She had lost all her good looks, she told herself. She cried and said she didn’t want to get better. Peter couldn’t love her any more—this pallid, washed-out skeleton she saw in her mirror when she got up after tonsillitis. The doctor said she must have her tonsils out as soon as she was strong enough for the ordeal. This was reported to Peter and drove him still further on what all his friends now believed was the road to madness. He didn’t believe in operations. He wasn’t going to have pieces of his darling Donna cut out. They were all trying to murder her, that was what they were doing—the whole darn tribe of them. He cursed Mrs. Toynbee Dark a dozen times a day. Had it not been for her, Drowned John wouldn’t have known of Donna’s engagement, he wouldn’t have kept such watch and ward—Peter would have been able to snatch her away, measles and tonsillitis to the contrary notwithstanding—and then a fig for your germs. But now—
“What am I to do?” groaned Peter to Nancy. “Nancy, tell a fellow what to do. I’m dying by inches—and they’re going to carve Donna up.”
Nancy could only reply soothingly that lots of people had had their tonsils out and there was nothing to do but wait patiently. Drowned John couldn’t keep Donna shut up forever.
“You don’t know him,” said Peter darkly. “There’s a plot. I believe Virginia Powell deliberately carried the tonsillitis germ to Donna. That woman would do anything to keep me and Donna apart. Next time it will be inflammatory rheumatism. They’ll stick at nothing.”
“Oh, Peter, don’t be silly.”
“Silly! Is it any wonder if I’m silly? The wonder is I’m not a blithering idiot.”
“Some people think you are,” said Nancy candidly.
“Nancy, it’s eight weeks since I’ve see Donna—eight hellish weeks.”
“Well, you lived a good many years without seeing her at all.”
“No—I merely existed.”
“Cheer up—‘It may be for years but it can’t be forever’” quoted Nancy flippantly. “I did hear Donna was going to be out in Rose River Church next Sunday.”
“Church! What can I do in church? Drowned John will be on one side of her and Thekla on the other. Virginia Powell will bring up the rear and Mrs. Toynbee will watch everything. The only thing to do will be to sail in, hit Drowned John a wallop on the point of the jaw, snatch up Donna and rush out with her.”
“Oh, Peter, don’t make a scene in church—not in church,” implored Nancy, wishing she hadn’t told him.
She lived in misery until Sunday. Peter did make a bit of a scene but not so bad as she feared. He was sitting in a pew under the gallery when the Drowned John’s party came in—Drowned John first, Donna next, then Thekla—“I knew it would be like that,” groaned Peter—then old Jonas Swan, the hired man—who had family privileges, being really a distant relative—then two visiting cousins. Peter ate Donna up with his eyes all through the service. They had nearly killed her, his poor darling. But she was more beautiful, more alluring than ever, with those great mauve shadows under her eyes and her thick creamy lids still heavy with the languor of illness. Peter thought the service would never end. Did Trackley preach as long as this every Sunday and if so, why didn’t they lynch him. Did that idiot who was yowling a solo in the choir imagine she could sing? People like that ought to be drowned young, like kittens. Would they never be done taking up the collection? There were six verses in the last hymn!
Peter shot up the aisle before the rest of the congregation had lifted their heads from the benediction. Drowned John had stepped out of his pew to speak to Elder MacPhee across the aisle. Thekla was talking unsuspiciously to Mrs. Howard Penhallow in the pew ahead. Nobody was watching Donna just then, not dreaming that Peter would be in Rose River Church. None of his clique had ever darkened the door of Rose River Church since the sheep-fight. They went to Bay Silver.
Donna had turned and her large mournful eyes were roving listlessly over the rising assemblage. Then she saw Peter. He was in the pew behind her, having put his hands on either side of little Mrs. Denby’s plump waist and lifted her bodily out into the aisle to make way for him.
Mrs. Denby got the scare of her life. She talked about it breathlessly for years.
Peter and Donna had only a moment but it sufficed. He had planned exactly what to do and say. First he kissed Donna—kissed her before the whole churchful, under the minister’s very eyes. Then he whispered:
“Be at your west lane gate at eleven o’clock tomorrow night. I’ll come with a car. Can you?”
