There was no wind, and Rilla heard distinctly a dog howling in a melancholy way down in the direction of the station. Was it Dog Monday? And if it were, why was he howling like that? Rilla shivered; the sound had something boding and grievous in it. She remembered that Miss Oliver said once, when they were coming home in the darkness and heard a dog howl, "When a dog cries like that the Angel of Death is passing." Rilla listened with a curdling fear at her heart. It was Dog Monday - she felt sure of it. Whose dirge was he howling - to whose spirit was he sending that anguished greeting and farewell?
Rilla went back to bed but she could not sleep. All day she watched and waited with a dread of which she did not speak to anyone. She went down to see Dog Monday and the station-master said, "That dog of yours howled from midnight to sunrise something weird. I dunno what got into him. I got up once and went out and hollered at him but he paid no 'tention to me. He was sitting all alone in the moonlight out there at the end of the platform, and every few minutes the poor lonely beggar'd lift his nose and howl as if his heart was breaking. He never did it afore - always slept in his kennel real quiet and canny from train to train. But he sure had something on his mind last night."
Dog Monday was lying in his kennel. He wagged his tail and licked Rilla's hand. But he would not touch the food she brought for him.
"I'm afraid he's sick," she said anxiously. She hated to go away and leave him. But no bad news came that day - nor the next - nor the next. Rilla's fear lifted. Dog Monday howled no more and resumed his routine of train meeting and watching. When five days had passed the Ingleside people began to feel they might be cheerful again. Rilla dashed about the kitchen helping Susan with the breakfast and singing so sweetly and clearly that Cousin Sophia across the road heard her and croaked out to Mrs. Albert
" 'Sing before eating, cry before sleeping.' I've always heard."
But Rilla Blythe shed no tears before the nightfall. When her father, his face grey and drawn and old, came to her that afternoon and told her that Walter had been killed in action at Courcelette she crumpled up in a pitiful little heap of merciful unconsciousness in his arms. Nor did she awaken to her pain for many hours.
- Rilla of Ingleside, by Lucy Maud Montgomery
I've been sobbing for the past one hour.
Every time; every single time I read this book,
I start sobbing like there's no tomorrow at this bit, and I don't quite stop until the very end of the book, and then I usually cry some more.
I first read this book when I was 12 (I think), and I've re-read it at least 30 times since then,
and although I know Walter is going to die,
his death stabs me right through the heart every time.
It's been years and years and I still haven't gotten over Walter Blythe dying.
For those of you who don't know,
Rilla of Ingleside is the eighth and last book of the Anne of Green Gables series.
It's one of my favourites of the series, partly because it's so bittersweet.
If you haven't read the series yet ...GO READ IT. NOW.
I grew up with Anne, and Gilbert, and their children. And every few months, I get the urge to pick up one of the books and read my favourite sections.
Particularly now, when I've resorted to turning to my old books for comfort.
There's something so warm and secure about being able to turn to a book like an old friend, and to seek out phrases or chapters that got you through troubled times once before.
And to know that the same familiar characters will step through the pages to help pull you through turmoil once again.
(am I making sense?)
In other news,
I still have made no progress on my portfolio.
(but hey look, I blogged twice in one day!)
Also having major pms right now,
which would probably explain all the uncharacteristic weeping I've been doing the past few days.
~vid~
