CHAPTER XIII
A SLICE OF HUMBLE PIE
"I am very much afraid, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan, who had been on apilgrimage to the station with some choice bones for Dog Monday, "thatsomething terrible has happened. Whiskers-on-the-moon came off thetrain from Charlottetown and he was looking pleased. I do not rememberthat I ever saw him with a smile on in public before. Of course he mayhave just been getting the better of somebody in a cattle deal but Ihave an awful presentiment that the Huns have broken through somewhere."
Perhaps Susan was unjust in connecting Mr. Pryor's smile with thesinking of the Lusitania, news of which circulated an hour later whenthe mail was distributed. But the Glen boys turned out that night in abody and broke all his windows in a fine frenzy of indignation over theKaiser's doings.
"I do not say they did right and I do not say they did wrong," saidSusan, when she heard of it. "But I will say that I wouldn't haveminded throwing a few stones myself. One thing iscertain--Whiskers-on-the-moon said in the post office the day the newscame, in the presence of witnesses, that folks who could not stay homeafter they had been warned deserved no better fate. Norman Douglas isfairly foaming at the mouth over it all. 'If the devil doesn't getthose men who sunk the Lusitania then there is no use in there being adevil,' he was shouting in Carter's store last night. Norman Douglasalways has believed that anybody who opposed him was on the side of thedevil, but a man like that is bound to be right once in a while. BruceMeredith is worrying over the babies who were drowned. And it seems heprayed for something very special last Friday night and didn't get it,and was feeling quite disgruntled over it. But when he heard about theLusitania he told his mother that he understood now why God didn'tanswer his prayer--He was too busy attending to the souls of all thepeople who went down on the Lusitania. That child's brain is a hundredyears older than his body, Mrs. Dr. dear. As for the Lusitania, it isan awful occurrence, whatever way you look at it. But Woodrow Wilson isgoing to write a note about it, so why worry? A pretty president!" andSusan banged her pots about wrathfully. President Wilson was rapidlybecoming anathema in Susan's kitchen.
Mary Vance dropped in one evening to tell the Ingleside folks that shehad withdrawn all opposition to Miller Douglas's enlisting.
"This Lusitania business was too much for me," said Mary brusquely."When the Kaiser takes to drowning innocent babies it's high timesomebody told him where he gets off at. This thing must be fought to afinish. It's been soaking into my mind slow but I'm on now. So I up andtold Miller he could go as far as I was concerned. Old Kitty Alec won'tbe converted though. If every ship in the world was submarined andevery baby drowned, Kitty wouldn't turn a hair. But I flatter myselfthat it was me kept Miller back all along and not the fair Kitty. I mayhave deceived myself--but we shall see."
They did see. The next Sunday Miller Douglas walked into the GlenChurch beside Mary Vance in khaki. And Mary was so proud of him thather white eyes fairly blazed. Joe Milgrave, back under the gallery,looked at Miller and Mary and then at Miranda Pryor, and sighed soheavily that every one within a radius of three pews heard him and knewwhat his trouble was. Walter Blythe did not sigh. But Rilla, scanninghis face anxiously, saw a look that cut into her heart. It haunted herfor the next week and made an undercurrent of soreness in her soul,which was externally being harrowed up by the near approach of the RedCross concert and the worries connected therewith. The Reese cold hadnot developed into whooping-cough, so that tangle was straightened out.But other things were hanging in the balance; and on the very daybefore the concert came a regretful letter from Mrs. Channing sayingthat she could not come to sing. Her son, who was in Kingsport with hisregiment, was seriously ill with pneumonia, and she must go to him atonce.
The members of the concert committee looked at each other in blankdismay. What was to be done?
"This comes of depending on outside help," said Olive Kirk,disagreeably.
"We must do something," said Rilla, too desperate to care for Olive'smanner. "We've advertised the concert everywhere--and crowds arecoming--there's even a big party coming out from town--and we wereshort enough of music as it was. We must get some one to sing in Mrs.Channing's place."
