THE PIPER PIPES
Rilla's first party was a triumph--or so it seemed at first. She had so
many partners that she had to split her dances. Her silver slippers
seemed verily to dance of themselves and though they continued to pinch
her toes and blister her heels that did not interfere with her
enjoyment in the least. Ethel Reese gave her a bad ten minutes by
beckoning her mysteriously out of the pavilion and whispering, with a
Reese-like smirk, that her dress gaped behind and that there was a
stain on the flounce. Rilla rushed miserably to the room in the
lighthouse which was fitted up for a temporary ladies' dressing-room,
and discovered that the stain was merely a tiny grass smear and that
the gap was equally tiny where a hook had pulled loose. Irene Howard
fastened it up for her and gave her some over-sweet, condescending
compliments. Rilla felt flattered by Irene's condescension. She was an
Upper Glen girl of nineteen who seemed to like the society of the
younger girls--spiteful friends said because she could queen it over
them without rivalry. But Rilla thought Irene quite wonderful and loved
her for her patronage. Irene was pretty and stylish; she sang divinely
and spent every winter in Charlottetown taking music lessons. She had
an aunt in Montreal who sent her wonderful things to wear; she was
reported to have had a sad love affair--nobody knew just what, but its
very mystery allured. Rilla felt that Irene's compliments crowned her
evening. She ran gaily back to the pavilion and lingered for a moment
in the glow of the lanterns at the entrance looking at the dancers. A
momentary break in the whirling throng gave her a glimpse of Kenneth
Ford standing at the other side.
Rilla's heart skipped a beat--or, if that be a physiological
impossibility, she thought it did. So he was here, after all. She had
concluded he was not coming--not that it mattered in the least. Would
he see her? Would he take any notice of her? Of course, he wouldn't ask
her to dance--that couldn't be hoped for. He thought her just a mere
child. He had called her "Spider" not three weeks ago when he had been
at Ingleside one evening. She had cried about it upstairs afterwards
and hated him. But her heart skipped a beat when she saw that he was
edging his way round the side of the pavilion towards her. Was he
coming to her--was he?--was he?--yes, he was! He was looking for
her--he was here beside her--he was gazing down at her with something
in his dark grey eyes that Rilla had never seen in them. Oh, it was
almost too much to bear! and everything was going on as before--the
dancers were spinning round, the boys who couldn't get partners were
hanging about the pavilion, canoodling couples were sitting out on the
rocks--nobody seemed to realize what a stupendous thing had happened.
Kenneth was a tall lad, very good looking, with a certain careless
grace of bearing that somehow made all the other boys seem stiff and
awkward by contrast. He was reported to be awesomely clever, with the
glamour of a far-away city and a big university hanging around him. He
had also the reputation of being a bit of a lady-killer. But that
probably accrued to him from his possession of a laughing, velvety
voice which no girl could hear without a heartbeat, and a dangerous way
of listening as if she were saying something that he had longed all his
life to hear.
"Is this Rilla-my-Rilla?" he asked in a low tone.
"Yeth," said Rilla, and immediately wished she could throw herself
headlong down the lighthouse rock or otherwise vanish from a jeering
world.
Rilla had lisped in early childhood; but she had grown out of it. Only
on 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 was
so especially desirous of appearing grown up and sophisticated, she
must go and lisp like a baby! It was too mortifying; she felt as if
tears were going to come into her eyes; the next minute she would
be--blubbering--yes, just blubbering--she wished Kenneth would go
away--she wished he had never come. The party was spoiled. Everything
had 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 notice
whatever of her. She did not at all resent his using Walter's pet name
for her; it sounded beautifully in his low caressing tones, with just
the faintest suggestion of emphasis on the "my." It would have been so
nice if she had not made a fool of herself. She dared not look up lest
she should see laughter in his eyes. So she looked down; and as her
lashes were very long and dark and her lids very thick and creamy, the
effect was quite charming and provocative, and Kenneth reflected that
Rilla Blythe was going to be the beauty of the Ingleside girls after
all. He wanted to make her look up--to catch again that little, demure,
questioning glance. She was the prettiest thing at the party, there was
no 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 to
lisp that she fairly blurted the word out. Then she writhed in spirit
again. It sounded so bold--so eager--as if she were fairly jumping at
him! What would he think of her? Oh, why did dreadful things like this
happen, 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 of
something else to say? She knew he was sick of inquiries about his
ankle. She had heard him say so at Ingleside--heard him tell Di he was
going to wear a placard on his breast announcing to all and sundry that
the ankle was improving, etc. And now she must go and ask this stale
question again.
