“I have a mind to tell you something, Crosby,” said Aunt Becky. “You never knew it—nobody ever knew it—but you were the only man I ever loved.”
The announcement made a sensation. Everybody—so ridiculous is outworn passion—wanted to laugh but dared not. Crosby blushed painfully all over his wrinkled face. Hang it all, was old Becky making fun of him? And whether or no, how dared she make a show of him like this before everybody?
“I was quite mad about you,” said Aunt Becky musingly. “Why? I don’t know. You were handsomer sixty years ago than any man has a right to be, but you had no brains. Yet you were the man for me. And you never looked at me. You married Annette Dark—and I married Theodore. Nobody knows how much I hated him when I married him. But I got quite fond of him after a while. That’s life, you know—though those three romantic young geese there, Gay and Donna and Virginia, think I’m talking rank heresy. I got over caring for you in time, even though for years after I did, my heart used to beat like mad every time I saw you walk up the church aisle with your meek little Annette trotting behind you. I got a lot of thrills out of loving you, Crosby—many more I don’t doubt than if I’d married you. And Theodore was really a much better husband for me than you’d have been—he had a sense of humor. And it doesn’t matter now whether he was or wasn’t. I don’t even wish now that you had loved me, though I wished it for so many years. Lord, the nights I couldn’t sleep for thinking of you—and Theodore snoring beside me. But there it is. Somehow, I’ve always wanted you to know it and at last I’ve had the courage to tell you.”
Old Crosby wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Erasmus would never let him hear the last of this—never. And suppose it got into the papers! If he had dreamed anything like this was going to happen, he would never have come to the levee. He glowered at the jug. It was to blame, durn it.
“I wonder how many of us will get out of this alive,” whispered Stanton Grundy to Uncle Pippin.
But Aunt Becky had switched over to Penny Dark and was giving him her bottle of Jordan water.
“What the deuce do I care for Jordan water,” thought Penny. Perhaps his face was too expressive, for Aunt Becky suddenly grinned dangerously.
“Mind the time, Penny, you moved a vote of thanks to Rob Dufferin on the death of his wife?”
There was a chorus of laughs of varying timbre, among which Drowned John’s boomed like an earthquake. Penny’s thoughts were as profane as the others’ had been. That a little mistake between thanks and condolence, made in the nervousness of public speaking, should be everlastingly coming up against a man like this. From old Aunt Becky, too, who had just confessed that most of her life she had loved a man who wasn’t her husband, the scandalous old body.
Mercy Penhallow sighed. She would have liked the Jordan water. Rachel Penhallow had one and Mercy had always envied her for it. There must be a blessing in any household that had a bottle of Jordan water. Aunt Becky heard the sigh and looked at Mercy.
“Mercy,” she said apropos of nothing, “do you remember that forgotten pie you brought out after everybody had finished eating at the Stanley Penhallow’s silver-wedding dinner?”
But Mercy was not afraid of Aunt Becky. She had a spirit of her own.
“Yes, I do. And do you remember, Aunt Becky, that the first time you killed and roasted a chicken after you were married, you brought it to the table with the insides still in it?”
Nobody dared to laugh but everybody was glad Mercy had the spunk. Aunt Becky nodded undisturbed.
“Yes, and I remember how it smelled! We had company, too. I don’t think Theodore ever fully forgave me. I thought that had been forgotten years ago. Is anything ever forgotten? Can people ever live anything down? The honors are to you, Mercy, but I must get square with somebody. Junius Penhallow, do you remember—since Mercy has started digging up the past—how drunk you were at your wedding?”
Junius Penhallow turned a violent crimson but couldn’t deny it. Of what use was it, with Mrs. Junius at his elbow, to plead that he had been in such a blue funk on his wedding-morning that he’d never have had the courage to go through with it if he hadn’t got drunk? He had never been drunk since, and it was hard to have it raked up now, when he was an elder in the church and noted for his avowed temperance principles.
“I’m not the only one who ever got drunk in this clan,” he dared to mutter, despite the jug.
