Rilla of Ingleside

by L. M. Montgomery

  CHAPTER XXXI

  MRS. MATILDA PITTMAN

  Rilla and Jims were standing on the rear platform of their car when thetrain stopped at the little Millward siding. The August evening was sohot and close that the crowded cars were stifling. Nobody ever knewjust why trains stopped at Millward siding. Nobody was ever known toget off there or get on. There was only one house nearer to it thanfour miles, and it was surrounded by acres of blueberry barrens andscrub spruce-trees.

  Rilla was on her way into Charlottetown to spend the night with afriend and the next day in Red Cross shopping; she had taken Jims withher, partly because she did not want Susan or her mother to be botheredwith his care, partly because of a hungry desire in her heart to haveas much of him as she could before she might have to give him upforever. James Anderson had written to her not long before this; he waswounded and in the hospital; he would not be able to go back to thefront and as soon as he was able he would be coming home for Jims.

  Rilla was heavy-hearted over this, and worried also. She loved Jimsdearly and would feel deeply giving him up in any case; but if JimAnderson were a different sort of a man, with a proper home for thechild, it would not be so bad. But to give Jims up to a roving,shiftless, irresponsible father, however kind and good-hearted he mightbe--and she knew Jim Anderson was kind and good-hearted enough--was abitter prospect to Rilla. It was not even likely Anderson would stay inthe Glen; he had no ties there now; he might even go back to England.She might never see her dear, sunshiny, carefully brought-up littleJims again. With such a father what might his fate be? Rilla meant tobeg Jim Anderson to leave him with her, but, from his letter, she hadnot much hope that he would.

  "If he would only stay in the Glen, where I could keep an eye on Jimsand have him often with me I wouldn't feel so worried over it," shereflected. "But I feel sure he won't--and Jims will never have anychance. And he is such a bright little chap--he has ambition, whereverhe got it--and he isn't lazy. But his father will never have a cent togive him any education or start in life. Jims, my little war-baby,whatever is going to become of you?"

  Jims was not in the least concerned over what was to become of him. Hewas gleefully watching the antics of a striped chipmunk that wasfrisking over the roof of the little siding. As the train pulled outJims leaned eagerly forward for a last look at Chippy, pulling his handfrom Rilla's. Rilla was so engrossed in wondering what was to become ofJims in the future that she forgot to take notice of what was happeningto him in the present. What did happen was that Jims lost his balance,shot headlong down the steps, hurtled across the little sidingplatform, and landed in a clump of bracken fern on the other side.

  Rilla shrieked and lost her head. She sprang down the steps and jumpedoff the train.

  Fortunately, the train was still going at a comparatively slow speed;fortunately also, Rilla retained enough sense to jump the way it wasgoing; nevertheless, she fell and sprawled helplessly down theembankment, landing in a ditch full of a rank growth of golden-rod andfireweed.

  Nobody had seen what had happened and the train whisked briskly awayround a curve in the barrens. Rilla picked herself up, dizzy butunhurt, scrambled out of the ditch, and flew wildly across theplatform, expecting to find Jims dead or broken in pieces. But Jims,except for a few bruises, and a big fright, was quite uninjured. He wasso badly scared that he didn't even cry, but Rilla, when she found thathe was safe and sound, burst into tears and sobbed wildly.

  "Nasty old twain," remarked Jims in disgust. "And nasty old God," headded, with a scowl at the heavens.

  A laugh broke into Rilla's sobbing, producing something very like whather father would have called hysterics. But she caught herself upbefore the hysteria could conquer her.

  "Rilla Blythe, I'm ashamed of you. Pull yourself together immediately.Jims, you shouldn't have said anything like that."

  "God frew me off the twain," declared Jims defiantly. "Somebody frewme; you didn't frow me; so it was God."

  "No, it wasn't. You fell because you let go of my hand and bent too farforward. I told you not to do that. So that it was your own fault."

  Jims looked to see if she meant it; then glanced up at the sky again.

  "Excuse me, then, God," he remarked airily.

  Rilla scanned the sky also; she did not like its appearance; a heavythundercloud was appearing in the northwest. What in the world was tobe done? There was no other train that night, since the nine o'clockspecial ran only on Saturdays. Would it be possible for them to reachHannah Brewster's house, two miles away, before the storm broke? Rillathought she could do it alone easily enough, but with Jims it wasanother matter. Were his little legs good for it?

  "We've got to try it," said Rilla desperately. "We might stay in thesiding until the thunderstorm is over; but it may keep on raining allnight and anyway it will be pitch dark. If we can get to Hannah's shewill keep us all night."

