# Rilla of Ingleside/Chapter 20

WHERE are you wandering, Anne o’ mine?” asked the doctor, who even yet, after twenty-four years of marriage, occasionally addressed his wife thus when nobody was about. Anne was sitting on the veranda steps, gazing absently over the wonderful bridal world of spring blossom. Beyond the white orchard was a copse of dark young firs and creamy wild cherries, where the robins were whistling madly; for it was evening and the fire of early stars was burning over the maple grove.
​Anne came back with a little sigh.
“I was just taking relief from intolerable realities in a dream, Gilbert—a dream that all our children were home again—and all small again—playing in Rainbow Valley. It is always so silent now—but I was imagining I heard clear voices and gay, childish sounds coming up as I used to. I could hear Jem’s whistle and Walter’s yodel, and the twin’s laughter, and for just a few blessed minutes I forgot about the guns on the western front, and had a little false, sweet happiness.”
The doctor did not answer. Sometimes his work tricked him into forgetting for a few moments the western front, but not often. There was a good deal of grey now in his still thick curls that had not been there two years ago. Yet he smiled down into the starry eyes he loved—the eyes that had once been so full of laughter, and now seemed always full of unshed tears.
Susan wandered by with a hoe in her hand and her second best bonnet on her head.
“I have just finished reading a piece in the Enterprise which told of a couple being married in an aeroplane. Do you think it would be legal, Dr. dear?” she inquired anxiously.
“I think so,” said the doctor gravely.
“Well,” said Susan dubiously, “it seems to me that a wedding is too solemn for anything so giddy as an aeroplane. But nothing is the same as it used to be. Well, it is half an hour yet before prayer-meeting time, so I am going around to the kitchen garden to have a little evening hate with the weeds. But all the time I am strafing them I will be thinking about this ​new worry in the Trentino. I do not like this Austrian caper, Mrs. Dr. dear.”
“Nor I,” said Mrs. Blythe ruefully. “All the forenoon I preserved rhubarb with my hands and waited for the war news with my soul. When it came I shrivelled. Well, I suppose I must go and get ready for the prayer-meeting, too.”
Every village has its own little unwritten history, handed down from lip to lip through the generations, of tragic, comic and dramatic events. They are told at weddings and festivals, and rehearsed around winter firesides. And in these oral annals of Glen St. Mary the tale of the union prayer-meeting held that night in the Methodist Church was destined to fill an imperishable place.
The union prayer-meeting was Mr. Arnold’s idea. The county battalion, which had been training all winter in Charlottetown, was to leave shortly for overseas. The Four Winds Harbour boys belonging to it from the Glen and over-harbour and Harbour Head and Upper Glen were all home on their last leave and Mr. Arnold thought, properly enough that it would be a fitting thing to hold a union prayer-meeting for them before they went away. Mr. Meredith having agreed, the meeting was announced to be held in the Methodist church. Glen prayer-meetings were not apt to be too well attended but on this particular evening the Methodist church was crowded. Everybody who could go was there. Even Miss Cornelia came—and it was the first time in her life that Miss Cornelia had ever set foot inside a Methodist church. It took no less than a world conflict to bring that about.
“I used to hate Methodists,” said Miss Cornelia ​calmly, when her husband expressed surprise over her going, “but I don’t hate them now. There is no sense in hating Methodists when there is a Kaiser or a Hindenburg in the world.”
So Miss Cornelia went. Norman Douglas and his wife went too. And Whiskers-on-the-moon strutted up the aisle to a front pew, as if he fully realized what a distinction he conferred upon the building. People were somewhat surprised that he should be there, since he usually avoided all assemblages connected in any way with the war. But Mr. Meredith had said that he hoped his session would be well represented, and Mr. Pryor had evidently taken the request to heart. He wore his best black suit and white tie, his thick, tight, iron-grey curls were neatly arranged, and his broad, red, round face looked, as Susan most uncharitably thought, more “sanctimonious” than ever.
“The minute I saw that man coming into the church, looking like that, I felt that mischief was brewing, Mrs. Dr. dear,” she said afterwards. “What form it would take I could not tell, but I knew from the face of him that he had come there for no good.”
The prayer-meeting opened conventionally and continued quietly. Mr. Meredith spoke first with his usual eloquence and feeling. Mr. Arnold followed with an address which even Miss Cornelia had to confess was irreproachable in taste and subject-matter.
And then Mr. Arnold asked Mr. Pryor to lead in prayer.
Miss Cornelia had always averred that Mr. Arnold had no gumption. Miss Cornelia was not apt to err on the side of charity in her judgment of Methodist ministers, but in this case she did not greatly over​shoot the mark. The Rev. Mr. Arnold certainly did not have much of that desirable, indefinable quality known as gumption, or he would never have asked Whiskers-on-the-moon to lead in prayer at a khaki prayer-meeting. He thought he was returning the compliment to Mr. Meredith, who, at the conclusion of his address, had asked a Methodist deacon to lead.