Donna hated the thought of eloping, but she knew there was nothing else to be done. If she shook her head Peter might simply vanish out of her life. Dear knows what he already thought of her for never sending him word or line. He couldn’t know just how they watched her. It was now or never. So she nodded just as Drowned John turned to see what MacPhee was staring at. He saw Peter kiss Donna for a second time, vault airily over the central division of the pews and vanish through the side door by the pulpit. Drowned John started to say “damn” but caught himself in time. Dandy Dark’s pew was next to his and Dandy had taken to attending church very regularly since the affair of the jug. People knew he went to keep tabs on them. Dandy had a pew in both Rose River and Bay Silver Churches and said shamelessly that he kept them because when he wasn’t in one church he would get the credit of being in the other. The attendance at both churches had gone up with a rush since Aunt Becky’s levee. Mr. Trackley believed his sermons were making an impression at last and took heart of grace anew.
Dandy gave Donna a little facetious poke in the ribs as he went past her and whispered:
“Don’t go and do anything silly, Donna.”
By which Donna understood that it really would injure her chances for the jug if she ran away with Peter. Even Uncle Pippin shook his head disapprovingly at her. As he said, when he left the church, their love-making was entirely too public.
Donna heard something from her father when she got home. It was a wonder they did get home, for Drowned John drove so recklessly that he almost ran over a few foolish pedestrians and just missed two collisions. Thekla had her say, too. The visiting cousins giggled, but old Jonas went out stolidly to feed the pigs. Donna listened like a woman in a trance. Drowned John wasn’t sure she even heard him. Then she went to her room to think things over.
She was committed to eloping the next night. It was not exactly a nice idea to a girl who had been brought up in the true Dark tradition—darker than the very Darkest. She thought of all the things the clan would say—of all the significant nods and winks. When Frank Penhallow and Lily Dark had eloped Aunt Becky had said to them on their return, “You were in a big hurry.” Donna would hate to have any one say anything like that to her. But she and Peter would not be returning. That was the beauty of it. One thrust and the Gordian knot of their difficulties would be forever cut. Then freedom—and love—and escape from dull routine and stodginess—Thekla’s jealousy and Drowned John’s continual hectoring—and Virginia. Donna felt a pang of shame and self-reproach that there should be such relief in the thought of escaping from poor Virginia. But there it was. She couldn’t unfeel it. Thirty-six hours and she must meet Peter at the west lane gate and the old scandal-mongers could go hang, jug and all. Luckily Thekla had gone back to her own room. Drowned John slept below. It would be easy to slip out. Had Peter thought she had gone off very terribly? Virginia said the tonsillitis had made her look ten years older. It was dreadful to have Peter kiss her before the whole congregation like that—dreadful but splendid. Poor Virginia’s face!
Somehow or other, Sunday passed—and Monday morning—and Monday afternoon—though Donna had never spent such interminable hours in her life. She was glad that she was in such disgrace with her father and Thekla that they wouldn’t speak to her. But that had begun to wear off by supper-time, Thekla looked at her curiously. Donna couldn’t help an air of excitement that hung about her like an aura, and under the
mauve shadows her cheeks were faintly hued with rose. A bit of amusement flickered in her sapphire eyes. She was wondering just what Thekla and Drowned John would say if they knew she was going to run away with Peter Penhallow that very night. Of course she couldn’t eat—who could, under the circumstances?
“Donna,” said Thekla sharply, “you haven’t been putting on rouge?”
Drowned John snorted. He always had a fit of indignation when he caught a glimpse of Donna’s dressing-table. Entirely too many fal-als for trying to be beautiful! Decent women didn’t try to be beautiful. But if he had ever found or suspected any rouge about it, he would probably have thrown table and all out of the window.
“Of course not,” said Donna.
“Well, your cheeks are red,” said Thekla. “If you aren’t painted you’re feverish. You’ve got a relapse. I knew you would, going out so soon. You’ll stay in bed tomorrow.”