  Hannah Brewster, when she had been Hannah Crawford, had lived in theGlen and gone to school with Rilla. They had been good friends then,though Hannah had been three years the older. She had married veryyoung and had gone to live in Millward. What with hard work and babiesand a ne'er-do-well husband, her life had not been an easy one, andHannah seldom revisited her old home. Rilla had visited her once soonafter her marriage, but had not seen her or even heard of her foryears; she knew, however, that she and Jims would find welcome andharbourage in any house where rosy-faced, open-hearted, generous Hannahlived.

  For the first mile they got on very well but the second one was harder.The road, seldom used, was rough and deep-rutted. Jims grew so tiredthat Rilla had to carry him for the last quarter. She reached theBrewster house, almost exhausted, and dropped Jims on the walk with asigh of thankfulness. The sky was black with clouds; the first heavydrops were beginning to fall; and the rumble of thunder was growingvery loud. Then she made an unpleasant discovery. The blinds were alldown and the doors locked. Evidently the Brewsters were not at home.Rilla ran to the little barn. It, too, was locked. No other refugepresented itself. The bare whitewashed little house had not even averanda or porch.

  It was almost dark now and her plight seemed desperate.

  "I'm going to get in if I have to break a window," said Rillaresolutely. "Hannah would want me to do that. She'd never get over itif she heard I came to her house for refuge in a thunderstorm andcouldn't get in."

  Luckily she did not have to go to the length of actual housebreaking.The kitchen window went up quite easily. Rilla lifted Jims in andscrambled through herself, just as the storm broke in good earnest.

  "Oh, see all the little pieces of thunder," cried Jims in delight, asthe hail danced in after them. Rilla shut the window and with somedifficulty found and lighted a lamp. They were in a very snug littlekitchen. Opening off it on one side was a trim, nicely furnishedparlour, and on the other a pantry, which proved to be well stocked.

  "I'm going to make myself at home," said Rilla. "I know that is justwhat Hannah would want me to do. I'll get a little snack for Jims andme, and then if the rain continues and nobody comes home I'll just goupstairs to the spare room and go to bed. There is nothing like actingsensibly in an emergency. If I had not been a goose when I saw Jimsfall off the train I'd have rushed back into the car and got some oneto stop it. Then I wouldn't have been in this scrape. Since I am in itI'll make the best of it.

  "This house," she added, looking around, "is fixed up much nicer thanwhen I was here before. Of course Hannah and Ted were just beginninghousekeeping then. But somehow I've had the idea that Ted hasn't beenvery prosperous. He must have done better than I've been led tobelieve, when they can afford furniture like this. I'm awfully glad forHannah's sake."

  The thunderstorm passed, but the rain continued to fall heavily. Ateleven o'clock Rilla decided that nobody was coming home. Jims hadfallen asleep on the sofa; she carried him up to the spare room and puthim to bed. Then she undressed, put on a nightgown she found in thewashstand drawer, and scrambled sleepily in between very nicelavender-scented sheets. She wa
s so tired, after her adventures andexertions, that not even the oddity of her situation could keep herawake; she was sound asleep in a few minutes.

  Rilla slept until eight o'clock the next morning and then wakened withstartling suddenness. Somebody was saying in a harsh, gruff voice,"Here, you two, wake up. I want to know what this means."

  Rilla did wake up, promptly and effectually. She had never in all herlife wakened up so thoroughly before. Standing in the room were threepeople, one of them a man, who were absolute strangers to her. The manwas a big fellow with a bushy black beard and an angry scowl. Besidehim was a woman--a tall, thin, angular person, with violently red hairand an indescribable hat. She looked even crosser and more amazed thanthe man, if that were possible. In the background was another woman--atiny old lady who must have been at least eighty. She was, in spite ofher tinyness, a very striking-looking personage; she was dressed inunrelieved black, had snow-white hair, a dead-white face, and snapping,vivid, coal-black eyes. She looked as amazed as the other two, butRilla realized that she didn't look cross.

  Rilla also was realizing that something was wrong--fearfully wrong.Then the man said, more gruffly than ever, "Come now. Who are you andwhat business have you here?"

  Rilla raised herself on one elbow, looking and feeling hopelesslybewildered and foolish. She heard the old black-and-white lady in thebackground chuckle to herself. "She must be real," Rilla thought. "Ican't be dreaming her." Aloud she gasped,

  "Isn't this Theodore Brewster's place?"

  "No," said the big woman, speaking for the first time, "this placebelongs to us. We bought it from the Brewsters last fall. They moved toGreenvale. Our name is Chapley."

