Carl's line flew with a light cast into the sparkling pond.
The wind rustled in the grass, as Carl glanced lightly in Shirley's direction and asked, "Are you going to court the girl you danced with at the Collings' wedding, Terry was her name, Di's roommate?"
Shirley looked up, looking genuinely surprised, from an issue of Le Navire d'Argent, which had a very interesting story about a pilot, and sweeping his thick hair back with a carefree gesture, Shirley smiled and said, "Why do you think so?"
Carl looked at his line intensely, for a few moments, before answering, "Because you usually plan everything, and you've always said that no one compares to Susan, but I've never seen you so interested in anyone before."
There was a strange stiffness in Carl's demeanor, which melted when Shirley's rich laugh, which was rarely heard, bubbled up. Wiping his eyes lightly, Shirley replied cheerfully, "I haven't thought about it that way, she is only a penpal."
Surprisingly earnestly, even doggedly Carl set his rod down on the grass, and turned to look at Shirley. Carl's face was serious, the sun shining softly on his golden-brown hair, which had honey-tinted streaks, as he said quietly, a little sharply, " An extremely charming one, I might say. You fit together, and you seem to belong together. Your stoicness and her, charm, even in stillness, she seems to be smiling, it must be something in her features. She seems to have the talent of teasing that vaulted Blythe reserve down a little, as she can make you laugh, or so I had observed."
Furrowing his brows, Shirley remarked softly, " You seem to have thought about it a lot, but I say that things are not as they seem. I danced with Terry because she was there, and because I thereby avoided dancing with Irene Howard."
Carl's deep blue eye was open and direct, as he stated, " Not yet, but they may be, there is no reason why you cannot marry if the right girl comes to your way."
Suddenly restless, Shirley tapped his fingers on the silver cigar case, as he made a short, sharp, salute to Carl, as he quietly said, " Likewise, old chum."
Carl did not answer. Then he sighed quietly and said, " To be quite honest, I don't think so. Not that I could, of course, I just don't want to. I just want to sit and study all the insects of Christendom, and the fauna, that's all, and I think that's what will happen, although nothing is certain."
Shirley nodded, as he did so, he remembered Mother Anne's stories of the beloved, quiet Matthew Cuthbert, who seemed to have been perfectly content with his life. Cautiously Shirley said, "I think you're right, marriage, it's always been something to do, to accomplish, like Sunday School, or Catechism. I never thought love, the kind of happiness our siblings have, would ever come my way, that kind of faerie-spell love, of Bard's sonnet's kind of way."
With a soft smile, Shirley said, "Well, now at least I know why Mother Susan has seemed so worried ever since Di and Terry left the Glen to travel back to Toronto."
Shirley was silent, but there was nothing somber in the silence, only the usual, golden companionship, as Carl took up his fishing rod again and cast the line into the water.
In Ingelside, the glittering piano scales shimmered, as Victor Walter Chase sat at the piano, slowly he began to play something that Shirley vaguely recognized Una had also played on occasion at HayCorner. Watching Victor play, Shirley silently compared his features with the nearby photograph of Walter, and thoughtfully, Shirley walked to the Bible, and opened the front page, and glanced at it thoughtfully. As the sparkling, bright music slowly died away, as Victor Chase, was rising from the piano, Shirley's voice suddenly interrupted his passage across the room as he said gravely, "Victor, when I first met you, I was startled, for you reminded me so much of my brother who fell at Courcelette."
Victor Chase nodded and said, "I thought so, because I saw his picture, here, on some kind of altar, I don't really notice it myself, if there is any resemblance."
Shirley looked at Victor Chase closely, as he said, "Well, it was a matter of first impressions, but still I was left wondering. Has my mother told you anything about her background, by any chance?"
The answer was a light, graceful, almost feminine shake of the glistening blonde head. "Does the last name Wallis mean anything to you?" Sirley demanded in abrubt way. Victor Chase smiled mischievously as he said with regret painting his expressive features, " Unfortunately not. It would have been lovely if it had turned out to be some distant kinship, but real life is no fairy tale."
Shirley nodded emphatically.
In the hallway, Anne Blythe sighed softly, hearing Victor Chase's hushed words, as the sun of cold realism murdered the fragile hope in her heart.
At Douglas House, Una Cornelia ran unevenly, into Una's lap, and Lionel Stephen wept softly, Mary Vance was quietly stroking her youngest's blond head with one hand, as she nodded practically towards the large yellow teapot. Una poured herself a cup of excellent tea, and looked curiously around Mary's realm, which was extremely tidy, despite the slight chaos caused by the small children, barely toddlers, that was part of life.
When Mary Vance had put her children down for a nap, she smiled good-naturedly at Una, and remarked, "You seemed as nervous as a flea in church when you arrived here, so I suppose you might want some advice?" Mary Vance laughed merrily, seeing Una's slightly dismayed expression, she elaborated, teasingly, " You blushed like a rose when I happened to meet you in the yard, after the Collings' wedding, in the evening, or it was almost night, I suppose something happened perhaps?"
Mary Vance noticed that Una's posture was stiff, so soothingly she continued, "Nobody stones anyone for kissing, well was it pleasant?"
A slight blush rose to Una's ears, as she muttered something in a barely audible voice.
Mary Vance, snorted audibly, as she said, " Typical, no I don't mean you, my dearest Una. Next time, and I swear there will be a next time, for everyone can see that Mr. Chase is interested in you, take the initiative, think of cooking, first steps were the hardest, and now, it all comes without thinking, does it not?"
Una looked up into Mary Vance's eyes, a look of deep, silent appeal in it. Slowly Mary Vance smiled, flicked her thick, blond, heavy braid off her shoulder, leaned forward, cupped Una's face between her rough, practical fingers, and pressed a light kiss to her lips. Una gasped, as Mary Vance, drew back as she said matter-of-factly, "Like so, Una dear, there's no need to make too big a deal of it, though some do. Trust yourself, and do what feels right when the time is right, you know."
Flushing, Una avoided Mary Vance's gaze slightly, in her old way, as she remarked quietly, sharply, "How did you know that I have not?" Mary Vance looked gravely at Una, as she replied, "You told me, just now, and you never participated in any of the Glenian ring-kissing-games, so, it was not hard to deduce it."
Mary Vance, warmly touched Una's hand, as she grinned and said, "Keep me posted, how's your last year at Redmond going?"
Una, rising slowly from the narrow chair that was the mark of Marshall Elliot's work, warmly embraced Mary Vance, as she said, " Naturally."
Afterwards, as Miller Douglas glanced at Mary who was knitting a sock, as he inquired, "Dearest, did you get to talk to Una?" Mary Vance, nodding softly, remarked with a light sly tone, "Una was Una, we had a varied time, although I think she would have done well without my advice."
In Kingsport, Professor Mabel Sorel starts awake, there is cold sweat running down her temples.
The milky morning light, it shimmers, it is too bright.
Wearily, Mabel Sorel brushes her hair from her forehead.
Through the shadowy mirror the tears flow, silently from her eyes, in rivulets, as she adjusts the collar of her coral-red dress.
The teapot whistles shrilly.
The sweet, creamy smell of cocoa is too sweet, too melting, it is too much.
On the immaculately tidy table is a cream-white sealed envelope. Sheet music is everywhere, in stacks, on bookshelves, in heavy folders. On the wall is a framed drawing of Schubert.