MOONLIT MIRTH
Rilla, who still buttoned up her eyes when she went to sleep so that
she always looked as if she were laughing in her slumber, yawned,
stretched, and smiled at Gertrude Oliver. The latter had come over from
Lowbridge the previous evening and had been prevailed upon to remain
for the dance at the Four Winds lighthouse the next night.
"The new day is knocking at the window. What will it bring us, I
wonder."
Miss Oliver shivered a little. She never greeted the days with Rilla's
enthusiasm. She had lived long enough to know that a day may bring a
terrible thing.
"I think the nicest thing about days is their unexpectedness," went on
Rilla. "It's jolly to wake up like this on a golden-fine morning and
wonder what surprise packet the day will hand you. I always day-dream
for ten minutes before I get up, imagining the heaps of splendid things
that may happen before night."
"I hope something very unexpected will happen today," said Gertrude. "I
hope the mail will bring us news that war has been averted between
Germany and France."
"Oh--yes," said Rilla vaguely. "It will be dreadful if it isn't, I
suppose. But it won't really matter much to us, will it? I think a war
would be so exciting. The Boer war was, they say, but I don't remember
anything about it, of course. Miss Oliver, shall I wear my white dress
tonight or my new green one? The green one is by far the prettier, of
course, but I'm almost afraid to wear it to a shore dance for fear
something will happen to it. And will you do my hair the new way? None
of the other girls in the Glen wear it yet and it will make such a
sensation."
"How did you induce your mother to let you go to the dance?"
"Oh, Walter coaxed her over. He knew I would be heart-broken if I
didn't go. It's my first really-truly grown-up party, Miss Oliver, and
I've just lain awake at nights for a week thinking it over. When I saw
the sun shining this morning I wanted to whoop for joy. It would be
simply terrible if it rained tonight. I think I'll wear the green dress
and risk it. I want to look my nicest at my first party. Besides, it's
an inch longer than my white one. And I'll wear my silver slippers too.
Mrs. Ford sent them to me last Christmas and I've never had a chance to
wear them yet. They're the dearest things. Oh, Miss Oliver, I do hope
some of the boys will ask me to dance. I shall die of
mortification--truly I will, if nobody does and I have to sit stuck up
against the wall all the evening. Of course Carl and Jerry can't dance
because they're the minister's sons, or else I could depend on them to
save me from utter disgrace."
"You'll have plenty of partners--all the over-harbour boys are
coming--there'll be far more boys than girls."
"I'm glad I'm not a minister's daughter," laughed Rilla. "Poor Faith is
so furious because she won't dare to dance tonight. Una doesn't care,
of course. She has never hankered after dancing. Somebody told Faith
there would be a taffy-pull in the kitchen for those who didn't dance
and you should have seen the face she made. She and Jem will sit out on
the rocks most of the evening, I suppose. Did you know that we are all
to walk down as far as that little creek below the old House of Dreams
and then sail to the lighthouse? Won't it just be absolutely divine?"
"When I was fifteen I talked in italics and superlatives too," said
Miss Oliver sarcastically. "I think the party promises to be pleasant
for young fry. I expect to be bored. None of those boys will bother
dancing with an old maid like me. Jem and Walter will take me out once
out of charity. So you can't expect me to look forward to it with your
touching young rapture."
"Didn't you have a good time at your first party, though, Miss Oliver?"
"No. I had a hateful time. I was shabby and homely and nobody asked me
to dance except one boy, homelier and shabbier than myself. He was so
awkward I hated him--and even he didn't ask me again. I had no real
girlhood, Rilla. It's a sad loss. That's why I want you to have a
splendid, happy girlhood. And I hope your first party will be one
you'll remember all your life with pleasure."
"I dreamed last night I was at the dance and right in the middle of
things I discovered I was dressed in my kimono and bedroom shoes,"
sighed Rilla. "I woke up with a gasp of horror."
"Speaking of dreams--I had an odd one," said Miss Oliver absently. "It
was one of those vivid dreams I sometimes have--they are not the vague
jumble of ordinary dreams--they are as clear cut and real as life."
"What was your dream?"
