No one in the clan could find out just why the engagement had been broken off. It was inconceivable that Margaret could have done it, although for some reason best known to himself Penny had taken up and was nursing an aggrieved attitude.
“These mysteries will drive me distracted,” groaned Uncle Pippin, “but I’ll bet that fiendish jug was at the bottom of it somehow.”
The clan were astounded when they heard Margaret had bought Aunt Louisa’s cottage from Richard Dark, still more astounded when they found she had sold the Pilgrim’s Progress Aunt Becky had given her to a New York collector for a fabulous sum. Actually ten thousand dollars. It was a first edition and would have been worth thirty thousand if it had been in first class condition. It was plain to be seen now why she had thrown Penny over so heartlessly. Penny himself chewed some bitter cuds of reflection. Who would ever have dreamed that anyone would be crazy enough to pay ten thousand dollars for an old book like that? Ten thousand dollars! Ten thousand dollars! But it was too late. Neither he nor the clan ever really forgave Margaret—not for selling the book but for getting it from Aunt Becky in the first place. What right had she to it more than anybody else? Denzil was especially grouchy. He thought Margaret should have gone on living with him and used her money to help educate his family.
“Throwing it away on a house you don’t need,” he said bitterly. “You’d show more sense if you put what it cost you away for a rainy day.”
“Umbrellas have been invented since that proverb,” said Margaret blithely.
8
Gay was lingering by the gate, watching a big red moon rising behind a fringe of little dark elfin spruces over Drowned John’s hill pasture to the east of her. Behind her, through the trees around Maywood, was visible a great, fresh, soft, empty, windy yellow sky of sunset. A little ghost of laughter drifted to her from the hill road. There was, it seemed, still laughter in the world. She was alone and she was glad of it. Just now life was bearable only when she was alone.
For weeks Gay had been dully unhappy—restless—indifferent. The new house no longer thrilled her; everything was tarnished. She wished drearily that she could go away—or die—or at least cease to exist. Life was too perplexing. She could not help thinking of Noel all the time. What was he doing—thinking—feeling? Was he very unhappy? Or was he—wiser? If she only knew the answers to those questions! She would never know them. And in little over a month she had to marry Roger.
She was still there when Noel came. Now that she was not waiting for him—now that she was going to marry Roger—he came. When she lifted her head he was standing before her. Looking like a movie star—handsome and—and—dapper! Yes, dapper, just like little Penny Dark. In twenty years’ time he would be just like Penny Dark. Gay’s head spun around and she wondered if she were going crazy.
“Noel!” she gasped.
“Yes—it’s Noel.” He came close and took her hand. She looked at him. Had he grown shorter? No, it was only that she had grown used to looking up at Roger. Noel’s hair was too curly—what had Nan said once about the tongs? Oh, what had got into her? Why was she thinking such absurd things—now at this wonderful moment when Noel had come back to her?
Noel was leaning over the gate, talking rapidly—telling her he had never really cared for Nan. Nan had chased him—hunted him down—he had been bewitched temporarily—he had never really loved anyone but her, Gay. Would she forgive him! And take him back?
Noel had evidently very little doubt that he would be forgiven. He had, Gay found herself thinking, quite a bit of confidence in his own powers of attraction. He put his arms about her shoulders and drew her close to him. For long months she had longed to feel his arms about her so—his lips on hers—his face pressed to her cheek. And now that it had come about, Gay found herself laughing—shaking with laughter. A bit hysterical perhaps—but Noel did not know that. He released her abruptly and stepped back a pace in amazement and chagrin.
“You’re—so—so—funny!” gasped poor Gay.
“I’m sorry,” said Noel stiffly. This was not at all what he had looked for.
Gay forced herself to stop laughing and looked at Noel. The old enchantment had gone. She saw him as she had never seen him before—as her clan had always seen him. A handsome fellow, who thought every girl who looked at him fell in love with him; shallow, selfish. Was this what she had supposed she loved? Love! She had known nothing about it till this very moment, when she realized that it was Roger she loved. Roger who was a man! This Noel was only a boy. And he would never be anything but a boy, if he lived to a hundred—with a boy’s fickle heart, a boy’s vanity, a boy’s emptiness. She had fancied herself in love with him once—fancied herself heartbroken when he jilted her—and now—
“Why, it’s all ancient history,” she thought in amazement.
As soon as she could speak she told Noel to run away. Her voice still shook and Noel thought she was still laughing at him. He went off in high dudgeon. It was a new and very wholesome experience for Noel Gibson to be laughed at. It did him no end of good. He was never quite so self-assured again.
Gay stood by the gate for a long while, trying to adjust herself. The sky faded out into darkness and the moonshine bathed her. Passing breaths of autumn wind sent showers of silvery golden leaves all over her. She loved the night—she loved everything. She felt as if she had been born again. How lucky Noel had come back. If he hadn’t come back she might always have fancied she cared—might never have seen the fathomless difference between him and Roger. To come back so soon—so shamelessly. Hadn’t he any depth? Couldn’t he care really for anybody? But he had come—and his coming had set her free from phantom fetters.
“I suppose if it were not for the jug I’d still be engaged to him—perhaps married to him.”
She shuddered. How dreadful that would be—how dreadful it would be to be married to anyone but Roger! It was simply impossible even to imagine being married to anyone but Roger. God bless Aunt Becky!
Still she had an odd but fleeting sense of loss and futility. All that passion and pain for nothing. It hurt her that it should seem so foolish now. It hurt her to realize that she had only been in love with love. The clan had been right—so right. That stung a little. It isn’t really nice to be forced to agree with your family that you have been a little fool.
