CHAPTER IV
THE PIPER PIPES
Rilla's first party was a triumph--or so it seemed at first. She had somany partners that she had to split her dances. Her silver slippersseemed verily to dance of themselves and though they continued to pinchher toes and blister her heels that did not interfere with herenjoyment in the least. Ethel Reese gave her a bad ten minutes bybeckoning her mysteriously out of the pavilion and whispering, with aReese-like smirk, that her dress gaped behind and that there was astain on the flounce. Rilla rushed miserably to the room in thelighthouse which was fitted up for a temporary ladies' dressing-room,and discovered that the stain was merely a tiny grass smear and thatthe gap was equally tiny where a hook had pulled loose. Irene Howardfastened it up for her and gave her some over-sweet, condescendingcompliments. Rilla felt flattered by Irene's condescension. She was anUpper Glen girl of nineteen who seemed to like the society of theyounger girls--spiteful friends said because she could queen it overthem without rivalry. But Rilla thought Irene quite wonderful and lovedher for her patronage. Irene was pretty and stylish; she sang divinelyand spent every winter in Charlottetown taking music lessons. She hadan aunt in Montreal who sent her wonderful things to wear; she wasreported to have had a sad love affair--nobody knew just what, but itsvery mystery allured. Rilla felt that Irene's compliments crowned herevening. She ran gaily back to the pavilion and lingered for a momentin the glow of the lanterns at the entrance looking at the dancers. Amomentary break in the whirling throng gave her a glimpse of KennethFord standing at the other side.
Rilla's heart skipped a beat--or, if that be a physiologicalimpossibility, she thought it did. So he was here, after all. She hadconcluded he was not coming--not that it mattered in the least. Wouldhe see her? Would he take any notice of her? Of course, he wouldn't askher to dance--that couldn't be hoped for. He thought her just a merechild. He had called her "Spider" not three weeks ago when he had beenat Ingleside one evening. She had cried about it upstairs afterwardsand hated him. But her heart skipped a beat when she saw that he wasedging his way round the side of the pavilion towards her. Was hecoming to her--was he?--was he?--yes, he was! He was looking forher--he was here beside her--he was gazing down at her with somethingin his dark grey eyes that Rilla had never seen in them. Oh, it wasalmost too much to bear! and everything was going on as before--thedancers were spinning round, the boys who couldn't get partners werehanging about the pavilion, canoodling couples were sitting out on therocks--nobody seemed to realize what a stupendous thing had happened.
Kenneth was a tall lad, very good looking, with a certain carelessgrace of bearing that somehow made all the other boys seem stiff andawkward by contrast. He was reported to be awesomely clever, with theglamour of a far-away city and a big university hanging around him. Hehad also the reputation of being a bit of a lady-killer. But thatprobably accrued to him from his possession of a laughing, velvetyvoice which no girl could hear without a heartbeat, and a dangerous wayof listening as if she were saying something that he had longed all hislife to hear.
"Is this Rilla-my-Rilla?" he asked in a low tone.
"Yeth," said Rilla, and immediately wished she could throw herselfheadlong down the lighthouse rock or otherwise vanish from a jeeringworld.
Rilla had lisped in early childhood; but she had grown out of it. Onlyon occasions of stress and strain did the tendency re-assert itself.She hadn't lisped for a year; and now at this very moment, when she wasso especially desirous of appearing grown up and sophisticated, shemust go and lisp like a baby! It was too mortifying; she felt as iftears were going to come into her eyes; the next minute she wouldbe--blubbering--yes, just blubbering--she wished Kenneth would goaway--she wished he had never come. The party was spoiled. Everythinghad turned to dust and ashes.
And he had called her "Rilla-my-Rilla"--not "Spider" or "Kid" or"Puss," as he had been used to call her when he took any noticewhatever of her. She did not at all resent his using Walter's pet namefor her; it sounded beautifully in his low caressing tones, with justthe faintest suggestion of emphasis on the "my." It would have been sonice if she had not made a fool of herself. She dared not look up lestshe should see laughter in his eyes. So she looked down; and as herlashes were very long and dark and her lids very thick and creamy, theeffect was quite charming and provocative, and Kenneth reflected thatRilla Blythe was going to be the beauty of the Ingleside girls afterall. He wanted to make her look up--to catch again that little, demure,questioning glance. She was the prettiest thing at the party, there wasno doubt of that.