"I don't know who you can get at this late date," said Olive. "IreneHoward could do it; but it is not likely she will after the way she wasinsulted by our society."
"How did our society insult her?" asked Rilla, in what she called her'cold-pale tone.' Its coldness and pallor did not daunt Olive.
"You insulted her," she answered sharply. "Irene told me all aboutit--she was literally heart-broken. You told her never to speak to youagain--and Irene told me she simply could not imagine what she had saidor done to deserve such treatment. That was why she never came to ourmeetings again but joined in with the Lowbridge Red Cross. I do notblame her in the least, and I, for one, will not ask her to lowerherself by helping us out of this scrape."
"You don't expect me to ask her?" giggled Amy MacAllister, the othermember of the committee. "Irene and I haven't spoken for a hundredyears. Irene is always getting 'insulted' by somebody. But she is alovely singer, I'll admit that, and people would just as soon hear heras Mrs. Channing."
"It wouldn't do any good if you did ask her," said Olive significantly."Soon after we began planning this concert, back in April, I met Irenein town one day and asked her if she wouldn't help us out. She saidshe'd love to but she really didn't see how she could when Rilla Blythewas running the programme, after the strange way Rilla had behaved toher. So there it is and here we are, and a nice failure our concertwill be."
Rilla went home and shut herself up in her room, her soul in a turmoil.She would not humiliate herself by apologizing to Irene Howard! Irenehad been as much in the wrong as she had been; and she had told suchmean, distorted versions of their quarrel everywhere, posing as apuzzled, injured martyr. Rilla could never bring herself to tell herside of it. The fact that a slur at Walter was mixed up in it tied hertongue. So most people believed that Irene had been badly used, excepta few girls who had never liked her and sided with Rilla. And yet--theconcert over which she had worked so hard was going to be a failure.Mrs. Channing's four solos were the feature of the whole programme.
"Miss Oliver, what do you think about it?" she asked in desperation.
"I think Irene is the one who should apologize," said Miss Oliver. "Butunfortunately my opinion will not fill the blanks in your programme."
"If I went and apologized meekly to Irene she would sing, I am sure,"sighed Rilla. "She really loves to sing in public. But I know she'll benasty about it--I feel I'd rather do anything than go. I suppose Ishould go--if Jem and Jerry can face the Huns surely I can face IreneHoward, and swallow my pride to ask a favour of her for the good of theBelgians. Just at present I feel that I cannot do it but for all that Ihave a presentiment that after supper you'll see me meekly trottingthrough Rainbow Valley on my way to the Upper Glen Road."
Rilla's presentiment proved correct. After supper she dressed herselfcarefully in her blue, beaded crepe--for vanity is harder to quell thanpride and Irene always saw any flaw or shortcoming in another girl'sappearance. Besides, as Rilla had told her mother one day when she wasnine years old, "It is easier to behave nicely when you have your goodclothes on."
Rilla did her hair very becomingly and donned a long raincoat for fearof a shower. But all the while her thoughts were concerned with thecoming distasteful interview, and she kept rehearsing mentally her partin it. She wished it were over--she wished she had never tried to getup a Belgian Relief concert--she wished she had not quarreled withIrene. After all, disdainful silence would have been much moreeffective in meeting the slur upon Walter. It was foolish and childishto fly out as she had done--well, she would be wiser in the future, butmeanwhile a large and very unpalatable slice of humble pie had to beeaten, and Rilla Blythe was no fonder of that wholesome article of dietthan the rest of us.
By sunset she was at the door of the Howard house--a pretentious abode,with white scroll-work round the eave
s and an eruption of bay-windowson all its sides. Mrs. Howard, a plump, voluble dame, met Rillagushingly and left her in the parlour while she went to call Irene.Rilla threw off her rain-coat and looked at herself critically in themirror over the mantel. Hair, hat, and dress were satisfactory--nothingthere for Miss Irene to make fun of. Rilla remembered how clever andamusing she used to think Irene's biting little comments about othergirls. Well, it had come home to her now.