Kenneth was tired of inquiries about his ankle. But then he had not
often been asked about it by lips with such an adorable kissable dent
just above them. Perhaps that was why he answered very patiently that
it was getting on well and didn't trouble him much, if he didn't walk
or stand too long at a time.
"They tell me it will be as strong as ever in time, but I'll have to
cut 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 a
little flat and they rowed across the moonlit channel to the
sand-shore; they walked on the sand till Kenneth's ankle made protest
and then they sat down among the dunes. Kenneth talked to her as he had
talked to Nan and Di. Rilla, overcome with a shyness she did not
understand, could not talk much, and thought he would think her
frightfully stupid; but in spite of this it was all very wonderful--the
exquisite moonlit night, the shining sea, the tiny little wavelets
swishing on the sand, the cool and freakish wind of night crooning in
the stiff grasses on the crest of the dunes, the music sounding faintly
and sweetly over the channel.
"'A merry lilt o' moonlight for mermaiden revelry,'" quoted Kenneth
softly 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 talk
cleverly like Miss Oliver--nay, if she could only talk as she did
herself to other boys! But words would not come, she could only listen
and murmur little commonplace sentences now and again. But perhaps her
dreamy eyes and her dented lip and her slender throat talked eloquently
for her. At any rate Kenneth seemed in no hurry to suggest going back
and when they did go back supper was in progress. He found a seat for
her near the window of the lighthouse kitchen and sat on the sill
beside her while she ate her ices and cake. Rilla looked about her and
thought how lovely her first party had been. She would never forget it.
The room re-echoed to laughter and jest. Beautiful young eyes sparkled
and shone. From the pavilion outside came the lilt of the fiddle and
the rhythmic steps of the dancers.
There was a little disturbance among a group of boys crowded about the
door; a young fellow pushed through and halted on the threshold,
looking about him rather sombrely. It was Jack Elliott from
over-harbour--a McGill medical student, a quiet chap not much addicted
to social doings. He had been invited to the party but had not been
expected to come since he had to go to Charlottetown that day and could
not be back until late. Yet here he was--and he carried a folded paper
in his hand.
Gertrude Oliver looked at him from her corner and shivered again. She
had enjoyed the party herself, after all, for she had foregathered with
a Charlottetown acquaintance who, being a stranger and much older than
most of the guests, felt himself rather out of it, and had been glad to
fall in with this clever girl who could talk of world doings and
outside events with the zest and vigour of a man. In the pleasure of
his society she had forgotten some of her misgivings of the day. Now
they suddenly returned to her. What news did Jack Elliott bring? Lines
from an old poem flashed unbidden into her mind--"there was a sound of
revelry by night"--"Hush! Hark! A deep sound strikes like a rising
knell"--why should she think of that now? Why didn't Jack Elliott
speak--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 somebody
else had already asked him. The room grew very silent all at once.
Outside the fiddler had stopped for a rest and there was silence there
too. Afar off they heard the low moan of the gulf--the presage of a
storm already on its way up the Atlantic. A girl's laugh drifted up
from the rocks and died away as if frightened out of existence by the
sudden stillness.
"England declared war on Germany today," said Jack Elliott slowly. "The
news came by wire just as I left town."
"God help us," whispered Gertrude Oliver under her breath. "My
dream--my dream! The first wave has broken." She looked at Allan Daly
and 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 idle
interest for the most part. Few there realized the import of the
message--fewer still realized that it meant anything to them. Before
long the dancing was on again and the hum of pleasure was as loud as
ever. Gertrude and Allan Daly talked the news over in low, troubled
tones. Walter Blythe had turned pale and left the room. Outside he met
Jem, hurrying up the rock steps.
"Have you heard the news, Jem?"
"Yes. The Piper has come. Hurrah! I knew England wouldn't leave France
in the lurch. I've been trying to get Captain Josiah to hoist the flag
but he says it isn't the proper caper till sunrise. Jack says they'll
be calling for volunteers tomorrow."
"What a fuss to make over nothing," said Mary Vance disdainfully as Jem
dashed off. She was sitting out with Miller Douglas on a lobster trap
which was not only an unromantic but an uncomfortable seat. But Mary
and Miller were both supremely happy on it. Miller Douglas was a big,
strapping, uncouth lad, who thought Mary Vance's tongue uncommonly
gifted and Mary Vance's white eyes stars of the first magnitude; and
neither of them had the least inkling why Jem Blythe wanted to hoist
the lighthouse flag. "What does it matter if there's going to be a war
over 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 his
lips--"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 of
blood over it. The Piper has come--and he will pipe until every corner
of the world has heard his awful and irresistible music. It will be
years before the dance of death is over--years, Mary. And in those
years millions of hearts will break."