  Poor Rilla fell back on her pillow, quite overcome.

  "I beg your pardon," she said. "I--I--thought the Brewsters lived here.Mrs. Brewster is a friend of mine. I am Rilla Blythe--Dr. Blythe'sdaughter from Glen St. Mary. I--I was going to town with my--my--thislittle boy--and he fell off the train--and I jumped off after him--andnobody knew of it. I knew we couldn't get home last night and a stormwas coming up--so we came here and when we found nobody athome--we--we--just got in through the window and--and--made ourselvesat home."

  "So it seems," said the woman sarcastically.

  "A likely story," said the man.

  "We weren't born yesterday," added the woman.

  Madam Black-and-White didn't say anything; but when the other two madetheir pretty speeches she doubled up in a silent convulsion of mirth,shaking her head from side to side and beating the air with her hands.

  Rilla, stung by the disagreeable attitude of the Chapleys, regained herself-possession and lost her temper. She sat up in bed and said in herhaughtiest voice, "I do not know when you were born, or where, but itmust have been somewhere where very peculiar manners were taught. Ifyou will have the decency to leave my room--er--this room--until I canget up and dress I shall not transgress upon your hospitality"--Rillawas killingly sarcastic--"any longer. And I shall pay you amply for thefood we have eaten and the night's lodging I have taken."

  The black-and-white apparition went through the motion of clapping herhands, but not a sound did she make. Perhaps Mr. Chapley was cowed byRilla's tone--or perhaps he was appeased at the prospect of payment; atall events, he spoke more civilly.

  "Well, that's fair. If you pay up it's all right."

  "She shall do no such thing as pay you," said Madam Black-and-White ina surprisingly clear, resolute, authoritative tone of voice. "If youhaven't got any shame for yourself, Robert Chapley, you've got amother-in-law who can be ashamed for you. No strangers shall be chargedfor room and lodging in any house where Mrs. Matilda Pitman lives.Remember that, though I may have come down in the world, I haven'tquite forgot all decency for all that. I knew you was a skinflint whenAmelia married you, and you've made her as bad as yourself. But Mrs.Matilda Pitman has been boss for a long time, and Mrs. Matilda Pitmanwill remain boss. Here you, Robert Chapley, take yourself out of hereand let that girl get dressed. And you, Amelia, go downstairs and cooka breakfast for her."

  Never, in all her life, had Rilla seen anything like the abjectmeekness with which those two big people obeyed that mite. They wentwithout word or look of protest. As the door closed behind them Mrs.Matilda Pitman laughed silently, and rocked from side to side in hermerriment.

  "Ain't it funny?" she said. "I mostly lets them run the length of theirtether, but sometimes I has to pull them up, and then I does it with ajerk. They don't dast aggravate me, because I've got considerable hardcash, and they're afraid I won't leave it all to them. Neither I will.I'll leave 'em some, but some I won't, just to vex 'em. I haven't madeup my mind where I will leave it but I'll have to, soon, for at eightya body is living on borrowed time. Now, you can take your time aboutdressing, my dear, and I'll go down and keep them mean scallawags inorder. That's a handsome child you have there. Is he your brother?"

  "No, he's a little war-baby I've been taking care of, because hismother died and his father was overseas," answered Rilla in a subduedtone.

  "War-baby! Humph! Well, I'd better skin out before he wakes up or he'lllikely start crying. Children don't like me--never did. I can'trecollect any youngster ever coming near me of its own accord. Neverhad any of my own. Amelia was my step-daughter. Well, it's saved me aworld of bother. If kids don't like me I don't like them, so that's aneven score. But that certainly is a handsome child."

  Jims chose this moment for waking up. He opened his big brown eyes andlooked at Mrs. Matilda Pitman unblinkingly. Then he sat up, dimpleddeliciously, pointed to her and said solemnly to Rilla, "Pwitty lady,Willa, pwitty lady."

  Mrs. Matilda Pitman smiled. Even eighty-odd is sometimes vulnerable invanity. "I've heard that children and fools tell the truth," she said."I was used to compliments when I was young--but they're scarcer whenyou get as far along as I am. I haven't had one for years. It tastesgood. I s'pose now, you monkey, you wouldn't give me a kiss."

  Then Jims did a quite surprising thing. He was not a demonstrativeyoungster and was chary with kisses even to the Ingleside people. Butwithout a word he stood up in bed, his plump little body encased onlyin his undershirt, ran to the footboard, flung his arms about Mrs.Matilda Pitman's neck, and gave her a bear hug, accompanied by three orfour hearty, ungrudging smacks.

