Rilla of the Lighthouse

by Grace May North

The skidding car was turning into a fashionable side street. Soon they were gliding up the drive of a private residence. They stopped under a wide, sheltering portico and when the door was flung aside Gene leaped to the pavement to help the girls alight.

Brights lights burned within a handsome grey stone house, and a moment later the door was opened to admit them into a festive scene where there was youth and music, laughter and joy.

It was the home of Faith Morley’s Aunt Louise, and this was one of the parties to attend which the girls had begged Gene to return to the big city.

An hour later when he had danced, first with Faith, his hostess, and then with Helen and Gladys Goodsell, he went in search of Marianne, whom he found talking with a tall, lank youth in military uniform. The proud girl paid scant attention to the newcomer. Gene, knowing that it was his duty, if not his pleasure, to ask each of his sister’s friends to dance with him, waited until there was a pause in their conversation before making the request. The French girl thanked him effusively, of course, but declined, saying that she did not dance the old-fashioned American waltz. Then she turned back to the young cadet, who, if the truth were known, was boring her exceedingly. Gene excused himself and, seemingly unnoticed, walked away.

The slow, dreamy waltz music was being played by the palm-hidden orchestra and as it was the only dance for which Gene cared, he sought his sister, but was just in time to see her glide away with his pal, David Davison. He did not care to dance with anyone else. He felt too weary to be entertaining and so he slipped across the hall into the dimly lighted library, where a log was burning on the wide hearth, casting its warm glow over the low bookshelves and the statues and beautiful paintings.

He was glad no one was there. He wanted to be alone, to rest, he assured himself. But what he really wished was to remember.

He sank down into the big, comfortable chair in front of the fire which had recently been deserted by Mr. Morley. An open book and a magazine lay nearby.

How good it seemed to be away from the noise, if laughter and chatter and music could be called by a name so plebian.

Then he listened to the other sounds as he sank deeper into the soft depths of the chair and relaxed, stretching out before the warmth of the blaze.

How the storm whistled and moaned about the house and down the chimney. Closing his eyes, he tried to picture what the storm would be like about Tunkett. He glanced at the small clock over the mantle. Ten-thirty. The house adjoining the tower would be in darkness, but the great lamp would be swinging. Perhaps the blizzard was keeping Muriel awake, and he wondered what she might be thinking about.