"Fancy now!" said Mary who always said that when she couldn't think of
anything else to say. She didn't know what Walter meant but she felt
uncomfortable. Walter Blythe was always saying odd things. That old
Piper of his--she hadn't heard anything about him since their playdays
in Rainbow Valley--and now here he was bobbing up again. She didn't
like 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 a
month 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 twenty
years will be over in a few weeks?" said Walter passionately. "This
isn't a paltry struggle in a Balkan corner, Harvey. It is a death
grapple. Germany comes to conquer or to die. And do you know what will
happen if she conquers? Canada will be a German colony."
"Well, I guess a few things will happen before that," said Harvey
shrugging his shoulders. "The British navy would have to be licked for
one; 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 Mary
Vance 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; Mary
was determined that this one shouldn't be spoiled by Walter Blythe's
silly blather about Pipers and Germans and such like absurd things.
They left Walter standing alone on the rock steps, looking out over the
beauty of Four Winds with brooding eyes that saw it not.
The best of the evening was over for Rilla, too. Ever since Jack
Elliott's announcement, she had sensed that Kenneth was no longer
thinking about her. She felt suddenly lonely and unhappy. It was worse
than if he had never noticed her at all. Was life like this--something
delightful happening and then, just as you were revelling in it,
slipping away from you? Rilla told herself pathetically that she felt
years older than when she had left home that evening. Perhaps she
did--perhaps she was. Who knows? It does not do to laugh at the pangs
of youth. They are very terrible because youth has not yet learned that
"this, too, will pass away." Rilla sighed and wished she were home, in
bed, crying into her pillow.
"Tired?" said Kenneth, gently but absently--oh, so absently. He really
didn't care a bit whether she were tired or not, she thought.
"Kenneth," she ventured timidly, "you don't think this war will matter
much to us in Canada, do you?"
"Matter? Of course it will matter to the lucky fellows who will be able
to 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 family
affair. We've got to stand by each other. The worst of it is, it will
be over before I can be of any use."
"Do you mean that you would really volunteer to go if it wasn't for
your ankle? asked Rilla incredulously.
"Sure I would. You see they'll go by thousands. Jem'll be off, I'll bet
a cent--Walter won't be strong enough yet, I suppose. And Jerry
Meredith--he'll go! And I was worrying about being out of football this
year!"
Rilla was too startled to say anything. Jem--and Jerry! Nonsense! Why
father and Mr. Meredith wouldn't allow it. They weren't through
college. Oh, why hadn't Jack Elliott kept his horrid news to himself?
Mark Warren came up and asked her to dance. Rilla went, knowing Kenneth
didn't care whether she went or stayed. An hour ago on the sand-shore
he had been looking at her as if she were the only being of any
importance in the world. And now she was nobody. His thoughts were full
of this Great Game which was to be played out on bloodstained fields
with empires for stakes--a Game in which womenkind could have no part.
Women, thought Rilla miserably, just had to sit and cry at home. But
all this was foolishness. Kenneth couldn't go--he admitted that
himself--and Walter couldn't--thank goodness for that--and Jem and
Jerry would have more sense. She wouldn't worry--she would enjoy
herself. 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 first
thing about dancing; and who had feet as big as boats? There, he had
bumped her into somebody! She would never dance with him again!
She danced with others, though the zest was gone out of the performance
and she had begun to realize that her slippers hurt her badly. Kenneth
seemed to have gone--at least nothing was to be seen of him. Her first
party was spoiled, though it had seemed so beautiful at one time. Her
head ached--her toes burned. And worse was yet to come. She had gone
down with some over-harbour friends to the rock-shore where they all
lingered as dance after dance went on above them. It was cool and
pleasant and they were tired. Rilla sat silent, taking no part in the
gay conversation. She was glad when someone called down that the
over-harbour boats were leaving. A laughing scramble up the lighthouse
rock followed. A few couples still whirled about in the pavilion but
the 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, no
sign of anybody. In dismay she ran to the rock steps, down which the
over-harbour guests were hurrying. She could see the boats below--where
was Jem's--where was Joe's?
"Why, Rilla Blythe, I thought you'd be gone home long ago," said Mary
Vance, 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 the
rest went with Joe about fifteen minutes ago. See--they're just going
around Birch Point. I didn't go because it's getting rough and I knew
I'd be seasick. I don't mind walking home from here. It's only a mile
and a half. I s'posed you'd gone. Where were you?"
