On the night before Janet’s departure a dance was arranged, to which the clerical staff of the Cheakamus Mill was invited. Gillis promised a special feature on the programme in the form of an old-fashioned square-dance with his “redshirts” as the performers.
All that day the skies drizzled continuously; lake and mountain were hidden under a heavy mist. The inclement weather did not dampen the ardour of the merry crowd, who, in slickers and oilskins of every description, gathered flowers and trees to decorate the big dining-room that was to be used as a dance-hall.
That night, lights gleamed from every window of the big room, which had undergone a sudden transformation. The walls were one mass of wild flowers, and on the beams overhead small cedars and jackpines stood upright in rows, adding a pungent odour to the air, already burdened with the sweet smell of wild flowers. The music of the phonograph flowed out of the open door to vibrate softly through the dripping trees.
Connie learned of the dance, and after dark she slipped quietly down into the valley. She crouched by the open window, heedless of the rain dripping from the eaves, her eyes glued upon the enchanting scene within. She saw Donald and Janet gliding across the floor, and she marvelled at the grace of their movements. The hum of talk, the constant ripple of feminine laughter, the rustle of silken skirts, were all foreign to Connie. She felt a touch of intense and utter loneliness, like a stranger in a strange land.
Janet seemed to have thrown aside her cloak of reserve; she brimmed over with an unwonted gaiety, but at times her big brown eyes held a troubled look as they rested on Donald.
Gillis’s “redshirts” filed in to give an exhibition of old-fashioned dancing. Half the men wore handkerchiefs tied about their arms to indicate that they were impersonating ladies. Blackie played the violin, while “Fightin’” Jack’s roaring voice did the “callin’ off.” Gillis informed the company that Blackie “didn’t know a note of music from a post-hole.” But what he lacked in technical knowledge was made up in the immense volume of sound he produced from the instrument, and the speed he set for the whirling dancers to follow soon had them dripping with perspiration. There were shouts of Homeric laughter, big feet thumped the floor as they girated through the intricate steps of the quadrille, and above all sounded the hoarse voice of “Fightin’” Jack in the colourful jargon of “callin’ off.”