“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 grownup 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 overlong 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