BY WAY OF THE STARS

The Golden Road by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. BY WAY OF THE STARS

CHAPTER XIX. BY WAY OF THE STARS

But for two of us the adventures of the night were not yet over. Silence settled down over the old house—the eerie, whisperful, creeping silence of night. Felix and Dan were already sound asleep; I was drifting near the coast o’ dreams when I was aroused by a light tap on the door.

“Bev, are you asleep?” came in the Story Girl’s whisper.

“No, what is it?”

“S-s-h. Get up and dress and come out. I want you.”

With a good deal of curiosity and some misgiving I obeyed. What was in the wind now? Outside in the hall I found the Story Girl, with a candle in her hand, and her hat and jacket.

“Where are you going?” I whispered in amazement.

“Hush. I’ve got to go to the school and you must come with me. I left my coral necklace there. The clasp came loose and I was so afraid I’d lose it that I took it off and put it in the bookcase. I was feeling so upset when the concert was over that I forgot all about it.”

The coral necklace was a very handsome one which had belonged to the Story Girl’s mother. She had never been permitted to wear it before, and it had only been by dint of much coaxing that she had induced Aunt Janet to let her wear it to the concert.

“But there’s no sense in going for it in the dead of night,” I objected. “It will be quite safe. You can go for it in the morning.”

“Lizzie Paxton and her daughter are going to clean the school tomorrow, and I heard Lizzie say tonight she meant to be at it by five o’clock to get through before the heat of the day. You know perfectly well what Liz Paxton’s reputation is. If she finds that necklace I’ll never see it again. Besides, if I wait till the morning, Aunt Janet may find out that I left it there and she’d never let me wear it again. No, I’m going for it now. If you’re afraid,” added the Story Girl with delicate scorn, “of course you needn’t come.”

Afraid! I’d show her!

“Come on,” I said.

We slipped out of the house noiselessly and found ourselves in the unutterable solemnity and strangeness of a dark night. It was a new experience, and our hearts thrilled and our nerves tingled to the charm of it. Never had we been abroad before at such an hour. The world around us was not the world of daylight. ‘Twas an alien place, full of weird, evasive enchantment and magicry.

Only in the country can one become truly acquainted with the night. There it has the solemn calm of the infinite. The dim wide fields lie in silence, wrapped in the holy mystery of darkness. A wind, loosened from wild places far away, steals out to blow over dewy, star-lit, immemorial hills. The air in the pastures is sweet with the hush of dreams, and one may rest here like a child on its mother’s breast.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” breathed the Story Girl as we went down the long hill. “Do you know, I can forgive Sara Ray now. I thought tonight I never could—but now it doesn’t matter any more. I can even see how funny it was. Oh, wasn’t it funny? ‘DEAD’ in that squeaky little voice of Sara’s! I’ll just behave to her tomorrow as if nothing had happened. It seems so long ago now, here in the night.”

Neither of us ever forgot the subtle delight of that stolen walk. A spell of glamour was over us. The breezes whispered strange secrets of elf-haunted glens, and the hollows where the ferns grew were brimmed with mystery and romance. Ghostlike scents crept out of the meadows to meet us, and the fir wood before we came to the church was a living sweetness of Junebells growing in abundance.

Junebells have another and more scientific name, of course. But who could desire a better name than Junebells? They are so perfect in their way that they seem to epitomize the very scent and charm of the forest, as if the old wood’s daintiest thoughts had materialized in blossom; and not all the roses by Bendameer’s stream are as fragrant as a shallow sheet of Junebells under the boughs of fir.

There were fireflies abroad that night, too, increasing the gramarye of it. There is certainly something a little supernatural about fireflies. Nobody pretends to understand them. They are akin to the tribes of fairy, survivals of the elder time when the woods and hills swarmed with the little green folk. It is still very easy to believe in fairies when you see those goblin lanterns glimmering among the fir tassels.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said the Story Girl in rapture. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. I’m glad I left my necklace. And I am glad you are with me, Bev. The others wouldn’t understand so well. I like you because I don’t have to talk to you all the time. It’s so nice to walk with someone you don’t have to talk to. Here is the graveyard. Are you frightened to pass it, Bev?”

“No, I don’t think I’m frightened,” I answered slowly, “but I have a queer feeling.”

“So have I. But it isn’t fear. I don’t know what it is. I feel as if something was reaching out of the graveyard to hold me—something that wanted life—I don’t like it—let’s hurry. But isn’t it strange to think of all the dead people in there who were once alive like you and me. I don’t feel as if I could EVER die. Do you?”

“No, but everybody must. Of course we go on living afterwards, just the same. Don’t let’s talk of such things here,” I said hurriedly.

When we reached the school I contrived to open a window. We scrambled in, lighted a lamp and found the missing necklace. The Story Girl stood on the platform and gave an imitation of the catastrophe of the evening that made me shout with laughter. We prowled around for sheer delight over being there at an unearthly hour when everybody supposed we were sound asleep in our beds. It was with regret that we left, and we walked home as slowly as we could to prolong the adventure.

“Let’s never tell anyone,” said the Story Girl, as we reached home. “Let’s just have it as a secret between us for ever and ever—something that nobody else knows a thing about but you and me.”

“We’d better keep it a secret from Aunt Janet anyhow,” I whispered, laughing. “She’d think we were both crazy.”

“It’s real jolly to be crazy once in a while,” said the Story Girl.

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