Rilla of Ingleside by Lucy Maud Montgomery (the top 100 crime novels of all time .txt) 📕

“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 sandshore 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