Nothing had been saved from the spare room. It was far down the upstairs hall in the ell and the hall had been too full of smoke to reach it.
Peter was standing among the crowd. He had been among the first to arrive and had worked heroically. And now they had not saved the jug. The jug Donna wanted so much—the old jug Aunt Becky had told him tales of in his childhood—the jug that had ruined his elopement and wrecked his hopes. Peter snatched a reeking coat that was hanging on the fence, flung it over his head and dashed into the house. He must save that jug for Donna.
Everyone yelled after him and then went mad. The yard was filled with dancing, shouting frantic figures, among which suddenly appeared a raving maniac of a boy from Penny Dark’s who gasped out a horrifying question. Where was Donna Dark? She had been staying all night with Mrs. Dandy—she had been sleeping in the spare room—was she safe?
Some women fainted with a better excuse than Mrs. Dandy. Some went shrieking about for Donna. The men gazed at each other and then at the burning house. They shook their heads. It was a madman’s attempt to enter that house now. Peter would be burned to death, trying to save Donna—for nobody now doubted it was Donna he had gone to save. He must have heard what the boy was saying before anyone else did.
Peter had gone up the blazing staircase three steps at a time, ready to plunge into the inferno of smoke and flame that had been the hall, when he stumbled and almost fell over the unconscious form of a woman lying on the floor at the head of the stairs.
Good God, who was it? She must be rescued, jug or no jug. He picked her up and turned back with a feeling of regret. No hope of the jug now. Poor Donna would be bitterly disappointed. He stumbled down the stairs and out of the door into the seething crowd. The yells and shouts changed suddenly to hurrahs. Peter was a hero. Eager hands took his slim white burden from him. Drowned John, who had just driven in, having heard of the fire but not of Donna’s danger until he arrived there—was shaking his hand and sobbing, with tears running down his face.
“God bless you, Peter—you saved her—God bless you for saving Donna—my poor little motherless girl—” Drowned John was almost maudlin—people had to lead him away and calm him down, while Peter stood very still and tried to realize that it was Donna whom he had carried out of Dandy Dark’s burning house. Donna!
“She kem up today to help me make the baked damson preserve,” sobbed Mrs. Dandy on the kitchen lounge at Penny Dark’s. “I never did or could seem able to bake damsons so as to please Dandy. Donna knew how—Dandy’s mother taught her ’fore she died—so I asked her if she’d come up and do ’em for me. They’re all burned up now. It looked like rain at supper-time and Dandy was away—he’s always away now, it seems to me—so I told Donna she might as well stay all night. Oh, dearie me, to think wha’ might have happened!”
“The jug’s gone, though,” said William Y. gloomily.
“The jug? It ain’t broken?” cried Mrs. Dandy shrilly.
“It’s burned up with all the rest of the spare-room things.”
“Oh, no, it ain’t.” Mrs. Dandy looked very sly and cunning. “When I put Donna to sleep in the spare room I took the jug in its box outen the closet and took it down to my own room. I didn’t know what Dandy might of said to me if I’d left that jug in the same room with anybody. Folks say I’m silly but I’m not so silly as that. And when I heard Tyler yelling fire I grabbed holt of that box first thing along with the old teapot with the broken spout I keep my bit of money in, and run out with them and dropped them over the fence into the burdocks in the back yard. I reckon you’ll find them there.”
Find them there they did, much to everybody’s relief. Donna had come to her senses and had been taken to the hospital, and everybody went home through the pale-yellow, windy dawn, telling tales about the fire. One of the funniest was that of Penny Dark, who, summoned to the telephone from his bed, had lost his head and torn over to Dandy’s place in his pajamas. Worse still, in trying to climb over the picket fence back of Dandy’s barn, he slipped and the waist cord of his pajamas had caught on a picket. There poor Penny had hung, yelping piteously, until someone had heard him above all the din and rescued him. Most people thought it served him right for wearing pajamas. It had been suspected for several years that he did but nobody ever was really sure, for old Aunt Ruth had kept his secret well.