“No, to be sure. There’s Artemas over there. Do you remember, Artemas, the evening you walked up the church aisle in your nightshirt?”
Artemas, a tall, raw-boned, red-haired fellow, had been too drunk on that occasion to remember it, but he always roared when reminded of it. He thought it the best joke ever.
“You should have all been thankful I had that much on myself,” he said with a chuckle.
Mrs. Artemas wished she were dead. What was a joke to Artemas was a tragedy to her. She had never forgotten—never could forget—the humiliation of that unspeakable evening. She had forgiven Artemas certain violations of his marriage vow of which everyone was aware. But she had never forgiven—never would forgive—the episode of the nightshirt. If it had been pajamas, it would not have been quite so terrible. But in those days pajamas were unknown.
Aunt Becky was at Mrs. Conrad Dark.
“I’m giving you my silver saltcellars. Alec Dark’s mother gave them to me for a wedding present. Do you remember the time you and Mrs. Clifford there quarreled over Alec Dark and she slapped your face? And neither of you got Alec after all. There, there, don’t crack the spectrum. It’s all dead and vanished, just like my affair with Crosby.”
(“As if there was ever any affair,” thought Crosby piteously.)
“Pippin’s to have my grandfather clock. Mrs. Digby Dark thinks she should have that because her father gave it to me. But no. Do you remember, Fanny, that you once put a tract in a book you lent me? Do you know what I did with it? I used it for curl papers. I’ve never forgiven you for the insult. Tracts, indeed. Did I need tracts?”
“You—weren’t a member of the church,” said Mrs. Digby, on the point of tears.
“No—nor am yet. Theodore and I could never agree which church to join. I wanted Rose River and he wanted Bay Silver. And after he died it seemed sort of disrespectful to his memory to join Rose River. Besides, I was so old then it would have seemed funny. Marrying and church-joining should be done in youth. But I was as good a Christian as any one. Naomi Dark.”
Naomi, who had been fanning Lawson, looked up with a start as Aunt Becky hurled her name at her.
“You’re to get my Wedgwood teapot. It’s a pretty thing. Cauliflower pattern, as it’s called, picked out with gold luster. It’s the only thing it really hurts me to give up. Letty gave it to me—she bought it at a sale in town with some of her first quarter’s salary. Have you all forgotten Letty? It’s forty years since she died. She would have been sixty if she were living now—as old as you, Fanny. Oh, I know you don’t own to more than fifty, but you and Letty were born within three weeks of each other. It seems funny to think of Letty being sixty—she was always so young—she was the youngest thing I ever knew. I used to wonder how Theodore and I ever produced her. She couldn’t have been sixty ever—that’s why she had to die. After all, it was better. It hurt me to have her die—but I think it would have hurt me more to see her sixty—wrinkled—faded—gray-haired—my pretty Letty, like a rose tossing in a breeze. Have you all forgotten that gold hair of hers—such living hair. Be good to her teapot, Naomi. Well, that’s the end of my valuable belongings—except the jug. I’m a bit tired—I want a rest before I tackle that business. I’m going to ask you all to sit in absolute silence for ten minutes and think about a question I’m going to ask you at the end of that time—all of you who are over forty. How many of you would like to live your lives over again if you could?”
10
Another whim of Aunt Becky’s! They
resigned themselves to it with what grace they could. A silence of ten minutes seems like a century—under certain conditions. Aunt Becky lay as if tranquilly asleep. Ambrosine was gazing raptly at her diamond ring. Hugh thought about the night of his wedding. Margaret tried to compose a verse of her new poem. Drowned John became conscious that his new boots were exceedingly tight and uncomfortable and uneasily remembered his new litter of pigs. He ought to be home attending to them. Uncle Pippin wondered irritably what that fellow Grundy was looking so amused about. Uncle Pippin would have been still more scandalized had he known that Grundy was imagining himself God, rearranging all these twisted lives properly, and enjoying himself hugely. Murray Dark devoured Thora with his eyes and Thora went on placidly shining with her own light. Gay began to pick out her flower-girls. Little Jill Penhallow and little Chrissie Dark. They were such darlings. They must wear pink and yellow crepe and carry baskets of pink and yellow flowers—roses or mums, according to the time of year. Palmer Dark enjoyed in imagination the pleasure of kicking Homer Penhallow. Old Crosby was asleep and old Miller was nodding. Mercy Penhallow sat stiffly still and criticized the universe. Many of them were already sore and disappointed; nerves were strained and tenuous; when Julius Penhallow cleared his throat the sound was like a blasphemy.
