ken will go back to you – and that there are long years of happiness for you by-and-by. And you will tell your children of the Idea we fought and died for – teach them it must be lived for as well as died for, else the price paid for it will have been given for nought. This will be part of your work, Rilla. And if you – all you girls back in the homeland – do it, then we who don't come back will know that you have not 'broken faith' with us.
I meant to write to Una tonight, too, but I won't have time now. Read this letter to her and tell her it's really meant for you both – you two dear, fine loyal girls. Tomorrow, when we go over the top – I'll think of you both – of your laughter, Rilla-my-Rilla, and the steadfastness in Una's blue eyes – somehow I see those eyes very plainly tonight, too. Yes, you'll both keep faith – I'm sure of that – you and Una. And so – goodnight. We go over the top at dawn.
[Letter quoted from chapter 13, 'And so, Goodnight,' of 'Rilla of Ingleside' (1921) by Lucy Maud Montgomery.]

She reads the letter once, and then again, and a third time. She folds it, briefly, before unfolding it and reading it one more, and a dozen times besides. She reads it so often that the words burn themselves onto her mind, until she is certain that she will never forget even one of them.

Only then does she set the letter aside, very carefully, and with deliberation, walks over to the suitcase sitting atop the wardrobe. She is very calm, suddenly, and very certain, and her search of the items remaining inside the suitcase is untypically methodical. She sifts through everything she saw no need to unpack after her arrival, until she finally finds what she is looking for.

The suffragist magazine she had Ralph Andrews buy for her in Ottawa.

Carrying it over to her writing table, she places it next to Walter's letter, two items that couldn't be less alike, one having held no meaning for her at all before, and another so dear to her that she knows she will treasure it forever. And yet, put together, the magazine she understood maybe half of, and the letter of which she might have truly understood even less, fill her with a sudden clarity.

For the first time in months, perhaps as much as a year, she knows without a doubt what she must do.

To Joanna:
In the books, Rilla emphasises several times that she can talk to Walter about everything, and while I think it was a little one-sided and she confided more in him than the other way round, obviously she feels that she can trust him with her secrets. In the past, those were the small secrets of childhood, but now she has a big, life-changing secret to keep, so who else to turn to but Walter whose always been her confidant? (To no avail, as we know now, but she didn't know it when she wrote the letter.) Shirley, in his own quiet way is very supportive of her as well and is also keeping her secret (or at least his suspicions of what her secret might be), but he doesn't invite open conversations the way Walter does, and anyway, it's easier to be honest in a letter than in person.
I think that, even though Walter will never read the letter, it was important for Rilla to put those thoughts into words, so it was a meaningful letter anyway. For the first time, she's openly voicing her feelings about Jims, and while she had snatches of these thoughts and emotions in the past, she's putting them together in a concise way here in a way she hadn't done before. I imagine it helps her recognise her own feelings she has about her son, and the wish to protect him is, I believe, crucial when it comes to her plans and motives going forward.
I like writing Shirley! He's a figure that leaves us with quite a bit of room of interpretation, so he can be shaped in different ways, but I also like what we know about him from canon. He's quiet, but not shy. He's dependable and practical, but he has a bit of a sense of humour. He's not demonstrative, but capable of love and sympathy. Those are some excellent qualities to build upon, and it means he's really an easy character to enjoy to write. Certainly, if you need some support, Shirley is just the guy you want around, right? ;)

To DogMonday:
I hope you had safe and fun and enjoyable travels!
I agree that in canon, Rilla mainly goes with the flow and deals with the matters as they come, but she does also show a knack for strategic thinking and planning when it matters. For one, she organises Miranda's wedding in a day, which calls for decent organisational skills. When setting up the Junior Red Cross, we also see a nice bit of political thinking from her when she considers how the roles might be distributed. She isn't entirely successful in making her visions reality, but she's self-aware enough to know she won't be elected president and instead considers the options and settles on Betty Mead as being the best candidate - who then gets elected. I think it shows that Rilla is quite capable of making plans and putting them into actions, though she has to be properly motivated to do so. If she's uninterested in something, she won't put her mind to it, but if she sinks her teeth into a matter, she's quite shrewd when it comes to setting things into motion. She's definitely interested in getting permission to go to Queen's, so that brings the more strategic part of her mind to the surface - though, to be fair, in large parts, she's really still winging it and wouldn't have been successful but for unexpected outside help in the form of Norman Douglas, Cornelia Elliot and, crucially, her mother.
Gilbert most definitely didn't like how things are progressing! If he had his will, Rilla would have stayed at home for at least the foreseeable future, but once Anne throws her support behind Rilla openly, matters are indeed out of his hands. The conversation with Rilla at the station is, I believe, unexpected and somewhat shocking to him. Rilla doesn't know it, but he did ask Dora whether the birth went well - however, Dora had absolutely no incentive to reveal that she left it too late to call a doctor and thus made things much harder for Rilla, so she only wrote back that everything was under control and that Rilla was recovering successfully. Thus, Gilbert and Anne were unaware of the true struggles Rilla faced during the delivery until she basically threw the truth at her father's feet. What he makes of this remains to be seen, but we definitely will see it - and I can say that with confidence because I wrote that particular chapter just this past weekend ;).
I see all these characters as being products of their time, and that also includes Rilla. Her entire life, she was told that girls and women have to act a certain way and that any deviation from the socially accepted norm is deeply shameful. She believes that way of thinking, because it's the only thing she's ever been told. We see bursts of her questioning that logic, but they're mostly borne out of feelings of rebelliousness and unfairness. She notices that men are held to different standards and she has a vague sense that it's not fair, but there's no coherent logic behind these thoughts yet. She's very much still at the beginning of figuring this out, though yes, the seeds have been planted.
Ah, the letter, the letter... As we know now, Walter never received it. Where is that letter now, where will it end up and who might possibly read it? Excellent questions, those. Of course, it's entirely possible that the letter gets lost, now that there's no-one to receive it, or that the army simply disposes of it because its recipient is dead, but yes, it's out there now, so there's a chance it will, indeed, turn up again one day and if it does, there's no knowing into whose hands it might fall.

To Guest No.1:
Indeed, I write mainly AU stories, which means I change aspects from canon as necessary. However, I retain what fits with my stories as well, which is why Walter sadly didn't survive Courcelette in this story either. He almost did, but then I realised I could nicely utilise his death to drive my plot forward, so... goodbye to Walter it is, I'm afraid.

To Guest No.2:
Indeed, it was important for Rilla to get all those thoughts and feelings off her chest in the previous chapter. We know now that Walter never got a chance to read what she wrote, but just writing it down brought her some relief, I believe, and also made her be clearer about her own emotions. It's all still a bit jumbled, but she's slowly getting her feelings and motivations in line, which is important for her to be able to plan the next steps ahead.
I think we can safely assume that Shirley guesses parts of why Rilla was sent away, so that he's still helping her means he's not judging her for it. She could certainly tell him and he'd undoubtedly keep her secret safe, but I just don't see them as having the sort of relationship where they talk a lot about all that deep, personal stuff. Shirley is quiet by nature and before this, they weren't particularly close, so it probably doesn't occur to Rilla to talk to him, of all people. It was already very difficult for her to confide in Walter (to whom she used to tell everything) by letter, so to confide in Shirley in person would be that much harder. If she had to tell him, she might have, but seeing as he's offering his support anyway, it's just easier for her to leave it unmentioned at this point.