Thursday, February 8
Richard Webb was brought home today. The hospital wanted to keep him longer, but he got so upset that they decided he would be better with his family, since his father is a surgeon. He has an office in town. Cornelia says their house here in Uxbridge was Mrs. Webb’s before she married, and was not suitable for an office.
Richard came while we were home for our dinner at noon. From the dining room window we saw him being helped into the house, and he has not come out even once. I asked Moppy.
“Poor soul,” she said and wiped tears from her eyes.
Cornelia stayed home from school. I saw her afterwards and asked her how he was, but she ran into the house without saying a word.
Verity took some fresh bread over to them though, and got herself invited in. She actually saw him. Trust her for that! She said he did not speak while she was there, but True tells her he stammers terribly and twitches. Dr. Webb told them that Richard has nightmares which make him scream. He dreams he’s back in the trenches and is buried alive and keeps begging someone to get him out.
We got a letter from Hugo the other day telling us about their trench cat. They do have animals there. This cat of Hugo’s walked into their outpost one night and never left. They call him Scrounger and he seems to have a charmed life. He has only lost a tiny bit of one ear even though he has been on hand when shells were bursting. Some men even have pet rats.
The stories Hugo tells sound so much more cheerful than the things True said about Richard. I am afraid that means Hugo skips the worst parts to shield us. I wonder if lots of them do the same. I don’t want to be shielded and yet, I do, if it is too terrible to be borne.
Cornelia’s silence is easier to understand now. She must be terribly muddled by Richard’s acting the way True told Verity. Maybe she just can’t bear to see hurting things. She needs life placid. Poor Cornelia. From what I’ve seen and from the news of the War, life is not going to be placid in our world and we must take courage and be strong.
I saw Richard Webb today. I never met him when he was well, of course. I think he was handsome once. But his face is grey and it keeps grimacing as though he is in terrible pain. He shivers and he stammers. Sometimes he shouts out words, and now and then he whispers, as though he is afraid someone is listening.
He was out in their back garden for a few minutes this afternoon but they took him in again when he started to shout. I could not help but see since the Twins and I were shovelling the snow off our garden paths. He really frightened me. I felt like running inside and slamming the door. But I did not do it.
I didn’t look straight at him and I warned the Twins not to stare. “What is wrong with him?” Susannah blurted out. She has a loud voice, very deep. I tried to hush her but she would not listen to me. She asked if he was a lunatic. I told her to be quiet and I said he was sick. “No. The child is right,” he roared out. “I’m a maniac. A loony.” Charlie giggled. He was nervous, I think. Then Richard began to cry.
Father must have been listening. He came out the back door, passed us and went through the gate in the hedge.
“Let me help you back into the house, Mr. Webb,” he said so gently that my eyes filled with tears. “It is too cold for you out here.”
“Don’t touch me,” Richard screamed. Then he stumbled toward the door.
Father followed him, making sure he got in safely. Mrs. Webb met them on the step and thanked Father. I was going to ask him about Richard when he came back, but he went out their garden walk to the street and did not return to where we were. The Twins wanted to stop working right then and run after him to ask what had happened, but I held them back, telling them Father would be helped more by the shovelling being done than by a lot of questions. I knew by the look of his back striding off that he wanted to be alone.
I know, dear Reader. Backs cannot stride off — but you know exactly what I mean.
I am sure I have already told you that Father does not believe in war. He is in trouble about it because he will not pray for God to give the Kaiser boils or leprosy or some other deadly plague. He does pray for our fighting men, asking God to bless them and keep them safe. But he prays for both sides to come to their senses.
The head of Session told Mother today that when the last minister died suddenly and Father preached for the call, the congregation took it for granted that he was truly patriotic because they had heard about Hugo being at the Front. They were deeply shocked to find Father so peace-loving “at an hour when our Whole Civilization is in Peril.” Mother told Father what she heard the Elder say, and Father said, “That man talks only in capital letters.” He laughed, but he sounded unhappy. Then he said, “He’d hand me a white feather if he did not know they would not take me.”