“And Happy Dark is home,” said Sim Dark. “Walked in last night after his mother had gone to bed, ate the supper she’d left, and then went to sleep in his own room. She didn’t know it till he come down to breakfast this morning. Said he’d met an old crony in Singapore who gave him an old Charlottetown paper to read. It was the one where that fool reporter had writ up the story of the jug. Happy said he thought he might as well come home and see what his chances were for it. His mother’s so uplifted she can hardly talk. Just sits and looks at him.”
But among all the events of that night, the really tragic one was not talked over at the clan breakfast-tables because it was not known until several days later. Christopher Dark, drunk as usual, had run in at the kitchen door of the burning building unseen of anybody, and had been killed by a falling beam. People supposed he must have been making a crazy effort to save the jug. The clan was properly stirred up over the dreadful end of poor Chris, but under all their horror was a calm conviction that everything was for the best. One disgrace to the clan was ended.
Murray Dark looked at his house proudly when he came home from the funeral.
“We’ll soon have a mistress for you now,” he said.
Donna sent for Peter as soon as she was allowed to see anybody, and begged him to forgive her. She knew now that he really did love her, in spite of everything, or he would never have dashed into that blazing house to save her. Peter did not undeceive her. He remembered that he had once heard Stanton Grundy say that life would be unbearable if we didn’t believe a few lies. The deception sat lightly on Peter’s conscience, for he knew that if he had dreamed for a moment that Donna was, or even might be, in that doomed house he would have gone through it from cellar to attic for her.
“But no more eloping,” said Donna. “I’ll marry you in the open, in spite of Father’s teeth.”
Drowned John, however, showed no teeth. He told Donna that since Peter had saved her life he deserved to get her and she could go and photograph lions in Africa with his blessing. The first time Peter went to Drowned John’s after Donna came home, Drowned John shook hands genially with him and took him out to see his favorite pig. Peter concluded that, after all, Drowned John was a great old boy.
“Well, here’s congratulations,” said Roger, meeting Peter coming beamingly out of the west gate.
“Thanks. And I hear you’re to be congratulated, too.”
Roger’s face hardened.
“I don’t know. Are congratulations in order if you are going to marry a girl who is in love with another man?”
“So? It’s that way still?”
“Still.”
“And you are going to marry her?”
“I am. Congratulate me now if you dare.”
6
Joscelyn Dark wakened one September morning, knowing that something was going to happen that day. She had received some sign in her sleep. She sat up and looked out of her window. The sunlight of dawn was striking on Treewoofe, although the lower slopes were still in shadow. Around it golden grain fields lay in the beauty of harvesting. The air was rose and silver and crystal. The house seemed to beckon to her. All at once she knew what was to happen that day. She would go to Hugh and ask him if he could forgive her.
She had wanted to go ever since the night she had met Mrs. Conrad, but she had not been able to summon up enough courage. And now, in some mysterious way, the courage had come. She would learn the truth. Whatever it might be, sweet or bitter, it would be more bearable than this intolerable suspense.
She could not go before
evening. The day seemed long; it hated to go out; it lingered on the red roads, on the tops of the silver dunes, on the red ploughed summer fallow on the shoulder of Treewoofe. Not until it had really gone and the full moon was shining over the Treewoofe birches did Joscelyn dare to set out. Her mother and Aunt Rachel had gone to prayer-meeting, so that there was no one to question her. Old Miller Dark shortly overtook her in his buggy and offered her a “lift,” which Joscelyn accepted because she knew it would offend poor old Miller if she refused. In her high rapt mood she did not want to see or ride with anyone. Old Miller was in a great good humor; he had just about finished his history of the clan. Meant to have it published in book form, and would she subscribe for a copy? Joscelyn said she would take two; she wondered if old Miller had put anything about her and Hugh in. He was quite capable of it.