"Down on the rocks with Jem and Mollie Crawford. Oh, why didn't they
look for me?"
"They did--but you couldn't be found. Then they concluded you must have
gone in the other boat. Don't worry. You can stay all night with me and
we'll 'phone up to Ingleside where you are."
Rilla realized that there was nothing else to do. Her lips trembled and
tears came into her eyes. She blinked savagely--she would not let Mary
Vance see her crying. But to be forgotten like this! To think nobody
had 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 ever
saw. 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 go
barefoot first."
Mary shrugged her shoulders.
"Just as you like. Pride must suffer pain. It'll teach you to be more
careful. Well, let's hike."
Accordingly they hiked. But to "hike" along a deep-rutted, pebbly lane
in frail, silver-hued slippers with high French heels, is not an
exhilarating performance. Rilla managed to limp and totter along until
they reached the harbour road; but she could go no farther in those
detestable slippers. She took them and her dear silk stockings off and
started barefoot. That was not pleasant either; her feet were very
tender and the pebbles and ruts of the road hurt them. Her blistered
heels smarted. But physical pain was almost forgotten in the sting of
humiliation. This was a nice predicament! If Kenneth Ford could see her
now, limping along like a little girl with a stone bruise! Oh, what a
horrid way for her lovely party to end! She just had to cry--it was too
terrible. Nobody cared for her--nobody bothered about her at all. Well,
if she caught cold from walking home barefoot on a dew-wet road and
went into a decline perhaps they would be sorry. She furtively wiped
her tears away with her scarf--handkerchiefs seemed to have vanished
like shoes!--but she could not help sniffling. Worse and worse!
"You've got a cold, I see," said Mary. "You ought to have known you
would, sitting down in the wind on those rocks. Your mother won't let
you go out again in a hurry I can tell you. It's certainly been
something of a party. The Lewisons know how to do things, I'll say that
for them, though Hazel Lewison is no choice of mine. My, how black she
looked when she saw you dancing with Ken Ford. And so did that little
hussy of an Ethel Reese. What a flirt he is!"
"I don't think he's a flirt," said Rilla as defiantly as two desperate
sniffs would let her.
"You'll know more about men when you're as old as I am," said Mary
patronizingly. "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 string
is to drop his handkerchief. Have more spirit than that, child."
To be thus hectored and patronized by Mary Vance was unendurable! And
it was unendurable to walk on stony roads with blistered heels and bare
feet! And it was unendurable to be crying and have no handkerchief and
not to be able to stop crying!
"I'm not thinking"--sniff--"about Kenneth"--sniff--"Ford"--two
sniffs--"at all," cried tortured Rilla.
"There's no need to fly off the handle, child. You ought to be willing
to take advice from older people. I saw how you slipped over to the
sands with Ken and stayed there ever so long with him. Your mother
wouldn't like it if she knew."
"I'll tell my mother all about it--and Miss Oliver--and Walter," Rilla
gasped between sniffs. "You sat for hours with Miller Douglas on that
lobster trap, Mary Vance! What would Mrs. Elliott say to that if she
knew?"
"Oh, I'm not going to quarrel with you," said Mary, suddenly retreating
to high and lofty ground. "All I say is, you should wait until you're
grown-up before you do things like that."
Rilla gave up trying to hide the fact that she was crying. Everything
was spoiled--even that beautiful, dreamy, romantic, moonlit hour with
Kenneth on the sands was vulgarized and cheapened. She loathed Mary
Vance.
"Why, whatever's wrong?" cried mystified Mary. "What are you crying
for?"
"My feet--hurt so--" sobbed Rilla clinging to the last shred of her
pride. It was less humiliating to admit crying because of your feet
than because--because somebody had been amusing himself with you, and
your friends had forgotten you, and other people patronized you.
"I daresay they do," said Mary, not unkindly. "Never mind. I know where
there's a pot of goose-grease in Cornelia's tidy pantry and it beats
all the fancy cold creams in the world. I'll put some on your heels
before you go to bed."
Goose-grease on your heels! So this was what your first party and your
first beau and your first moonlit romance ended in!
Rilla gave over crying in sheer disgust at the futility of tears and
went to sleep in Mary Vance's bed in the calm of despair. Outside, the
dawn came greyly in on wings of storm; Captain Josiah, true to his
word, ran up the Union Jack at the Four Winds Light and it streamed on
the fierce wind against the clouded sky like a gallant unquenchable
beacon.