Rilla of Ingleside
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."