“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