“Two minutes more of this and I shall throw back my head and howl,” thought Donna Dark. She suddenly felt sick and tired of the whole thing—of the whole clan—of her whole tame existence. What was she living for, anyhow? She felt as out of place as the blank, unfaded space left on the wall where a picture had hung. Life had no meaning—this silly little round of gossip and venom and malicious laughter. Here was a roomful of people ready to fly at each other’s throats because of an old broken-nosed jug and a few paltry knick-knacks. She forgot that she had been as keen as anybody about the jug when she came. She wondered impatiently if anything pleasant or interesting or thrilling were ever going to happen to her again. Drowned John’s early wanderlust suddenly emerged in her. She wanted to have wings—wide sweeping wings to fly into the sunset—skim over the waves—battle with the winds—soar to the stars—in short, do everything that was never done by her smug, prosperous, sensible home-keeping clan. She was in rebellion against all the facts of her life. Probably the whole secret of Donna’s unrest at that moment was simply a lack of oxygen in the air. But it came pat to the psychological moment.
The sudden and lasting cessation of all the undertones and rustlings and stirrings in the room behind them at first arrested the attention and finally aroused the wonder of the outsiders on the veranda. Peter, who never knew why he should not gratify his curiosity about anything the moment he felt it, got off the railing, walked to the open window and looked in. The first thing he saw was the discontented face of Donna Dark, who was sitting by the opposite window in the shadow of a great pine outside. Its emerald gloom threw still darker shadows on her glossy hair and deepened the luster of her long blue eyes. She turned toward Peter’s window as he laid his arms on the sill and bent inward. It was one of those moments all the rest of life can’t undo. Their eyes met, Donna’s richly quilled about with dark lashes, somewhat turbulent and mutinous under eyebrows flying up like little wings, Peter’s gray and amazed, under a puzzled frown.
Then it happened.
Neither Donna nor Peter knew at first just what had happened. They only knew something had. Peter continued to stare at Donna as if mesmerized. Who was this creature of strange dark loveliness? She must be one of the clan or she wouldn’t be here, but he couldn’t place her at all. Wait—wait—what old memory flickered tantalizingly before him—now approaching—now receding? He must grasp it—the old church at Rose River—himself, a boy of twelve sitting in his father’s pew—across the aisle a little girl of eight—blue-eyed, black-haired, wing-browed—a little girl, sitting in Drowned John’s pew! He knew he must hate her because she sat in Drowned John’s pew. So he made an impudent face at her. And the little girl had laughed—laughed. She was amused at him. Peter, who had hated her before impersonally, hated her now personally. He had kept on hating her although he had never seen her again—never again till now. Now he was looking at her across Aunt Becky’s parlor. At that moment Peter understood what had happened to him. He was no longer a free man—forevermore he must be in the power of this pale girl. He had fallen in love fathoms deep with Drowned John’s daughter and Barry Dark’s detested widow. Since he never did anything by halves he did not fall in love by halves either.