Some people expected Mr. Pryor to refuse grumpily—and that would have made enough scandal. But Mr. Pryor bounded briskly to his feet, unctuously said, “Let us pray” and forthwith prayed. In a sonorous voice which penetrated to every corner of the crowded building Mr. Pryor poured forth a flood of fluent words, and was well on in his prayer before his dazed and horrified audience awakened to the fact that they were listening to a pacifist appeal of the rankest sort. Mr. Pryor had at least the courage of his convictions; or perhaps, as people afterwards said, he thought he was safe in a church and that it was an excellent chance to air certain opinions he dared not voice elsewhere, for fear of being mobbed. He prayed that the unholy war might cease—that the deluded armies being driven to slaughter on the western front might have their eyes opened to their iniquity and repent while yet there was time—that the poor young men present in khaki who had been hounded into a path of murder and militarism, should yet be rescued—
Mr. Pryor had got this far without let or hindrance; and so paralysed were his hearers, and so deeply imbued with their born-and-bred conviction that no disturbance must ever be made in a church, no matter what the provocation, that it seemed likely that he would continue unchecked to the end. But one man ​at least in that audience was not hampered by inherited or acquired reverence for the sacred edifice. Norman Douglas was, as Susan had often vowed crisply, nothing more or less than a “pagan.” But he was a rampantly patriotic pagan, and when the significance of what Mr. Pryor was saying fully dawned on him, Norman Douglas suddenly went Berserk. With a positive roar he bounded to his feet in his side pew, facing the audience, and shouted in tones of thunder,
“Stop—stop—STOP that abominable prayer! What an abominable prayer!”
Every head in the church flew up. A boy in khaki at the back gave a faint cheer. Mr. Meredith raised a deprecating hand, but Norman was past caring for anything like that. Eluding his wife’s restraining grasp, he gave one mad spring over the front of the pew and caught the unfortunate Whiskers-on-the-moon by his coat collar. Mr. Pryor had not “stopped” when so bidden, but he stopped now, perforce, for Norman, his long red beard literally bristling with fury, was shaking him until his bones fairly rattled, and punctuating his shakes with a lurid assortment of abusive epithets.
“You blatant beast!”—shake—“You malignant carrion”—shake—“You pig-headed varmint!”—shake—“you putrid pup,”—shake—“you pestilential parasite”—shake—“you—Hunnish scum”—shake—“you indecent reptile—you—you—”
Norman choked for a moment. Everybody believed that the next thing he would say, church or no church, would be something that would have to be spelled with asterisks; but at that moment Norman encountered his wife’s eye and he fell back with a thud ​on Holy Writ. “You whited sepulchre!” he bellowed, with a final shake, and cast Whiskers-on-the- moon from him with a vigor which impelled that unhappy pacifist to the very verge of the choir entrance door. Mr. Pryor’s once ruddy face was ashen. But he turned at bay. “I’ll have the law on you for this,” he gasped.
“Do—do,” roared Norman, making another rush. But Mr. Pryor was gone. He had no desire to fall a second time into the hands of an avenging militarist. Norman turned to the platform for one graceless, triumphant moment.
“Don’t look so flabbergasted, parsons,” he boomed. “You couldn’t do it— nobody would expect it of the cloth—but somebody had to do it. You know you're glad I threw him out,—he couldn't be let go on yammering and yodelling and yawping sedition and treason. Sedition and treason—somebody had to deal with it. I was born for this hour—I’ve had my innings in church at last. I can sit quiet for another sixty years now! Go ahead with your meeting, parsons. I reckon you won't be troubled with any more pacifist prayers.”
But the spirit of devotion and reverence had fled. Both ministers realized it and realized that the only thing to do was to close the meeting quietly and let the excited people go. Mr. Meredith addressed a few earnest words to the boys in khaki—which probably saved Mr. Pryor’s windows from a second onslaught—and Mr. Arnold pronounced an incongruous benediction—at least, he felt it was incongruous, for he could not at once banish from his memory the sight of gigantic Norman Douglas shaking the fat, pompous ​little Whiskers-on-the-moon as a huge mastiff might shake an overgrown puppy. And he knew that the same picture was in everybody’s mind. Altogether the union prayer-meeting could hardly be called an unqualified success. But it was remembered in Glen St. Mary when scores of orthodox and undisturbed assemblies were totally forgotten.
“You will never, no, never, Mrs. Dr. dear, hear me call Norman Douglas a pagan again,” said Susan when she reached home. “If Ellen Douglas is not a proud woman this night she should be.”
“Norman Douglas did a wholly indefensible thing,” said the doctor. “Pryor should have been let severely alone until the meeting was over. Then later on, his own minister and session should deal with him. That would have been the proper procedure. Norman’s performance was utterly improper and scandalous and outrageous; but, by George,”—the doctor threw back his head and chuckled, “by George, Anne-girl, it was satisfying.”
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