Indeed, unconsciously, the old man had been taking the covering from the instrument.
“That’s right, that’s right,” Thomas McBirney said. “Tune up, old friend. Then we’ll know that it’s a party for sure.”
And tune up he did. At first it seemed only to be tuning, and they couldn’t tell where he left off getting ready and when he began to play. But by and by there were odd little sounds that might have been squirrels chittering, or birds stirring in their nests. Then they grew sweeter and more liquid and seemed like water running over stones and wind singing in the trees. And by and by the whistle of a robinbroke in and then a thrush sang his soul out at the gates of Heaven; then the night seemed to be falling, kindly, as if it would give rest to all the weary. After that it was black for a moment or two, as if a storm was gathering. There seemed to be distant sounds of thunder. But it passed quickly as some nights do, if one is, for example, fifteen, and then the dawn came over the hills, dancing. There must have been blithe maidens ushering it in—for who else would have had such light and lilting feet? Yes, they were dancing down over the hills, scattering flowers, and the birds were perched upon their shoulders and rosy clouds were wreathing them.
At least that was the lovely picture that Haystack Thompson’s music brought to Barbara Summers as she sat holding her little son, and then the next thing she knew all of her friends really were dancing. Ma McBirney was dancing with Mr. Carson, and Pa McBirney had Annie Laurie for a partner, and Sam had Azalea, and Carin was with Dick Heller, and Jim was footing it with Hi’s little sister, and Hi and his mother were making a show of hopping around.
Only Absalom Summers wasn’t dancing,because he was the Methodist minister and didn’t believe in it—at least he said he didn’t. He sat beating juba with his great hands, making a terrific rhythmical accompaniment and crying:
“That’s it—keep it up—go right along on the road to destruction—keep it up there, McBirney—I’m here to see you through.” He threw back his head with its tossed straight hair and gave vent to a roar of laughter.
“You’re a comfortable preacher to have around,” declared Mr. Carson, stopping to catch his breath.
“Comfortable!” roared Mr. Summers, giving a twist to Mr. Carson’s meaning. “I never was so comfortable in my life.”
Miss Adnah and Miss Zillah were helping Ma McBirney to set the table now, and the young people were dashing about on errands, and more friends were coming, some from over the mountains and some up from town, and by and by they all sat down to the table and ate together. There was fried chicken, and rice cooked with cheese, and beaten biscuit, and golden butter in little pats, and cooling drinks of lime and orange and mint, and cakes—three kinds—and ice cream which the Carson’s hadbrought up in great freezers. It is necessary to tell what there was to eat, because eating is a very important part of a party.
And then there were the gifts to see. Almost everyone had brought a gift. Even some of the people who were passing and who had not known there was to be a party at all, and who perhaps did not know the McBirneys very well, had fished out something from their wagons for the orphan girl who had made so many people love her.
So there was the little gold watch from Mrs. Carson, and the ivory toilet set from Carin, a set of Tennyson from Mr. Carson, and a handmade petticoat from Annie Laurie, and some old eardrops of pink coral made into a brooch by Miss Adnah, and a knitted shoulder shawl from Miss Zillah, and a kind of zither thing that Sam had made himself, and a box of sweets from Dick Heller, and—are you out of breath? Because there are ever so many more things. There was a rag rug, beautifully woven, from Mrs. Kitchell, and a whisk broom holder from Hi, and a wonderful melon-shaped basket, fine and delicate, from Haystack Thompson, who knew more than most about weaving baskets, andthere was a white parasol from Ma McBirney—who never could afford a parasol for herself—and a new riding whip from Pa McBirney, and from Jim a new curry comb which he said he would use when he curried Paprika, the pony. And then other people, about whom you know nothing, brought their contributions. Everything was laid out in that pleasant, open chamber, which it will be remembered divided the McBirney house in two.
The people who came to this party weren’t the sort whose singing is ruined by something good to eat. After the dishes had been cleared away they sat where they could look off at the valley as the shadows began to stretch long and purple down from the ridges.
And then everyone regretfully realized that it was time to go home. So there was a great mounting of horses and piling into wagons, and Jim and Hi held stirrups and helped ladies into the high mountain wagons—the sort you can turn the wheel under if you have to make a short curve—and presently they were all off and away.
Azalea, all in her pretty white, slipped on Paprika’s back and rode for a way with her guests. But at the first turn she shouted hergood-byes to them and turned back up the mountain. It was getting to be dusky now even along her high path, and the coolness of the evening was settling about her. It was a fragrant dusk, for the summer was at its height and sent out a thousand pleasant perfumes. She brought her pony to a halt as she reached the top of the ridge, and waited for a moment to let herself sink fairly into the place and the hour. The trees, whispering in her ear, seemed her close friends; the night was like a protectress; the little sleeping creatures in the trees and the holes of the ground seemed close and kind.
For once that eager nature of hers, which asked for so full a measure of joy and delight, was satisfied. She spoke a word to her little mare, which began picking out the road again with her sure feet. As Paprika drew near the house she whinnied, and Azalea laughingly imitated her.
“Send her along, sis,” shouted Jim from somewhere in the gloom. “I’ll put her up.”
“Thanks,” called back Azalea. She slipped from her saddle and ran into the lighted room. Pa McBirney was smoking, Ma McBirney was still busy putting thing to rights. Azalea gaveher a gentle push which sent her into her own deep-armed rocker.
“Daughter will do the rest,” she said.
“Oh, my dear,” protested Mary McBirney, “aren’t you tired? You’ve been going like a streak all day.”
“Yes, but I didn’t begin before sunup the way you did, mother. My, my, what a happy day it’s been! What a happy day! And a little more than a year ago—” she could not go on.
All three were silent, thinking of the changes a year had brought. Azalea had remembered that morning to trim with flowers the graves beneath the Pride of India tree, so that they would, in their way, be included in the festival. For Ma McBirney had taught her how love can live on though death comes between, and how sorrow can be turned into sweetness.
That seemed to be the secret of the whole thing anyway—turning sorrow into sweetness.
Finally Azalea spoke again. She had just set the best dishes in their place and folded up the table cover.
“And the girls,” she said musingly, “they’ve come to me too, this year—Carin and Annie Laurie. Dear me, but we do have fun!”
“Yes,” responded Ma McBirney sympathetically, “I never did see three girls have a better understanding of each other, or ones who enjoyed each other’s society more. What is it Mrs. Carson calls it?”
“The Triple Alliance,” smiled Azalea. “And now, since it’s all right about Annie Laurie’s money, I really and truly do think we’re the happiest girls in the world.”
THE END