Peter felt a bit dizzy. It is a staggering thing to look in at a casual window and see the woman you now realize you have been subconsciously waiting for all your life. It is a still more staggering thing to have your hate suddenly dissolve into love, as though your very bones had melted to water. It rather lets you down. Peter was actually afraid to try to walk back to the veranda railing for fear his legs would give way. He knew, without stopping to argue with himself about it, that he would take no train from Three Hills that night and the lure of Amazon jungles had ceased—temporarily at least—to exist. Mystery and magic enfolded Peter as a garment. What he wanted to do was to vault over the window-sill, hurl aside those absurd men and women sitting between them, snatch up Donna Dark, strip off those ridiculous weeds she was wearing for another man, and carry her off bodily. It was quite on the cards that he would have done it—Peter had such a habit of doing everything he wanted to do—but at that moment the ten-minute silence was over and Aunt Becky opened her eyes. Everybody sighed with relief and Peter, finding that all eyes were directed towards him, dragged himself back to the railing and sat on it, trying to collect his scattered wits and able only to see that subtle, deep-eyed face with its skin as delicate as a white night moth, under its cap of flat dark hair. Well, he had fallen in love with Donna Dark. He realized that he had been sent there by the powers that govern to fall in love with her. It was predestined in the councils of eternity that he should look through that particular window at that particular moment. Good heavens, the years he had wasted insensately hating her! Hopeless idiot! Blind bat! Now the only thing to do was to marry her as quickly as possible. Everything else could wait but that could not. Even finding out what Donna thought about it could wait.
Donna could hardly be said to be thinking at all. She was not quite so quick as Peter was at finding out what had happened to her. She had recognized Peter the moment she had seen him—partly from that same old memory of an impudent boy across the aisle, partly from his photographs in the papers. Though they weren’t good of him—not half as fascinating. Peter hated being photographed and always glared at the camera as if it were a foe. Still, Donna knew him for her enemy—and for something else.
She was trembling with the extraordinary excitement that tingled over her at the sight of him—she, who, a few seconds before, had been so bored—so tired—so disgusted that she wished she had the courage to poison herself.
She was sure Virginia noticed it. Oh, if he would only go away and not stand there at the window staring at her. She knew he was leaving for South America that night—she had heard Nancy Penhallow telling it to Mrs. Homer. Donna put her hand up to her throat as if she were choking. What was the matter with her? Who cared if Peter Penhallow went to the Amazon or the Congo? It was not she, not Donna Dark, Barry’s inconsolable widow, who cared. Certainly not. It was this queer, wild, primitive creature who had, without any warning, somehow usurped her body and only wanted to spring to the window and feel Peter’s arms around her. There is no saying but that this perfectly crazy impulse might have mastered Donna if Aunt Becky had not opened her eyes and Peter had not vanished from the window.
Donna gave a gasp, which, coming after the universal sigh, escaped the notice of everybody but Virginia, who laid her hand over Donna’s and squeezed it sympathetically.
“Darling, I saw it all. It must have been frightfully hard for you. You bore it splendidly.”
“What—what did I bear?” stammered Donna idioticall
y.
“Why, seeing that dreadful Peter Penhallow staring at you like that—with his hate fairly sticking out of his eyes.”
“Hate—hate—oh, do you think he hates me—really?” gasped Donna.
“Of course he does. He always has, ever since you married Barry. But you won’t run the risk of meeting him again, darling. He’s off tonight on some of his horrid explorations, so don’t worry over it.”
Donna was not worrying exactly. She only felt that she would die if Peter Penhallow did go away—like that—without a word or another glance. It was not to be borne. She would dare uncharted seas with him—she would face African cooking-pots—she would—oh, what mad things was she thinking? And what was Aunt Becky saying.
“Everyone over forty who would be willing to live his or her life over again exactly as it has been lived, put up your hand.”
Tempest Dark was the only one who nut up his hand.
“Brave man! Or fortunate man—which?” inquired Aunt Becky satirically.
“Fortunate,” said Tempest laconically. He had been fortunate. He had fifteen exquisite years with Winnifred Penhallow. He would face anything to have them again.
“Would you live your life over again, Donna?” whispered Virginia sentimentally.
“No—no!!” Donna felt that to live over again the years that Peter Penhallow had hated her would be unendurable. Virginia looked grieved and amazed. She had not expected such an answer. She felt that something had come between her and Donna—something that clouded the sweet, perfect understanding that had always existed between them. She had been wont to say that words were really unnecessary for them—they could read each other’s thoughts. But Virginia could not read Donna’s thoughts just now—which was perhaps quite as well. She wondered uneasily if the curse of Aunt Becky’s opal was beginning to work already.
“Well, let’s get down to business,” Aunt Becky was saying.