Joscelyn got out at William Y.’s gate. Old Miller supposed she was going to see the William Y.’s and she let him think so. But as soon as he had disappeared around the wooded curve she walked up the Three Hills road to Treewoofe. The air was keen and frosty; the waves far down on the bay quivered as if they were tipsy with moonlight: it was just such another night as her wedding-night had been, eleven years ago. What a fool she had been! Hugh could never forgive her. She was seized with a spasm of panic and was on the point of turning and running madly down the hill.
But Treewoofe was close to her—dear frustrated Treewoofe. She trembled with longing as she looked at it. She pulled herself together and walked across the yard. There was a light in the kitchen but no answer came to her repeated knocks. She felt heartsick. She could not go back without knowing. With a shaking hand she lifted the latch and went in. She crossed the kitchen and opened the door into the hall. Hugh was sitting there, alone, by the ashes of his desolate fireplace. In the light that fell over his face from the kitchen she saw the stark amazement on it as he stood up.
“Hugh,” cried Joscelyn desperately—she must speak first, for who knew what he might say?—“I’ve come back. I was a fool—a fool. Can you forgive me? Do you still want me?”
There was a silence that seemed endless to Joscelyn. She shivered. The hall was very cold. It had been so long since there had been a fire in it. The whole house was cold. There was no welcome in it for her. She had alienated it.
After what seemed an eternity Hugh came towards her. His hungry eyes burned into hers. “Why do you want to come back? Don’t you still—love him?”
Joscelyn shuddered.
“No—no.” She could say nothing more.
Again Hugh was silent. His heart was pounding with a wild exultation in his breast. She had come back to him—his again—not Frank Dark’s—his, his only. She was standing there in the moonlight where she had mocked him so long ago. Asking his forgiveness and his love, he had only to put out his hand—draw her to his breast.
Hugh Dark was his mother’s son. He crushed back the mad words of passion that rushed to his lips. He spoke coldly—sternly.
“Go back to Bay Silver—and put on your wedding dress and veil. Come back to me in it as you went away—come as a bride to her bridegroom. Then—I may listen to you.”
Proud Joscelyn went humbly. She would have done anything—anything that Hugh commanded. Never had she loved him as she loved him standing there, tall and dark and stern in the moonlit hall of Treewoofe. She would have crawled to him on all fours and kissed his feet had he so commanded. She went back to Bay Silver—she went to the garret and got the box that contained her wedding-dress and veil. She put them on, like a woman in a trance obeying the compulsion of some stronger will than her own.
“Thank God, I’m still beautiful,” she whispered.
Then she walked back to Treewoofe, glimmering by in the silver of moonlight and the shimmer of satin.
Uncle Pippin, who was always where nobody expected him to be, thought she was a ghost when he saw her. The excited yelp he emitted might have been heard for a mile. Uncle Pippin didn’t approve of it. Well-behaved young women didn’t go strolling about on moonlit nights, wearing wedding-clothes. It couldn’t be the jug that made Joscelyn do this. So Uncle Pippin fell back on the Spanish blood. A bad business that. Really, nothing but queer things had happened since Aunt Becky died. He sat in his buggy and stared after her until she disappeared. Then he drove home with badly shaken nerves.
Joscelyn had not even noticed Uncle Pippin. She went on, past the graveyard where her father lay, up the Three Hills road. For a wonder, no one else saw her. Nobody ever believed Uncle Pippin had seen her. The poor old man was getting dotty. Imagining things to make himself important.
The lights of beautiful Treewoofe were twinkling through the tall slender birches when she came back. Every room was lighted up to flash a welcome to her—its mistress for whom it had waited so long. She and Treewoofe were good friends again. The front door was open—and goblins of firelight were dancing in the hall beyond it. The mirror over the mantel was turned face outward, and Hugh was waiting for her by the fire he had kindled. As she paused entreatingly in the doorway, he came forward and led her over the threshold by one of her cold hands. A wedding-ring was lying on the dusty mantel, where it had lain for many years. Hugh took it up and put it on her finger.
“Joscelyn,” he cried suddenly. “Oh, Joscelyn—my Joscelyn!”
