In Presbyterian Manse of Glen St Mary, the fall of 1914 had been varied. Little Bruce seemed to cry himself to sleep almost every night, and Rosemary no longer sang in her light, soft voice as she baked fresh rolls for breakfast on Sundays, and John Meredith was even more absentminded than usual, as there had been a lenghty gap between Jerry´s letters.
Luckily Ingelside had recived a letter from Jem, it was full of jokes about mud on Salisbury Plain, and the severe conditions, and disipline of his superior officers in the training grounds of CEF. Then finally a battered letter did arrive at the Manse. Jerry´s letter was was full of eagerness of all the various local churches, their various glasswindow scenes as well as glimmering verdant nature of English fall, of training, it was obliquely narrated, in short, choppy lines, not at all like Jerry´s usual fastidious hand.
Una noticed that her hands trembled as she read Walter's latest letter, that had come by post. It was a wonderful one, but then again all his letters to her were, all those whispers of ink, and whimsy, with the crest of Redmond on the letterpaper.
Redmond, at the tail end of Autum-term.
Dear Una!
I often find myself thinking, here in the heartbeat of Redmond, full of red brick, sweeping ivy, libraries, and various lectures, of our playing hours, and the peace that prevails in the living room as ivy whispers in the window.
From kitchen comes succulent scent of Rosemary's cookies, or your delightful cinnamon buns, all shrouded with cinnamon and cardemum. And those peaceful, shared soul-refreshing moments when the music pauses and is quiet, and you look at me so seriously, and lightly fleetingly, as little Bruce runs into the room with the kitten, or Reverend Meredith comes to lend me some very wise book, that is too advanced for my non-theological head. The nuances of Presbyterian theology are like some early Greek dialect to me, but you have known this for years.
Sing and keep good care of Manse, and give my fondest greetings to Rosemary, while you and her battle amicibly for the teapot, or kitchen territory. Tell litte Bruce from me, that I have studied his night music, recently, and it truly it is utterly divine creation, as everything from Mozart always is.
Sometimes when I´m troubled, I close my eyes and recall your words in Rainbow Valley, as you reflected your own faith, your everlasting faith of Him, that He would show me the right way.
I hope I have the courage to find the right words, when the time comes.
My fondest, warmest greetings, to you dark-haired nymph whose soul is like moonlight.
WCB
Ps. Could you bake something for me. Then homecoming from Redmond would be little easier for me. I think, as in all honesty I´ll prefer your pastries to Susans creations, maybe some French-inspired one?
All of Walter's letters to her lived in an old rosewood jewelry box that had previously contained Cecilia's jewelry. At times, Una closed her eyes, imagining she remembered her mother´s light perfume, but then the illusion broke. The spring flowers in the Rainbow Valley, or the sun's rays in the open sparkling windy bay, were like the soft touch of Cecilia's cool hand, on her forehead. Half-forgotten shade that what Cecilia was to all her children.
Fierce hope, raised its head in Una's heart, and she delicately pressed her hand across his signature. Lightly, she almost ran into the kitchen, and began to examine Rosemary's recipes, humming, softly, snatches of Mozart. Rosemary came in her serene way into the kitchen, and put a pot of tea to shimmer, as she observed, Una, but did not say anything, just placed steaming cup of assam in front of her and left soundless steps.
From corridor there came Rosemary´s floating voice the strains of Ave Maria Stella, the sea hymn of episcopal chuch of Lowbridge, and then it modulated into Puccini´s Salve Regina, as Rosemary began to play after weeks of silence. A small hint of normalcy had returned to the Manse, for without it´s music, the place had been a little like a tomb.
John Meredith listened to the music at his office, and something of the glorious lightness of Puccini's music was absorbed on his coming Sunday´s sermon, and his reflections of upcoming plans on ecumenical prayer meetings between Glen and Lowbridge. Little Bruce listened to his mother's music, and it delighted him, and in a bold step he walked into the kitchen, there smelled tea, and where there was tea Una was also often found, and where Una, so were delicacies.
To Bruce's surprise, his sister grabbed him in her arms and lifted him on the table, saying, "You have an important task, little one. Say strawberry jam, or cherry?" Bruce looked at the two jars on the table, and a smile flashed on his face, as he said, "If it comes to anyone other than us so cherry, but if, to us so definitely strawberry."
A hazy moon-like smile glowed on Una's face, and she lifted the strawberry jar into the cupboard, next to others like it. And Bruce pointed out in his childish treble
"Una-moon, only one person in the whole Glen likes cherries, and that's Jem's brother, Walter, who still doesn't play as well as my mother. " Una just brushed Bruce's dark hair, and lifted him off the table, and said in vague tone, "Darling, you are right, as always. Go play now, maybe you can make some snowflakes out of paper, but take care with the siccors."
Bruce frowned, and for a moment looked exactly like his mother´s sister, his Aunt Ellen, but went to do as Una had wanted him to do, dear sweet and honest boy that he was. Soon Stripey his kitten, came beside him, and purred gently. The sparkling music echoed, all around Manse as the withered ivy tapped the window, as fierce wind of late November twisted the trees up in Shore Road.
Irene Howard walked towards Ingelside, where a meeting of the Red Cross Youth Department would soon begin. Too bad handsome Walter wasn't home yet, but he would be there soon, as the holidays were fast approaching. Gracefully, Irene knocked on the door, and soon Rilla opened it.
Irene looked at the younger girl, critically. She had become perhaps the most beautiful of all Ingelside's girls, a fact that caused bitterness for Irene, as she didn't want to be overshadowed by anyone.
So sweetly, Irene said, "I brought a gift for your little child, as he's so lonely, here. Rilla's eyes flashed, and he said," Jims is resting. " And just then a light cry echoed from the living room, and Irene remarked, "Is he, really my darling?"