I came to find you, dear Reader, since I should not listen in on them. I do it anyway, but I suppose I should not.
It is strange to think that Hugo’s going to war might have gotten Father the call to this church. When Hugo came home in uniform, he asked Father to forgive him. Father hugged him and could not say one word. The Twins cheered and I saw Verity looking at him as if he were a god. Like Apollo or one of those Greek ones. Do I mean Hercules? I get them mixed up.
I think he looks wonderful in his uniform. Jack and Rufus will too, especially once they get their Royal Naval Air Service uniforms. Jack can’t wait to put on the navy blue with its gold buttons. I am so proud of them, dear Reader. Besotted, Father says when he gets teasing me. Do you have a brother in uniform? Somehow I think you are an only child.
I am afraid for Hugo, as well as proud, but I struggle not to think about it.
Dear Father in Heaven, do not let anything terrible happen to Hugo. He is so strong and brave and jolly. I pray this in Jesus’ name, Amen.
I went out on the verandah a few minutes ago to see the stars. I heard Richard W. screaming at his mother as though he did not know who she was. Then Cornelia shouted out, “Make him be quiet. Make him stop.” She can’t talk about him without crying. Yesterday she shocked me by bursting out that he had spoiled everything by coming home. She saw the look on my face and she ran away from me and we haven’t spoken properly since. How could you be angry at your own brother who is so hurt? I know I decided she was weak and could not help being that way, but she still shocks me. I cannot understand her. If Hugo came home like that, I would cherish him every moment.
Mother brought me a new library book called Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. She says I am like Rebecca. Rebecca reminds me of Anne Shirley but I like Anne better. Or maybe it isn’t Anne herself I like better but the rest of the story. Rebecca isn’t as harum-scarum and she is not an orphan.
After I thanked her for the book, I told Mother about Cornelia hating reading. She’s nearly fourteen and cannot read even the easy words. And I told her about what Corny said about Richard spoiling things.
Mother looked sad. “Be thankful for your good mind, Eliza,” she said. She told me that Mrs. Webb is worried about Cornelia. She was very ill as a baby. She had several convulsions and, although she pulled through, she has always been slower to do things than other children her age. “Perhaps I shouldn’t talk to you about her like this,” Mother said, “but I think she needs your understanding. Her father keeps punishing her for not working harder at her lessons.”
I stared at her. I couldn’t believe she was telling me this, but she even went on.
“He says she just does not apply herself. But her mother and I believe she does the best she can. It is hard on her having True for a sister, and Richard was always top of his class before he enlisted.”
“Oh, my,” I said. I could not think of anything else.
“That family has had more than its share of troubles,” Mother said.
Then, dear Reader, she went and added, “I’m glad Cornelia has you for a friend, Eliza.”
I like it when she talks to me as though I were an adult but, to be honest, I am not such good friends with Cornelia. I’m too old for paper dolls and I hate sewing. When I try to get her to come out for a walk, she’s always too tired or she dawdles. It is no fun walking with a dawdler. But I will try harder. Sigh!
Monday, February 19
I know. I have neglected you, dear Reader. But I have been so busy with schoolwork and knitting and writing letters overseas. But here I am again, for I have something interesting to tell.
Richard Webb hardly sleeps. We can hear him shouting and moaning until his father gives him a sleeping draught.
“The poor laddie,” Mother murmurs.
Cornelia stayed home from school again. But when I came in, she was sitting in our kitchen with a face like stone. When I stared at her in astonishment, she jumped up and ran out the door.
“You be gentle with that child, Eliza,” Moppy said, as though I had been planning to be cruel to her, which I was not.
I snapped that I couldn’t be gentle if she never lets me come close.
“You keep trying,” was all she answered. Why was Cornelia in our kitchen? Getting away from her brother, I suppose.
Or perhaps it was her shame at getting not one right answer on her arithmetic test last week — and Mr. Royle gave her the questions he gives to the ten-year-olds. It would not be so bad if he didn’t talk to her about it out loud where everyone could hear.