"I was standing on the veranda steps, here at Ingleside, looking down
over the fields of the Glen. All at once, far in the distance, I saw a
long, silvery, glistening wave breaking over them. It came nearer and
nearer--just a succession of little white waves like those that break
on the sandshore sometimes. The Glen was being swallowed up. I thought,
'Surely the waves will not come near Ingleside'--but they came nearer
and nearer--so rapidly--before I could move or call they were breaking
right at my feet--and everything was gone--there was nothing but a
waste of stormy water where the Glen had been. I tried to draw
back--and I saw that the edge of my dress was wet with blood--and I
woke--shivering. I don't like the dream. There was some sinister
significance in it. That kind of vivid dream always 'comes true' with
me."
"I hope it doesn't mean there's a storm coming up from the east to
spoil the party," murmured Rilla.
"Incorrigible fifteen!" said Miss Oliver dryly. "No, Rilla-my-Rilla, I
don't think there is any danger that it foretells anything so awful as
that."
There had been an undercurrent of tension in the Ingleside existence
for several days. Only Rilla, absorbed in her own budding life, was
unaware of it. Dr. Blythe had taken to looking grave and saying little
over the daily paper. Jem and Walter were keenly interested in the news
it brought. Jem sought Walter out in excitement that evening.
"Oh, boy, Germany has declared war on France. This means that England
will fight too, probably--and if she does--well, the Piper of your old
fancy will have come at last."
"It wasn't a fancy," said Walter slowly. "It was a presentiment--a
vision--Jem, I really saw him for a moment that evening long ago.
Suppose England does fight?"
"Why, we'll all have to turn in and help her," cried Jem gaily. "We
couldn't let the 'old grey mother of the northern sea' fight it out
alone, could we? But you can't go--the typhoid has done you out of
that. Sort of a shame, eh?"
Walter did not say whether it was a shame or not. He looked silently
over the Glen to the dimpling blue harbour beyond.
"We're the cubs--we've got to pitch in tooth and claw if it comes to a
family row," Jem went on cheerfully, rumpling up his red curls with a
strong, lean, sensitive brown hand--the hand of the born surgeon, his
father often thought. "What an adventure it would be! But I suppose
Grey or some of those wary old chaps will patch matters up at the
eleventh hour. It'll be a rotten shame if they leave France in the
lurch, though. If they don't, we'll see some fun. Well, I suppose it's
time to get ready for the spree at the light."
Jem departed whistling "Wi' a hundred pipers and a' and a'," and Walter
stood for a long time where he was. There was a little frown on his
forehead. This had all come up with the blackness and suddenness of a
thundercloud. A few days ago nobody had even thought of such a thing.
It was absurd to think of it now. Some way out would be found. War was
a hellish, horrible, hideous thing--too horrible and hideous to happen
in the twentieth century between civilized nations. The mere thought of
it was hideous, and made Walter unhappy in its threat to the beauty of
life. He would not think of it--he would resolutely put it out of his
mind. How beautiful the old Glen was, in its August ripeness, with its
chain of bowery old homesteads, tilled meadows and quiet gardens. The
western sky was like a great golden pearl. Far down the harbour was
frosted with a dawning moonlight. The air was full of exquisite
sounds--sleepy robin whistles, wonderful, mournful, soft murmurs of
wind in the twilit trees, rustle of aspen poplars talking in silvery
whispers and shaking their dainty, heart-shaped leaves, lilting young
laughter from the windows of rooms where the girls were making ready
for the dance. The world was steeped in maddening loveliness of sound
and colour. He would think only of these things and of the deep, subtle
joy they gave him. "Anyhow, no one will expect me to go," he thought.
"As Jem says, typhoid has seen to that."
Rilla was leaning out of her room window, dressed for the dance. A
yellow pansy slipped from her hair and fell out over the sill like a
falling star of gold. She caught at it vainly--but there were enough
left. Miss Oliver had woven a little wreath of them for her pet's hair.
"It's so beautifully calm--isn't that splendid? We'll have a perfect
night. Listen, Miss Oliver--I can hear those old bells in Rainbow
Valley quite clearly. They've been hanging there for over ten years."
"Their wind chime always makes me think of the aerial, celestial music
Adam and Eve heard in Milton's Eden," responded Miss Oliver.
"We used to have such fun in Rainbow Valley when we were children,"
said Rilla dreamily.
Nobody ever played in Rainbow Valley now. It was very silent on summer
evenings. Walter liked to go there to read. Jem and Faith trysted there
considerably; Jerry and Nan went there to pursue uninterruptedly the
ceaseless wrangles and arguments on profound subjects that seemed to be
their preferred method of sweethearting. And Rilla had a beloved little
sylvan dell of her own there where she liked to sit and dream.