What was he saying? Rilla could hardly believe her ears.
"Can we have a dance?"
"Yes," said Rilla. She said it with such a fierce determination not tolisp that she fairly blurted the word out. Then she writhed in spiritagain. It sounded so bold--so eager--as if she were fairly jumping athim! What would he think of her? Oh, why did dreadful things like thishappen, just when a girl wanted to appear at her best?
Kenneth drew her in among the dancers.
"I think this game ankle of mine is good for one hop around, at least,"he said.
"How is your ankle?" said Rilla. Oh, why couldn't she think ofsomething else to say? She knew he was sick of inquiries about hisankle. She had heard him say so at Ingleside--heard him tell Di he wasgoing to wear a placard on his breast announcing to all and sundry thatthe ankle was improving, etc. And now she must go and ask this stalequestion again.
Kenneth was tired of inquiries about his ankle. But then he had notoften been asked about it by lips with such an adorable kissable dentjust above them. Perhaps that was why he answered very patiently thatit was getting on well and didn't trouble him much, if he didn't walkor stand too long at a time.
"They tell me it will be as strong as ever in time, but I'll have tocut football out this fall."
They danced together and Rilla knew every girl in sight envied her.After the dance they went down the rock steps and Kenneth found alittle flat and they rowed across the moonlit channel to thesand-shore; they walked on the sand till Kenneth's ankle made protestand then they sat down among the dunes. Kenneth talked to her as he hadtalked to Nan and Di. Rilla, overcome with a shyness she did notunderstand, could not talk much, and thought he would think herfrightfully stupid; but in spite of this it was all very wonderful--theexquisite moonlit night, the shining sea, the tiny little waveletsswishing on the sand, the cool and freakish wind of night crooning inthe stiff grasses on the crest of the dunes, the music sounding faintlyand sweetly over the channel.
"'A merry lilt o' moonlight for mermaiden revelry,'" quoted Kennethsoftly from one of Walter's poems.
And just he and she alone together in the glamour of sound and sight!If only her slippers didn't bite so! and if only she could talkcleverly like Miss Oliver--nay, if she could only talk as she didherself to other boys! But words would not come, she could only listenand murmur little commonplace sentences now and again. But perhaps herdreamy eyes and her dented lip and her slender throat talked eloquentlyfor her. At any rate Kenneth seemed in no hurry to suggest going backand when they did go back supper was in progress. He found a seat forher near the window of the lighthouse kitchen and sat on the sillbeside her while she ate her ices and cake. Rilla looked about her andthought how lovely her first party had been. She would never forget it.The room re-echoed to laughter and jest. Beautiful young eyes sparkledand shone. From the pavilion outside came the lilt of the fiddle andthe rhythmic steps of the dancers.
There was a little disturbance among a group of boys crowded about thedoor; a young fellow pushed through and halted on the threshold,looking about him rather sombrely. It was Jack Elliott fromover-harbour--a McGill medical student, a quiet chap not much addictedto social doings. He had been invited to the party but had not beenexpected to come since he had to go to Charlottetown that day and couldnot be back until late. Yet here he was--and he carried a folded paperin his hand.
Gertrude Oliver looked at him from her corner and shivered again. Shehad enjoyed the
party herself, after all, for she had foregathered witha Charlottetown acquaintance who, being a stranger and much older thanmost of the guests, felt himself rather out of it, and had been glad tofall in with this clever girl who could talk of world doings andoutside events with the zest and vigour of a man. In the pleasure ofhis society she had forgotten some of her misgivings of the day. Nowthey suddenly returned to her. What news did Jack Elliott bring? Linesfrom an old poem flashed unbidden into her mind--"there was a sound ofrevelry by night"--"Hush! Hark! A deep sound strikes like a risingknell"--why should she think of that now? Why didn't Jack Elliottspeak--if he had anything to tell? Why did he just stand there,glowering importantly?