Donna grasped at the opportunity. She had been wondering if she and Peter could possibly get off the Island before Drowned John caught them. The Island was such a poor place to murder or elope. You were sure to be caught before you could get away from it. But by dinner-time next day they would be safely off, and then a fig for Drowned John.
“I—I think I will. For the forenoon, anyway. You can call me for dinner. I’m sure I haven’t any relapse—but I’m tired.”
Really, Providence at last seemed to be on her side.
Everybody in Drowned John’s household went to bed early. At nine the lights were out and the door locked. This did not worry Donna. She knew quite well where Thekla hid the key, sly as she thought herself about it. She was ready at half-past ten, with a small suitcase packed. She opened her door and peered out. Everything was silent. Thekla’s door was shut tight. Down the hall old Jonas was snoring. Fancy anyone snoring on this wonderful night. Would the stairs creak? They did, of course, but nobody seemed to hear. What would happen if she sneezed? Drowned John slept in the little cubby-hole off the dining-room and the key was in the blue vase on the clock shelf. Drowned John was snoring, too. Donna shuddered. She hoped Peter didn’t snore. She unlocked the door, stepped out, and closed it behind her. Really, eloping was ridiculously easy.
Donna fled through the orchard to the west lane gate. She had nearly half an hour to wait. The tall black firs about the gate came out against the starlit sky. There were dancing northern lights over the dark harbor. The white birches down the west lane seemed to shine with a silvery light of their own. The night was full of wonder and delight and a subtle beauty that was not lost even on the excited Donna, who had inherited from her silent little mother a love and understanding for such things which sometimes amused and sometimes exasperated Drowned John, who would have thought it all of a piece with Virginia’s maunderings if he could have realized the happiness Donna felt over a sunlight-patterned river—a silver shimmer on the harbor—starlight over fir trees—a blue dawn on dark hills—daisies like a froth of silver on seaside meadows.
Donna waited, enjoying the night for a time. If Peter had only come when she was in that mood all would have gone well. Then she began to shiver in the cool shrewish wind of September darkness. The trees whispered eerily over her. There were strange rustlings and shadows in the orchard. William Y.’s dog was exchanging opinions with Adam Dark’s dog across the river. A roar swooped out of nothing—passed into nothing—a car had gone by. Donna shrank back into the shadow of the firs. Had they seen her? Oh, why didn’t Peter come? Would she ever get warm again. She would catch her death of cold. She should have put on a heavier coat. It had been summer when she became ill. She hadn’t realized that summer was gone and autumn here. Her courage and excitement ebbed with her temperature. Surely it must be eleven now. He had said eleven. If he didn’t care enough for her to be on time—to avoid keeping her here in the cold half the night! Waiting—waiting. Donna knew how long time always seemed to one who was waiting. But even allowing for that, she was sure it must be nearer twelve than eleven. If he didn’t come soon she would go back to bed—and then let Peter Penhallow propose eloping to her again!
Then she saw his lights—and everything was changed. There was his car coming up the west lane, with her destiny in it. If Thekla woke up she would see the lights from her window. God send she didn’t wake up!
Peter caught her in his arms, exultantly.
“I’ve had the most devilish luck. Two flat tires and something wrong with the carburetor. I was afraid you’d have gone back—afraid you wouldn’t be able to get out at all. But it’s all right now. We’ve heaps of time. I allowed for delays. Listen—my plan is this: We’ll motor to Broden and catch the boat. And we’ll stop at the Kirtland manse and get Charlie Blackford to marry us. I’ve had the license for days. Charlie’s a good sort—I know him well. He’ll marry us like a shot and make no bones if it is a few minutes before six. Once we’re on the mainland—heigh-ho for New York in our own car—and we’ll sail for South America from there. Girl of my heart, do you love me as much as ever? Lord, I could eat you. I feel famished. You’re as lovely as dark moonlight. Donna—Donna—”
“Oh, Peter, don’t smother me,” gasped Donna. “Wait—wait—let us get away. I’m so afraid Father will come out. Oh, it seems I’ve been here for years.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll settle him in a jiffy, now that I’ve got you out of the house. Donna, if you knew what I’ve been through—”
“Peter, stop! Let us get away.”