Irene had always admired those magnificent porcelain dogs guarding the edge of the fireplace, like demigods, full of whispers of the Orient. Irene glanced at Jims in his cradle, and said softly, "I've never seen another baby who has so little hair at four months of age, but he's really sweet." And with a light grip, Irene lifted Jims up in the air, gently.
A change happened on the child's face. His big dark eyes were radiating, suddenly and a small smile appeared on his face. Triumphantly, Irene glanced at Rilla, but she knitted in a sock calmly efficient way and pointed out, "Irene, put Jims down please, or else he'll squeak during the meeting, and it is not pleasant for anyone, neither for him, nor for us. Although Morgan advises that children should be allowed to cry for it helps their lungs to develop."
Irene lowered child into its cradle, first giving him light kisses on his little soft cheeks. A light, bubbling laugh glowed in the room, and Jims waved his small hands. With a radiant smile, Irene glanced at Jims, and saw little sleepy brown eyes, and soon the child was asleep.
Susan brought tea and nodded to Rilla, saying, "Well, you finally made your child laugh." Irene remarked, "Miss Baker, not Rilla, but I. I noticed with a womanly instinct that that little child longed for a little affection, alone and abandoned in the world that he is. Rilla does a marvelous work with him, but a little affection sometimes does miracles, isn't that so Miss Baker? " Susan looked like she wanted to say something, but then she just left living room with dignity, as she noticed that Rilla's nerves were tense.
The fragrant tea was drunk in silence, and then Irene said, "Honey, I heard a rumor about Walter, from my connections at Lowbridge. I pondered over it, for days, and in the end, I decided to come here today, a little earlier to tell it to you."
Softly, Irene whispered one short sentence, in Rilla's ear. The effect of those words were clear. Rilla's face turned milky white as in a caressing soft voice Irene continued, "No one said anything when he taught there, but now that time has passed, people have started talking. Does anybody here really know where did he caught his typhoid, as it was nowhere near proper recidential areas? And why he's not on the front yet? Is it perhaps that he is not fit to serve at all? Of course I did my best to deny everything, as people are such horrendous gossips, all full of poison and calumny towards their betters."Irene shrugged with a smooth, delicate gesture as she crossed her ankles.
Rilla stood up her eyes were sparking, with inner fury as she said in a cold calm voice, "Irene, how dare you spread such lies about my brother. Your own brother isn't on the front either, is he?"
Irene raised her eyebrows, and said, "Don't lose your temper now, dear. After all, I said I did everything I could to quell such rumors. And as for my brother, he has a weak heart, that's why he's not in service yet, but he's fighting every day against my mother to do something for the fatherland in these difficult times. Boys get everything, status, and wealth, but these days, if a young man walks down the street, the lightest thing he gets on his neck is a pile of feathers. The city is reportedly even worse. Is Ken Ford's ankle already better, if so, he'll probably leave soon? "
Rilla looked at Irene seriously, and said with dignity, "I don't know. Mom's in correspondence with Aunt Leslie, not I. I suggest, dear Irene, that you're remain quiet if you can't say anything constructive in the upcoming meeting."
That meeting of the Red Cross youth department was tense, the agendas were handled gracefully and efficiently, as always, but every now and then Irene threw small sarcastic arrows that hit every participant in turn, and finally, the meeting ended.
A couple of days later Betty Mead met Alice Clow at the Carter Flaggs. "Irene was really in an Irene-like mood, at the meeting, you probably noticed? Slender, gray-eyed dark-haired Alice Clow responded emphatically "Irene has always been mad at some girl, now it seems to be Rilla's turn. I heard in passing that Irene vowed not to come to our meetings anymore, because dear Rilla hurt her terribly, well the Lowbridge department will probably take her then. "
That fall, Rilla had so much to do that she wasn't wondering why Irene no longer came to the Red Cross youth department meetings, besides, she had infected Jims with a runny nose. The boy had been crying all week after Irene's visit. Rilla wrote in her diary her general feelings, but Irene's cruel, incredibly horrible rumor about Walter, she never wrote it down.
And the newspapers were full of fierce fighting in the Ypres region. Becelaere
Langemark, and Gheluvent. And Walter's letters to her seemed to be somehow odd, not all his usual smooth, poetic style, Rilla thought rebelliously, as she was feeling tired, from her recitation tours from nearby villages, all for war effort naturally. She had lisped, but it did not matter, for the audience was on fire, of patriotism and a bit of contraband moonshine, and Miller Douglas, had stood up and cheered, with some other boys, as Mary Vance had muttered to Betty Mead "Little Rilla could recite a tad less enthusiastically. It is not appropriate that she attracts other girls beaus to war.
Rila sighed, looking at the ceiling where the light flickered, and her mossy velvet hat sat in its hat box, why she had paid for it so much, and had been so incisively sarcastic to her mother, like dear Gertrude in her moods. But mother's gaze had been extremely effective.
Anne Shirley Blythe really knew how to annoy her own children if she wanted to, all serene grace, and patient tone, that was slippery as ice, that just enflamed Rilla into an even greater temper.
Rilla shook her reddish-brown curls in front of the mirror, and wondered, "I think that, in light my skin does look like cream, and this new hairstyle, with colored ribbons in my hair, is extremely beautiful.
Ingelside and Glen glowed softly in the light of the evening stars, for here in the peace of the countryside, no trams ran, and the street lamps did not dim the sparkle of the stars. The air was clean, and cold.
The last train of the evening arrived in Glen St Mary's station, and a small colored dog, in his booth raised his ears, and sighed heavily..
A/N:
CEF is a shorthand for Canadian Expeditionary Force. They had large reserve and training organization in England and a recruiting organization in Canada.