She even put on a grotesque old Irish woman's costume
and acted the part in the dialogue which Miranda Pryor had not taken.
But she did not give her "brogue" the inimitable twist she had given it
in the practices, and her readings lacked their usual fire and appeal.
As she stood before the audience she saw one face only--that of the
handsome, dark-haired lad sitting beside her mother--and she saw that
same face in the trenches--saw it lying cold and dead under the stars--
saw it pining in prison--saw the light of its eyes blotted out--saw a
hundred horrible things as she stood there on the beflagged platform of
the Glen hall with her own face whiter than the milky crab-blossoms in
her hair. Between her numbers she walked restlessly up and down the
little dressing-room. Would the concert never end!
It ended at last. Olive Kirk rushed up and told her exultantly that they
had made a hundred dollars. "That's good," Rilla said mechanically. Then
she was away from them all--oh, thank God, she was away from them all--
Walter was waiting for her at the door. He put his arm through hers
silently and they went together down the moonlit road. The frogs were
singing in the marshes, the dim, ensilvered fields of home lay all
around them. The spring night was lovely and appealing. Rilla felt that
its beauty was an insult to her pain. She would hate moonlight for ever.
"You know?" said Walter.
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