"Ask him--ask him," she said feverishly to Allan Daly. But somebodyelse had already asked him. The room grew very silent all at once.Outside the fiddler had stopped for a rest and there was silence theretoo. Afar off they heard the low moan of the gulf--the presage of astorm already on its way up the Atlantic. A girl's laugh drifted upfrom the rocks and died away as if frightened out of existence by thesudden stillness.
"England declared war on Germany today," said Jack Elliott slowly. "Thenews came by wire just as I left town."
"God help us," whispered Gertrude Oliver under her breath. "Mydream--my dream! The first wave has broken." She looked at Allan Dalyand tried to smile.
"Is this Armageddon?" she asked.
"I am afraid so," he said gravely.
A chorus of exclamations had arisen round them--light surprise and idleinterest for the most part. Few there realized the import of themessage--fewer still realized that it meant anything to them. Beforelong the dancing was on again and the hum of pleasure was as loud asever. Gertrude and Allan Daly talked the news over in low, troubledtones. Walter Blythe had turned pale and left the room. Outside he metJem, hurrying up the rock steps.
"Have you heard the news, Jem?"
"Yes. The Piper has come. Hurrah! I knew England wouldn't leave Francein the lurch. I've been trying to get Captain Josiah to hoist the flagbut he says it isn't the proper caper till sunrise. Jack says they'llbe calling for volunteers tomorrow."
"What a fuss to make over nothing," said Mary Vance disdainfully as Jemdashed off. She was sitting out with Miller Douglas on a lobster trapwhich was not only an unromantic but an uncomfortable seat. But Maryand Miller were both supremely happy on it. Miller Douglas was a big,strapping, uncouth lad, who thought Mary Vance's tongue uncommonlygifted and Mary Vance's white eyes stars of the first magnitude; andneither of them had the least inkling why Jem Blythe wanted to hoistthe lighthouse flag. "What does it matter if there's going to be a warover there in Europe? I'm sure it doesn't concern us."
Walter looked at her and had one of his odd visitations of prophecy.
"Before this war is over," he said--or something said through hislips--"every man and woman and child in Canada will feel it--you, Mary,will feel it--feel it to your heart's core. You will weep tears ofblood over it. The Piper has come--and he will pipe until every cornerof the world has heard his awful and irresistible music. It will beyears before the dance of death is over--years, Mary. And in thoseyears millions of hearts will break."
"Fancy now!" said Mary who always said that when she couldn't think ofanything else to say. She didn't know what Walter meant but she feltuncomfortable. Walter Blythe was always saying odd things. That oldPiper of his--she hadn't heard anything about him since their playdaysin Rainbow Valley--and now here he was bobbing up again. She didn'tlike it, and that was the long and short of it.
"Aren't you painting it rather strong, Walter?" asked Harvey Crawford,coming up just then. "This war won't last for years--it'll be over in amonth or two. England will just wipe Germany off the map in no time."
"Do you think a war for which Germany has been preparing for twentyyears will be over in a few weeks?" said Walter passionately. "Thisisn't a paltry struggle in a Balkan corner, Harvey. It is a deathgrapple. Germany comes to conquer or to die. And do you know what willhappen if she conquers? Canada will be a German colony."
"Well, I guess a few things will happen before that," said Harveyshrugging his shoulders. "The British navy would have to be licked forone; and for another, Miller here, now, and I, we'd raise a dust,wouldn't we, Miller? No Germans need apply for this old country, eh?"
Harvey ran down the steps laughing.
"I declare, I think all you boys talk the craziest stuff," said MaryVance in disgust. She got up and dragged Miller off to the rock-shore.It didn't happen often that they had a chance for a talk together; Marywas determined that this one shouldn't be spoiled by Walter Blythe'ssilly blather about Pipers and Germans and such like absurd things.They left Walter standing alone on the rock steps, looking out over thebeauty of Four Winds with brooding eyes that saw it not.
The best of the evening was over for Rilla, too. Ever since JackElliott's announcement, she had sensed that Kenneth was no longerthinking about her. She felt suddenly lonely and unhappy. It was worsethan if he had never noticed her at all. Was life like this--somethingdelightful happening and then, just as you were revelling in it,slipping away from you? Rilla told herself pathetically that she feltyears older than when she had left home that evening. Perhaps shedid--perhaps she was. Who knows? It does not do to laugh at the pangsof youth. They are very terrible because youth has not yet learned that"this, too, will pass away." Rilla sighed and wished she were home, inbed, crying into her pillow.