  "Jims," protested Rilla, aghast at this liberty.

  "You leave him be," ordered Mrs. Matilda Pitman, setting her bonnetstraight.

  "Laws I like to see some one that isn't skeered of me. Everybodyis--you are, though you're trying to hide it. And why? Of course Robertand Amelia are because I make 'em skeered on purpose. But folks alwaysare--no matter how civil I be to them. Are you going to keep thischild?"

  "I'm afraid not. His father is coming home before long."

  "Is he any good--the father, I mean?"

  "Well--he's kind and nice--but he's poor--and I'm afraid he always willbe," faltered Rilla.

  "I see--shiftless--can't make or keep. Well, I'll see--I'll see. I havean idea. It's a good idea, and besides it will make Robert and Ameliasquirm. That's its main merit in my eyes, though I like that child,mind you, because he ain't skeered of me. He's worth some bother. Now,you get dressed, as I said before, and come down when you're good andready."

  Rilla was stiff and sore after her tumble and walk of the night beforebut she was not long in dressing herself and Jims. When she went downto the kitchen she found a smoking hot breakfast on the table. Mr.Chapley was nowhere in sight and Mrs. Chapley was cutting bread with asulky air. Mrs. Matilda Pitman was sitting in an armchair, knitting agrey army sock. She still wore her bonnet and her triumphant expression.

  "Set right in, dears, and make a good breakfast," she said.

  "I am not hungry," said Rilla almost pleadingly. "I don't think I caneat anything. And it is time I was starting for the station. Themorning train will soon be along. Please excuse me and let us go--I'lltake a piece of bread and butter for Jims."

  Mrs. Matilda Pitman shook a knitting-needle playfully at Rill
a.

  "Sit down and take your breakfast," she said. "Mrs. Matilda Pitmancommands you. Everybody obeys Mrs. Matilda Pitman--even Robert andAmelia. You must obey her too."

  Rilla did obey her. She sat down and, such was the influence of Mrs.Matilda Pitman's mesmeric eye, she ate a tolerable breakfast. Theobedient Amelia never spoke; Mrs. Matilda Pitman did not speak either;but she knitted furiously and chuckled. When Rilla had finished, Mrs.Matilda Pitman rolled up her sock.

  "Now you can go if you want to," she said, "but you don't have to go.You can stay here as long as you want to and I'll make Amelia cook yourmeals for you."

  The independent Miss Blythe, whom a certain clique of Junior Red Crossgirls accused of being domineering and "bossy," was thoroughly cowed.

  "Thank you," she said meekly, "but we must really go."

  "Well, then," said Mrs. Matilda Pitman, throwing open the door, "yourconveyance is ready for you. I told Robert he must hitch up and driveyou to the station. I enjoy making Robert do things. It's almost theonly sport I have left. I'm over eighty and most things have lost theirflavour except bossing Robert."

  Robert sat before the door on the front seat of a trim, double-seated,rubber-tired buggy. He must have heard every word his mother-in-lawsaid but he gave no sign.

  "I do wish," said Rilla, plucking up what little spirit she had left,"that you would let me--oh--ah--" then she quailed again before Mrs.Matilda Pitman's eye--"recompense you for--for--"

  "Mrs. Matilda Pitman said before--and meant it--that she doesn't takepay for entertaining strangers, nor let other people where she lives doit, much as their natural meanness would like to do it. You go along totown and don't forget to call the next time you come this way. Don't bescared. Not that you are scared of much, I reckon, considering the wayyou sassed Robert back this morning. I like your spunk. Most girlsnowadays are such timid, skeery creeturs. When I was a girl I wasn'tafraid of nothing nor nobody. Mind you take good care of that boy. Heain't any common child. And make Robert drive round all the puddles inthe road. I won't have that new buggy splashed."

  As they drove away Jims threw kisses at Mrs. Matilda Pitman as long ashe could see her, and Mrs. Matilda Pitman waved her sock back at him.Robert spoke no word, either good or bad, all the way to the station,but he remembered the puddles. When Rilla got out at the siding shethanked him courteously. The only response she got was a grunt asRobert turned his horse and started for home.

  "Well"--Rilla drew a long breath--"I must try to get back into RillaBlythe again. I've been somebody else these past few hours--I don'tknow just who--some creation of that extraordinary old person's. Ibelieve she hypnotized me. What an adventure this will be to write theboys."

  And then she sighed. Bitter remembrance came that there were onlyJerry, Ken, Carl and Shirley to write it to now. Jem--who would haveappreciated Mrs. Matilda Pitman keenly--where was Jem?