Peter stopped, a bit sulkily. He thought Donna a trifle cool after such an agonizing separation. Surely she needn’t grudge him a few kisses. He didn’t realize how cold and frightened she really was or how endless had seemed her waiting.
“We can’t get away for a minute or two. When I passed your Aunt Eudora’s over there, young Eudora was in the yard saying good-bye to Mac Penhallow. We’ve got to wait till he’s gone. Darling, you’re shivering. Get into the car. It’ll be warm there, out of this beastly wind.”
“Put out your lights—if Thekla sees your lights—oh, Peter, it’s rather awful running away like this. We’ve never done such things.”
“If you are sorry it’s not too late yet,” said Peter in a changed, ominous voice.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Peter.” Donna was still cold and frightened and her nerves were bad after all she’d been through. She thought Peter might be a little more considerate. Instead, here he was being deliberately devilish. “Of course I’m not sorry. I’m only sorry it had to be like this. It’s so—so sneaky.”
“Well,” said Peter, who had also been through something, especially with those fiendish tires, and had a good deal yet to learn about women, “what else do you propose?”
“Peter, you’re horrid! Of course I know we must go through with it—”
“Go through with it. Is that how you look at it?”
Donna felt suddenly that Peter was a stranger.
“I don’t know what you want me to say. I can’t pick and choose words when I’m half frozen. And that isn’t all—”
“I didn’t think it would be,” said Peter.
“You’ve been saying some funny things yourself—oh, I’ve heard—”
“Evidently. And listened, too.”
“Well, I’m not deaf. You told Aunty But that—that—you let yourself be caught because you were tired of running.”
“Good heavens, woman, I only said that to choke Aunty But off. Was I going to tell that old gossip I worshiped you?”
Donna had never really believed that he had said it at all. Now she felt as if she almost hated him for saying a thing like that in a clan like hers.
“As if I’d been chasing you—my friends have been telling me right along I was a fool.”
If Donna had but known it, she was nearer having her ears boxed at that moment than ever in her life before. But Peter folded his arms and stared grimly ahead of him. What use was there in talking? W
ould that love-sick fool of a Mac ever get through making his farewells and clear out? Once they were on a clear road at fifty an hour Donna would be more reasonable.
“They’ll think I was in such a hurry to run away like this—I know Dandy Dark will never give me the jug now—Aunt Becky always thought eloping was vulgar—”
The Spanish blood suddenly claimed right of way—or else the Penhallow temper.
“If you do get that filthy jug,” said Peter between his teeth, “I’ll smash it into forty thousand pieces.”
That finished it. If it hadn’t been for the jug this sudden tempest in a teapot might have blown off harmlessly, especially as Mac Penhallow’s old Lizzie went clattering down the road at last. Donna opened the car door and sprang out, her eyes blazing in the pale starlight.
“Peter Penhallow—I deserve this—but—”
“You deserve a damn’ good spanking,” said Peter.
Donna had never sworn in her life before. But she was not Drowned John’s daughter for nothing.
“Go to hell,” she said.
Peter committed the only sin a woman cannot forgive. He took her at her word.
“All right,” he said—and went.
Donna picked up the suitcase, which was lying where she had first set it down, and marched back through the orchard and into the house. She relocked the door and put the key in the blue vase. Drowned John was still snoring—so was old Jonas. She got into her own room and into her own bed. She was no longer cold—she was burning hot with righteous anger. What an escape! To think she had been on the point of running away with a creature who could say such beastly things to her. But of course one couldn’t expect the Bay Silver Penhallows to have any manners. It served her right for forgetting she had always hated him. Virginia had been right—poor dear ill-used Virginia. But from henceforth forevermore she, Donna, would be a widow indeed. Oh, how she hated Peter! As she hated everybody and everything. Hate, Donna reflected for her comforting, was a good lasting passion. You got over loving but you never got over hating. She thought of a score of stinging things she could have said to Peter. And now she would never have a chance to say them. The pity of it!
A Tangled Web Page 18