7
Margaret had made many wedding-dresses for other people with vicarious thrills and dreams but she made her own very prosaically. Her wedding-day was finally fixed for the first of October. That would give them time for a bridal trip to points on the mainland before the date appointed for the final disposal of Aunt Becky’s jug. Neither she nor Penny felt any elation over the affair. In truth, as the fatal time drew near, Penny grew absolutely desperate. At first he thought he would ask Margaret to postpone the wedding again—until after the puzzle of the jug was solved. That would not affect his chances materially. Then Penny threw up his head. That would be dishonorable. He would break the engagement before, if break it he must. Ay, that would be nobler. Penny felt a fine glow of victorious satisfaction with himself.
He went up to Denzil’s, one evening, firmly resolved. No more shilly-shallying. Jug or no jug, he would be a free man. He had known yesterday that he could not go through with it. Margaret had told him that his watch was wrong. It always infuriated Penny to be told his watch was wrong. It was not the first time Margaret had offended in a similar fashion. And he was in for marrying a woman like that. What a devilish predicament!
Margaret had evidently been crying. And Margaret was not one of those fortunate women who can cry without their noses turning red. Penny wondered testily why a woman who was engaged to him should be crying. Then he thought she might suspect his real feelings on the matter and be weeping over them. Penny felt his heart softening—after all—no, this would never do. He must not be hen-hearted now. This was his last chance. He mopped his brow.
“Mar’gret,” he said pleadingly, “do you think we’d better go through with it after all?”
“Go through—with what?” asked Margaret.
“With—with getting married.”
“Don’t you want to marry me?’ said Margaret, a sudden gleam coming into her eyes. It terrified Penny.
“No,” he said bluntly.
Margaret stood up and drew a long breath.
“Oh, I’m so thankful—so thankful,” she said softly.
Penny stared at her with a dawning sense of outrage. This was the last thing he had expected.
“Thankful—thankful? What the hell are you thankful for?”
Margaret was too uplifted to mind his profanity.
“Oh, Penny, I didn’t want to marry you either. I was only going through with it because I didn’t want to disappoint you. You don’t know how happy it makes me to find out that you don’t care.”
Penny looked rather dour. It was one thing to explain to a woman that you didn’t see yo
ur way clear to marrying her after all. It was quite another to find her so elated about it.
“I only asked you out of pity, anyhow, Mar’gret,” he said.
Margaret smiled. The Griscom showed there. Penny’s great-grandmother had been a Griscom.
“That isn’t a sporting thing to say,” she murmured gently. “And would you mind—very much—remembering that my name is Margaret—not Mar’gret. Here is your ring—and I’ve something rather important to attend to this evening.”
Thus coolly dismissed, Penny went—stiffly, rigidly, with neither handshake, bow, nor backward glance.
Penny was huffed.
The important thing which Margaret had to do was to write a letter. She had not been crying because she was going to marry Penny exactly—she had been crying because suddenly, unbelievably, magically, a darling dream could have come true if she did not have to get married. And now that the marriage was off, the dream could come true. The letter was to Nigel Penhallow.
When it was written Margaret felt curiously young again, as if life had suddenly folded back for thirty years. She slipped away in the September moonlight to visit Whispering Winds. It would be hers—dear friendly Whispering Winds. All the lovesome things in its garden would be tended and loved. The little house should be whitewashed twice every year so that it would always be white as a pearl. She would be there in cool, exquisite mornings—in gray, sweet evenings—there to hear little winds crying to her in the night. It would be so deliciously quiet; nobody could ever open her door without knocking. She would be alone with her dreams. She could cry and laugh and—and—swear when she wanted to. And she would adopt a baby. A baby with dimples and sweet, perfumed creases and blue eyes and golden curls. There must be such a baby somewhere, just waiting to be cuddled.
She looked lovingly at the trees that were to be hers. Whispering Winds belonged to its trees and its trees to it. One little birch grew close to it in one of its angles. A willow hovered over it protectingly. A maple peeped around a corner. Little bushy spruces crouched under its windows. Dear Whispering Winds. And dear Aunt Becky who had made it all possible. Margaret prayed that night to be forgiven for the sin of ingratitude.