"I must run down to the kitchen before I go and show myself off to
Susan. She would never forgive me if I didn't."
Rilla whirled into the shadowy kitchen at Ingleside, where Susan was
prosaically darning socks, and lighted it up with her beauty. She wore
her green dress with its little pink daisy garlands, her silk stockings
and silver slippers. She had golden pansies in her hair and at her
creamy throat. She was so pretty and young and glowing that even Cousin
Sophia Crawford was compelled to admire her--and Cousin Sophia Crawford
admired few transient earthly things. Cousin Sophia and Susan had made
up, or ignored, their old feud since the former had come to live in the
Glen, and Cousin Sophia often came across in the evenings to make a
neighbourly call. Susan did not always welcome her rapturously for
Cousin Sophia was not what could be called an exhilarating companion.
"Some calls are visits and some are visitations, Mrs. Dr. dear," Susan
said once, and left it to be inferred that Cousin Sophia's were the
latter.
Cousin Sophia had a long, pale, wrinkled face, a long, thin nose, a
long, thin mouth, and very long, thin, pale hands, generally folded
resignedly on her black calico lap. Everything about her seemed long
and thin and pale. She looked mournfully upon Rilla Blythe and said
sadly,
"Is your hair all your own?"
"Of course it is," cried Rilla indignantly.
"Ah, well!" Cousin Sophia sighed. "It might be better for you if it
wasn't! Such a lot of hair takes from a person's strength. It's a sign
of consumption, I've heard, but I hope it won't turn out like that in
your case. I s'pose you'll all be dancing tonight--even the minister's
boys most likely. I s'pose his girls won't go that far. Ah, well, I
never held with dancing. I knew a girl once who dropped dead while she
was dancing. How any one could ever dance aga' after a judgment like
that I cannot comprehend."
"Did she ever dance again?" asked Rilla pertly.
"I told you she dropped dead. Of course she never danced again, poor
creature. She was a Kirke from Lowbridge. You ain't a-going off like
that with nothing on your bare neck, are you?"
"It's a hot evening," protested Rilla. "But I'll put on a scarf when we
go on the water."
"I knew of a boat load of young folks who went sailing on that harbour
forty years ago just such a night as this--just exactly such a night as
this," said Cousin Sophia lugubriously, "and they were upset and
drowned--every last one of them. I hope nothing like that'll happen to
you tonight. Do you ever try anything for the freckles? I used to find
plantain juice real good."
"You certainly should be a judge of freckles, Cousin Sophia," said
Susan, rushing to Rilla's defence. "You were more speckled than any
toad when you was a girl. Rilla's only come in summer but yours stayed
put, season in and season out; and you had not a ground colour like
hers behind them neither. You look real nice, Rilla, and that way of
fixing your hair is becoming. But you are not going to walk to the
harbour in those slippers, are you?"
"Oh, no. We'll all wear our old shoes to the harbour and carry our
slippers. Do you like my dress, Susan?"
"It minds me of a dress I wore when I was a girl," sighed Cousin Sophia
before Susan could reply. "It was green with pink posies on it, too,
and it was flounced from the waist to the hem. We didn't wear the
skimpy things girls wear nowadays. Ah me, times has changed and not for
the better I'm afraid. I tore a big hole in it that night and someone
spilled a cup of tea all over it. Ruined it completely. But I hope
nothing will happen to your dress. It orter to be a bit longer I'm
thinking--your legs are so terrible long and thin."
"Mrs. Dr. Blythe does not approve of little girls dressing like
grown-up ones," said Susan stiffly, intending merely a snub to Cousin
Sophia. But Rilla felt insulted. A little girl indeed! She whisked out
of the kitchen in high dudgeon. Another time she wouldn't go down to
show herself off to Susan--Susan, who thought nobody was grown up until
she was sixty! And that horrid Cousin Sophia with her digs about
freckles and legs! What business had an old--an old beanpole like that
to talk of anybody else being long and thin? Rilla felt all her
pleasure in herself and her evening clouded and spoiled. The very teeth
of her soul were set on edge and she could have sat down and cried.
But later on her spirits rose again when she found herself one of the
gay crowd bound for the Four Winds light.