"Tired?" said Kenneth, gently but absently--oh, so absently. He reallydidn't care a bit whether she were tired or not, she thought.
"Kenneth," she ventured timidly, "you don't think this war will mattermuch to us in Canada, do you?"
"Matter? Of course it will matter to the lucky fellows who will be ableto take a hand. I won't--thanks to this confounded ankle. Rotten luck,I call it."
"I don't see why we should fight England's battles," cried Rilla."She's quite able to fight them herself."
"That isn't the point. We are part of the British Empire. It's a familyaffair. We've got to stand by each other. The worst of it is, it willbe over before I can be of any use."
"Do you mean that you would really volunteer to go if it wasn't foryour ankle? asked Rilla incredulously.
"Sure I would. You see they'll go by thousands. Jem'll be off, I'll beta cent--Walter won't be strong enough yet, I suppose. And JerryMeredith--he'll go! And I was worrying about being out of football thisyear!"
Rilla was too startled to say anything. Jem--and Jerry! Nonsense! Whyfather and Mr. Meredith wouldn't allow it. They weren't throughcollege. Oh, why hadn't Jack Elliott kept his horrid news to himself?
Mark Warren came up and asked her to dance. Rilla went, knowing Kennethdidn't care whether she went or stayed. An hour ago on the sand-shorehe had been looking at her as if she were the only being of anyimportance in the world. And now she was nobody. His thoughts were fullof this Great Game which was to be played out on bloodstained fieldswith empires for stakes--a Game in which womenkind could have no part.Women, thought Rilla miserably, just had to sit and cry at home. Butall this was foolishness. Kenneth couldn't go--he admitted thathimself--and Walter couldn't--thank goodness for that--and Jem andJerry would have more sense. She wouldn't worry--she would enjoyherself. But how awkward Mark Warren was! How he bungled his steps!Why, for mercy's sake, did boys try to dance who didn't know the firstthing about dancing; and who had feet as big as boats? There, he hadbumped her into somebody! She would never dance with him again!
She danced with others, though the zest was gone out of the performanceand she had begun to realize that her slippers hurt her badly. Kennethseemed to have gone--at least nothing was to be seen of him. Her firstparty was spoiled, though it had seemed so beautiful at one time. Herhead ached--her toes burned. And worse was yet to come. She had gonedown with some over-harbour friends to the rock-shore where they alllingered as dance after dance went on above them. It was cool andpleasant and they were tired. Rilla sat silent, taking no part in thegay conversation. She was glad w
hen someone called down that theover-harbour boats were leaving. A laughing scramble up the lighthouserock followed. A few couples still whirled about in the pavilion butthe crowd had thinned out. Rilla looked about her for the Glen group.She could not see one of them. She ran into the lighthouse. Still, nosign of anybody. In dismay she ran to the rock steps, down which theover-harbour guests were hurrying. She could see the boats below--wherewas Jem's--where was Joe's?
"Why, Rilla Blythe, I thought you'd be gone home long ago," said MaryVance, who was waving her scarf at a boat skimming up the channel,skippered by Miller Douglas.
"Where are the rest?" gasped Rilla.
"Why, they're gone--Jem went an hour ago--Una had a headache. And therest went with Joe about fifteen minutes ago. See--they're just goingaround Birch Point. I didn't go because it's getting rough and I knewI'd be seasick. I don't mind walking home from here. It's only a mileand a half. I s'posed you'd gone. Where were you?"
"Down on the rocks with Jem and Mollie Crawford. Oh, why didn't theylook for me?"
"They did--but you couldn't be found. Then they concluded you must havegone in the other boat. Don't worry. You can stay all night with me andwe'll 'phone up to Ingleside where you are."
Rilla realized that there was nothing else to do. Her lips trembled andtears came into her eyes. She blinked savagely--she would not let MaryVance see her crying. But to be forgotten like this! To think nobodyhad thought it worth while to make sure where she was--not even Walter.Then she had a sudden dismayed recollection.
"My shoes," she exclaimed. "I left them in the boat."