Presently, Irene skimmed down, elegantly gowned, with her pale,straw-coloured hair done in the latest and most extreme fashion, and anover-luscious atmosphere of perfume enveloping her.
"Why how do you do, Miss Blythe?" she said sweetly. "This is a veryunexpected pleasure."
Rilla had risen to take Irene's chilly finger-tips and now, as she satdown again, she saw something that temporarily stunned her. Irene sawit too, as she sat down, and a little amused, impertinent smileappeared on her lips and hovered there during the rest of the interview.
On one of Rilla's feet was a smart little steel-buckled shoe and afilmy blue silk stocking. The other was clad in a stout and rathershabby boot and black lisle!
Poor Rilla! She had changed, or begun to change her boots and stockingsafter she had put on her dress. This was the result of doing one thingwith your hands and another with your brain. Oh, what a ridiculousposition to be in--and before Irene Howard of all people--Irene, whowas staring at Rilla's feet as if she had never seen feet before! Andonce she had thought Irene's manner perfection! Everything that Rillahad prepared to say vanished from her memory. Vainly trying to tuck herunlucky foot under her chair, she blurted out a blunt statement.
"I have come to athk a favour of you, Irene."
There--lisping! Oh, she had been prepared for humiliation but not tothis extent! Really, there were limits!
"Yes?" said Irene in a cool, questioning tone, lifting hershallowly-set, insolent eyes to Rilla's crimson face for a moment andthen dropping them again as if she could not tear them from theirfascinated gaze at the shabby boot and the gallant shoe.
Rilla gathered herself together. She would not lisp--she would be calmand composed.
"Mrs. Channing cannot come because her son is ill in Kingsport, and Ihave come on behalf of the committee to ask you if you will be so kindas to sing for us in her place." Rilla enunciated every word soprecisely and carefully that she seemed to be reciting a lesson.
"It's something of a fiddler's invitation, isn't it?" said Irene, withone of her disagreeable smiles.
"Olive Kirk asked you to help when we first thought of the concert andyou refused," said Rilla.
"Why, I could hardly help--then--could I?" asked Irene plaintively."After you ordered me never to speak to you again? It would have beenvery awkward for us both, don't you think?"
Now for the humble pie.
"I want to apologize to you for saying that, Irene." said Rillasteadily. "I should not have said it and I have been very sorry eversince. Will you forgive me?"
"And sing at your concert?" said Irene sweetly and insultingly.
"If you mean," said Rilla miserably, "that I would not be apologizingto you if it were not for the concert perhaps that is true. But it isalso true that I have felt ever since it happened that I should nothave said what I did and that I have been sorry for it all winter. Thatis all I can say. If you feel you can't forgive me I suppose there isnothing more to be said."
"Oh, Rilla dear, don't snap me up like that," pleaded Irene. "Of courseI'll forgive you--though I did feel awfully about it--how awfully Ihope you'll never know. I cried for weeks over it. And I hadn't said ordone a thing!"
Rilla choked back a retort. After all, there was no use in arguing withIrene, and the Belgians were starving.
"Don't you think you can help us with the concert," she forced herselfto say. Oh, if only Irene would stop looking at that boot! Rilla couldjust hear her giving Olive Kirk an account of it.
"I don't see how I really can at the last moment like this," protestedIrene. "There isn't time to learn anything new."
"Oh, you have lots of lovely songs that nobody in the Glen ever heardbefore," said Rilla, who knew Irene had been going to town all winterfor lessons and that this was only a pretext. "They will all be newdown there."
"But I have no accompanist," protested Irene.
"Una Meredith can accompany you," said Rilla.
"Oh, I couldn't ask her," sighed Irene. "We haven't spoken since lastfall. She was so hateful to me the time of our Sunday-school concertthat I simply had to give her up."