The Blythes left Ingleside to the melancholy music of howls from Dog
Monday, who was locked up in the barn lest he make an uninvited guest
at the light. They picked up the Merediths in the village, and others
joined them as they walked down the old harbour road. Mary Vance,
resplendent in blue crepe, with lace overdress, came out of Miss
Cornelia's gate and attached herself to Rilla and Miss Oliver who were
walking together and who did not welcome her over-warmly. Rilla was not
very fond of Mary Vance. She had never forgotten the humiliating day
when Mary had chased her through the village with a dried codfish. Mary
Vance, to tell the truth, was not exactly popular with any of her set.
Still, they enjoyed her society--she had such a biting tongue that it
was stimulating. "Mary Vance is a habit of ours--we can't do without
her even when we are furious with her," Di Blythe had once said.
Most of the little crowd were paired off after a fashion. Jem walked
with Faith Meredith, of course, and Jerry Meredith with Nan Blythe. Di
and Walter were together, deep in confidential conversation which Rilla
envied.
Carl Meredith was walking with Miranda Pryor, more to torment Joe
Milgrave than for any other reason. Joe was known to have a strong
hankering for the said Miranda, which shyness prevented him from
indulging on all occasions. Joe might summon enough courage to amble up
beside Miranda if the night were dark, but here, in this moonlit dusk,
he simply could not do it. So he trailed along after the procession and
thought things not lawful to be uttered of Carl Meredith. Miranda was
the daughter of Whiskers-on-the-moon; she did not share her father's
unpopularity but she was not much run after, being a pale, neutral
little creature, somewhat addicted to nervous giggling. She had silvery
blonde hair and her eyes were big china blue orbs that looked as if she
had been badly frightened when she was little and had never got over
it. She would much rather have walked with Joe than with Carl, with
whom she did not feel in the least at home. Yet it was something of an
honour, too, to have a college boy beside her, and a son of the manse
at that.
Shirley Blythe was with Una Meredith and both were rather silent
because such was their nature. Shirley was a lad of sixteen, sedate,
sensible, thoughtful, full of a quiet humour. He was Susan's "little
brown boy" yet, with his brown hair, brown eyes, and clear brown skin.
He liked to walk with Una Meredith because she never tried to make him
talk or badgered him with chatter. Una was as sweet and shy as she had
been in the Rainbow Valley days, and her large, dark-blue eyes were as
dreamy and wistful. She had a secret, carefully-hidden fancy for Walter
Blythe that nobody but Rilla ever suspected. Rilla sympathized with it
and wished Walter would return it. She liked Una better than Faith,
whose beauty and aplomb rather overshadowed other girls--and Rilla did
not enjoy being overshadowed.
But just now she was very happy. It was so delightful to be tripping
with her friends down that dark, gleaming road sprinkled with its
little spruces and firs, whose balsam made all the air resinous around
them. Meadows of sunset afterlight were behind the westerning hills.
Before them was the shining harbour. A bell was ringing in the little
church over-harbour and the lingering dream-notes died around the dim,
amethystine points. The gulf beyond was still silvery blue in the
afterlight. Oh, it was all glorious--the clear air with its salt tang,
the balsam of the firs, the laughter of her friends. Rilla loved
life--its bloom and brilliance; she loved the ripple of music, the hum
of merry conversation; she wanted to walk on forever over this road of
silver and shadow. It was her first party and she was going to have a
splendid time. There was nothing in the world to worry about--not even
freckles and over-long legs--nothing except one little haunting fear
that nobody would ask her to dance. It was beautiful and satisfying
just to be alive--to be fifteen--to be pretty. Rilla drew a long breath
of rapture--and caught it midway rather sharply. Jem was telling some
story to Faith--something that had happened in the Balkan War.
"The doctor lost both his legs--they were smashed to pulp--and he was
left on the field to die. And he crawled about from man to man, to all
the wounded men round him, as long as he could, and did everything
possible to relieve their sufferings--never thinking of himself--he was
tying a bit of bandage round another man's leg when he went under. They
found them there, the doctor's dead hands still held the bandage tight,
the bleeding was stopped and the other man's life was saved. Some hero,
wasn't he, Faith? I tell you when I read that--"
Jem and Faith moved on out of hearing. Gertrude Oliver suddenly
shivered. Rilla pressed her arm sympathetically.
"Wasn't it dreadful, Miss Oliver? I don't know why Jem tells such
gruesome things at a time like this when we're all out for fun."