"Well, I never," said Mary. "You're the most thoughtless kid I eversaw. You'll have to ask Hazel Lewison to lend you a pair of shoes."
"I won't." cried Rilla, who didn't like the said Hazel. "I'll gobarefoot first."
Mary shrugged her shoulders.
"Just as you like. Pride must suffer pain. It'll teach you to be morecareful. Well, let's hike."
Accordingly they hiked. But to "hike" along a deep-rutted, pebbly lanein frail, silver-hued slippers with high French heels, is not anexhilarating performance. Rilla managed to limp and totter along untilthey reached the harbour road; but she could go no farther in thosedetestable slippers. She took them and her dear silk stockings off andstarted barefoot. That was not pleasant either; her feet were verytender and the pebbles and ruts of the road hurt them. Her blisteredheels smarted. But physical pain was almost forgotten in the sting ofhumiliation. This was a nice predicament! If Kenneth Ford could see hernow, limping along like a little girl with a stone bruise! Oh, what ahorrid way for her lovely party to end! She just had to cry--it was tooterrible. Nobody cared for her--nobody bothered about her at all. Well,if she caught cold from walking home barefoot on a dew-wet road andwent into a decline perhaps they would be sorry. She furtively wipedher tears away with her scarf--handkerchiefs seemed to have vanishedlike shoes!--but she could not help sniffling. Worse and worse!
"You've got a cold, I see," said Mary. "You ought to have known youwould, sitting down in the wind on those rocks. Your mother won't letyou go out again in a hurry I can tell you. It's certainly beensomething of a party. The Lewisons know how to do things, I'll say thatfor them, though Hazel Lewison is no choice of mine. My, how black shelooked when she saw you dancing with Ken Ford. And so did that littlehussy of an Ethel Reese. What a flirt he is!"
"I don't think he's a flirt," said Rilla as defiantly as two desperatesniffs would let her.
"You'll know more about men when you're as old as I am," said Marypatronizingly. "Mind you, it doesn't do to believe all they tell you.Don't let Ken Ford think that all he has to do to get you on a stringis to drop his handkerchief. Have more spirit than that, child."
To be thus hectored and patronized by Mary Vance was unendurable! Andit was unendurable to walk on stony roads with blistered heels and barefeet! And it was unendurable to be crying and have no handkerchief andnot to be able to stop crying!
"I'm not thinking"--sniff--"about Kenneth"--sniff--"Ford"--twosniffs--"at all," cried tortured Rilla.
"There's no need to fly off the handle, child. You ought to be willingto take advice from older people. I saw how you slipped over to thesands with Ken and stayed there ever so long with him. Your motherwouldn't like it if she knew."
"I'll tell my mother all about it--and Miss Oliver--and Walter," Rillagasped between sniffs. "You sat for hours with Miller Douglas on thatlobster trap, Mary Vance! What would Mrs. Elliott say to that if sheknew?"
"Oh, I'm not going to quarrel with you," said Mary, suddenly retreatingto high and lofty ground. "All I say is, you should wait until you'regrown-up before you do things like that."
Rilla gave up trying to hide the fact that she was crying. Everythingwas spoiled--even that beautiful, dreamy, romantic, moonlit hour withKenneth on the sands was vulgarized and cheapened. She loathed MaryVance.
"Why, whatever's wrong?" cried mystified Mary. "What are you cryingfor?"
"My feet--hurt so--" sobbed Rilla clinging to the last shred of herpride. It was less humiliating to admit crying because of your feetthan because--because somebody had been amusing himself with you, andyour friends had forgotten you, and other people patronized you.
"I daresay they do," said Mary, not unkindly. "Never mind. I know wherethere's a pot of goose-grease in Cornelia's tidy pantry and it beatsall the fancy cold creams in the world. I'll put some on your heelsbefore you go to bed."
Goose-grease on your heels! So this was what your first party and yourfirst beau and your first moonlit romance ended in!
Rilla gave over crying in sheer disgust at the futility of tears andwent to sleep in Mary Vance's bed in the calm of despair. Outside, thedawn came greyly in on wings of storm; Captain Josiah, true to hisword, ran up the Union Jack at the Four Winds Light and it streamed onthe fierce wind against the clouded sky like a gallant unquenchablebeacon.