Dear, dear, was Irene at feud with everybody? As for Una Meredith beinghateful to anybody, the idea was so farcical that Rilla had much ado tokeep from laughing in Irene's very face.
"Miss Oliver is a beautiful pianist and can play any accompaniment atsight," said Rilla desperately. "She will play for you and you couldrun over your songs easily tomorrow evening at Ingleside before theconcert."
"But I haven't anything to wear. My new evening-dress isn't home fromCharlottetown yet, and I simply cannot wear my old one at such a bigaffair. It is too shabby and old-fashioned."
"Our concert," said Rilla slowly, "is in aid of Belgian children whoare starving to death. Don't you think you could wear a shabby dressonce for their sake, Irene?"
"Oh, don't you think those accounts we get of the conditions of theBelgians are very much exaggerated?" said Irene. "I'm sure they can'tbe actually starving you know, in the twentieth century. The newspapersalways colour things so highly."
Rilla concluded that she had humiliated herself enough. There was sucha thing as self-respect. No more coaxing, concert or no concert. Shegot up, boot and all.
"I am sorry you can't help us, Irene, but since you cannot we must dothe best we can."
Now this did not suit Irene at all. She desired exceedingly to sing atthat concert, and all her hesitations were merely by way of enhancingthe boon of her final consent. Besides, she really wanted to be friendswith Rilla again. Rilla's whole-hearted, ungrudging adoration had beenvery sweet incense to her. And Ingleside was a very charming house tovisit, especially when a handsome college student like Walter was home.She stopped looking at Rilla's feet.
"Rilla, darling, don't be so abrupt. I really want to help you, if Ican manage it. Just sit down and let's talk it over."
"I'm sorry, but I can't. I have to be home soon--Jims has to be settledfor the night, you know."
"Oh, yes--the baby you are bringing up by the book. It's perfectlysweet of you to do it when you hate children so. How cross you werejust because I kissed him! But we'll forget all that and be chumsagain, won't we? Now, about the concert--I dare say I can run into townon the morning train after my dress, and out again on the afternoon onein plenty of time for the concert, if you'll ask Miss Oliver to playfor me. I couldn't--she's so dreadfully haughty and supercilious thatshe simply paralyses poor little me."
Rilla did not waste time or breath defending Miss Oliver. She coollythanked Irene, who had suddenly become very amiable and gushing, andgot away. She was very thankful the interview was over. But she knewnow that she and Irene could never be the friends they had been.Friendly, yes--but friends, no. Nor did she wish it. All winter she hadfelt under her other and more serious worries, a little feeling ofregret for her lost chum. Now it was suddenly gone. Irene was not asMrs. Elliott would say, of the race that knew Joseph. Rilla did not sayor think that she had outgrown Irene. Had the thought occurred to hershe would have considered it absurd when she was not yet seventeen andIrene was twenty. But it was the truth. Irene was just what she hadbeen a year ago--just what she would always be. Rilla Blythe's naturein that year had changed and matured and deepened. She found herselfseeing through Irene with a disconcerting clearness--discerning underall her superficial sweetness, her pettiness, her vindictiveness, herinsincerity, her essential cheapness. Irene had lost for ever herfaithful worshipper.
But not until Rilla had traversed the Upper Glen Road and found herselfin the moon-dappled solitude of Rainbow Valley did she ful
ly recoverher composure of spirit. Then she stopped under a tall wild plum thatwas ghostly white and fair in its misty spring bloom and laughed.
"There is only one thing of importance just now--and that is that theAllies win the war," she said aloud. "Therefore, it follows withoutdispute that the fact that I went to see Irene Howard with odd shoesand stockings on is of no importance whatever. Nevertheless, I, BerthaMarilla Blythe, swear solemnly with the moon as witness"--Rilla liftedher hand dramatically to the said moon--"that I will never leave myroom again without looking carefully at both my feet."