"Do you think it dreadful, Rilla? I thought it wonderful--beautiful.
Such a story makes one ashamed of ever doubting human nature. That
man's action was godlike. And how humanity responds to the ideal of
self-sacrifice. As for my shiver, I don't know what caused it. The
evening is certainly warm enough. Perhaps someone is walking over the
dark, starshiny spot that is to be my grave. That is the explanation
the old superstition would give. Well, I won't think of that on this
lovely night. Do you know, Rilla, that when night-time comes I'm always
glad I live in the country. We know the real charm of night here as
town dwellers never do. Every night is beautiful in the country--even
the stormy ones. I love a wild night storm on this old gulf shore. As
for a night like this, it is almost too beautiful--it belongs to youth
and dreamland and I'm half afraid of it."
"I feel as if I were part of it," said Rilla.
"Ah yes, you're young enough not to be afraid of perfect things. Well,
here we are at the House of Dreams. It seems lonely this summer. The
Fords didn't come?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Ford and Persis didn't. Kenneth did--but he stayed with
his mother's people over-harbour. We haven't seen a great deal of him
this summer. He's a little lame, so didn't go about very much."
"Lame? What happened to him?"
"He broke his ankle in a football game last fall and was laid up most
of the winter. He has limped a little ever since but it is getting
better all the time and he expects it will be all right before long. He
has been up to Ingleside only twice."
"Ethel Reese is simply crazy about him," said Mary Vance. "She hasn't
got the sense she was born with where he is concerned. He walked home
with her from the over-harbour church last prayer-meeting night and the
airs she has put on since would really make you weary of life. As if a
Toronto boy like Ken Ford would ever really think of a country girl
like Ethel!"
Rilla flushed. It did not matter to her if Kenneth Ford walked home
with Ethel Reese a dozen times--it did not! Nothing that he did
mattered to her. He was ages older than she was. He chummed with Nan
and Di and Faith, and looked upon her, Rilla, as a child whom he never
noticed except to tease. And she detested Ethel Reese and Ethel Reese
hated her--always had hated her since Walter had pummelled Dan so
notoriously in Rainbow Valley days; but why need she be thought beneath
Kenneth Ford's notice because she was a country girl, pray? As for Mary
Vance, she was getting to be an out-and-out gossip and thought of
nothing but who walked home with people!
There was a little pier on the harbour shore below the House of Dreams,
and two boats were moored there. One boat was skippered by Jem Blythe,
the other by Joe Milgrave, who knew all about boats and was nothing
loth to let Miranda Pryor see it. They raced down the harbour and Joe's
boat won. More boats were coming down from the Harbour Head and across
the harbour from the western side. Everywhere there was laughter. The
big white tower on Four Winds Point was overflowing with light, while
its revolving beacon flashed overhead. A family from Charlottetown,
relatives of the light's keeper, were summering at the light, and they
were giving the party to which all the young people of Four Winds and
Glen St. Mary and over-harbour had been invited. As Jem's boat swung in
below the lighthouse Rilla desperately snatched off her shoes and
donned her silver slippers behind Miss Oliver's screening back. A
glance had told her that the rock-cut steps climbing up to the light
were lined with boys, and lighted by Chinese lanterns, and she was
determined she would not walk up those steps in the heavy shoes her
mother had insisted on her wearing for the road. The slippers pinched
abominably, but nobody would have suspected it as Rilla tripped
smilingly up the steps, her soft dark eyes glowing and questioning, her
colour deepening richly on her round, creamy cheeks. The very minute
she reached the top of the steps an over-harbour boy asked her to dance
and the next moment they were in the pavilion that had been built
seaward of the lighthouse for dances. It was a delightful spot, roofed
over with fir-boughs and hung with lanterns. Beyond was the sea in a
radiance that glowed and shimmered, to the left the moonlit crests and
hollows of the sand-dunes, to the right the rocky shore with its inky
shadows and its crystalline coves. Rilla and her partner swung in among
the dancers; she drew a long breath of delight; what witching music Ned
Burr of the Upper Glen was coaxing from his fiddle--it was really like
the magical pipes of the old tale which compelled all who heard them to
dance. How cool and fresh the gulf breeze blew; how white and wonderful
the moonlight was over everything! This was life--enchanting life.
Rilla felt as if her feet and her soul both had wings.