CHAPTER XXXI

Autumncame.LateSeptemberwithcoolnights.Theyhadtoforsaketheverandahbuttheykindledafireinthebigfireplaceandsatbeforeitwithjestandlaughter.Theyleftthedoorsopen,andBanjoandGoodLuckcameandwentatpleasure.SometimestheysatgravelyonthebearskinrugbetweenBarneyandValancysometimestheyslunkoffintothemysteryofthechillnightoutside.Thestarssmoulderedinthehorizonmiststhroughtheoldoriel.Thehaunting,persistentcroonofthepine-treesfilledtheair.Thelittlewavesbegantomakesoft,sobbingsplashesontherocksbelowthemintherisingwinds.Theyneedednolightbutthefirelightthatsometimesleapedupandrevealedthem—sometimesshroudedtheminshadow.WhenthenightwindrosehigherBarneywouldshutthedoorandlightalampandreadtoher—poetryandessaysandgorgeous,dimchroniclesofancientwars.Barneyneverwouldreadnovels:hevowedtheyboredhim.Butsometimesshereadthemherself,curleduponthewolfskins,laughingaloudinpeace.ForBarneywasnotoneofthoseaggravatingpeoplewhocanneverhearyousmilingaudiblyoversomethingyou’vereadwithoutinquiringplacidly,“Whatisthejoke?” October—withagorgeouspageantofcoloraroundMistawis,intowhichValancyplungedhersoul.Neverhadsheimaginedanythingsosplendid.Agreat,tintedpeace.Blue,wind-winnowedskies.Sunlightsleepinginthegladesofthatfairyland.Longdreamypurpledayspaddlingidlyintheircanoealongshoresanduptheriversofcrimsonandgold.Asleepy,redhunter’smoon.Enchantedtempeststhatstrippedtheleavesfromthetreesandheapedthemalongtheshores.Flyingshadowsofclouds.Whathadallthesmug,opulentlandsoutfronttocomparewiththis? November—withuncannywitcheryinitschangedtrees.Withmurkyredsunsetsflaminginsmokycrimsonbehindthewesteringhills.Withdeardayswhentheausterewoodswerebeautifulandgraciousinadignifiedserenityoffoldedhandsandclosedeyes—daysfullofafine,palesunshinethatsiftedthroughthelate,leaflessgoldofthejuniper-treesandglimmeredamongthegreybeeches,lightingupevergreenbanksofmossandwashingthecolonnadesofthepines.Dayswithahigh-sprungskyofflawlessturquoise.Dayswhenanexquisitemelancholyseemedtohangoverthelandscapeanddreamaboutthelake.Butdays,too,ofthewildblacknessofgreat