But she knew she did not care how right they had been. She was glad they had been right. Oh, it was good to feel vivid and interested and alive again—as she hadn’t felt for so long. All the lost color and laughter of life seemed to have returned. The time of apple-blossom love was over. Nothing could bring it back. It was the time of roses now—the deep, rich roses of the love of womanhood. Those months of suffering had made a woman of Gay. She lifted up her arms in rapture as if to caress the night—the beautiful silvery September night.
“Let me brush the moonlight off you,” somebody said—a dear somebody with a dear, dear voice.
“Oh, Roger!” Gay turned and threw herself into his arms. Her face was lifted to his—her arms went about his neck of their own accord—for the first time Roger felt his kiss returned.
He held her off and looked at her—as if he could never have enough of looking at her. She was an exquisite thing in the moonlight, with her brilliant eyes and her wind-ruffled hair.
“Gay! You love me!” he said incredulously.
“It will take me a whole lifetime to tell you how much—and I never knew it till an hour ago,” whispered Gay. “You won’t mind how silly I’ve been, will you, Roger? You’ll find out—in time—how wise I am at last.”
Roger met the Moon Man on the way home.
“One does get the moon sometimes,” Roger told him.
9
Little Brian Dark was prowling about the roads, looking for some of his Uncle Duncan’s young cattle which had broken out of their pasture. His uncle had told him not to come home until he found
them, and he could get no trace of them. Rain was brewing and it was a very dark and cold and melancholy October night. A fog had blotted out the end of the harbor road; a ghostly sail or two drifted down the darkening bay. Brian felt horribly alone in the world. His heart swelled as he passed happy homes and saw more fortunate children through lighted, cheery kitchen windows. Once he saw a boy about his own age standing by his mother’s side. The mother put her arm about him and kissed him fondly. Brian choked back a sob.
“I wonder,” he thought wistfully, “what it would be like to be loved.”
Now and then through an open door he caught delicious smells of suppers cooking. He was very hungry, for he had not had his supper. And very tired, for he had been picking potatoes all day. But he dared not go home without the young cattle.
Sim Dark, of whom he inquired timidly, told him he had seen some young beasts down on the shore road leading to Little Friday Cove. Sim felt an impulse of pity for young Brian as he drove away. The child looked as if he didn’t get half enough to eat. And that thin sweater was not enough for a cold fall night. The Duncan Darks ought to be ashamed of themselves. After which, Sim went home to his excellent supper and well-dressed family and forgot all about Brian.
Brian trudged down the long grassy road to Little Friday Cove. It was getting very dark, and he was frightened. Little Sam’s light gleamed cheerily through the blur of rain that was beginning to fall. Brian went to the house and asked him if he had seen the calves. Little Sam had not, but he made Brian go in and have supper with him. Brian knew he ought not to go in, with the calves yet unfound, but the smell of Little Sam’s chowder was too tempting. And it was so warm and cozy in Little Sam’s living-room. Besides, he liked Little Sam. Little Sam had once taken him out for a row one evening when the gulf had been like rippled satin and there was a little new moon in the west. It was one of the few beautiful memories in Brian’s life.
“We’re in for a rain,” said Little Sam, ladling out the chowder generously. “My shin’s been aching scandalously for two days.” Little Sam sighed. “I’m beginning to feel my years,” he said.
By the time supper was over, the rain was pouring down. Little Sam insisted that Brian stay all night with him.
“It ain’t fit for you to go out a night like this. Listen to that wind getting up. Stay here where you’re comfortable and have a look round in the morning for your calves. Likely you’ll find ’em over in Jake Harmer’s wood-lot. His fences are disgraceful. “
Brian yielded. He was afraid to go home in the dark. And it was so warm and pleasant here. To be sure, he thought uneasily of Cricket. But if Cricket came he would likely just curl up on Brian’s bed and be quite comfortable. No harm would come to him.
Brian spent the pleasantest evening he had known for a long time, sitting by Little Sam’s blazing fire, petting Mustard—who was a very nice old cat, though not to be compared to Cricket—and listening to Little Sam’s hair-raising ghost stories. It did not occur to Little Sam that he should not tell ghost stories to Brian. It was a long time since he had had anybody to listen to his tales. Little Sam had already spent many lonely evenings this fall. He dreaded another winter like the last. But he did not mention Big Sam. The Sams had at last given up talking about one another. Little Sam only pointed Aurora proudly out to Brian and asked him if he didn’t think her pretty. Brian did think so. There was something in the white, poised figure that made him think of music in moonlight and coral clouds in a morning sky and all the bits of remembered beauty that sometimes—when he wasn’t too tired and hungry—made a harmony in his soul.
It was a long time before Brian could sleep, curled up in the bunk that had once been Big Sam’s. The wind roared at the window and the rain streamed down on the rocks outside. The wind was offshore and the waves were not high, but they made a strange, sobbing, lonely sound. Brian wondered if his aunt and uncle would be very cross with him for staying away and if Cricket would miss him.
When he finally fell asleep he had a dreadful dream. He was standing alone on a great, far-reaching plain of moonlit snow. Right before him was a huge creature—a creature like the wolf in the pictures of Red Riding Hood, but ten times bigger than any wolf could be, with snarling, slavering jaws and malignant, flaming eyes. Such hate—such hellish hate—looked out of those eyes that Brian screamed with terror and wakened.
The room was filled with a dim grayness of dawn. Little Sam was still snoring peacefully, with Mustard curled up on his stomach. The wind and rain had ceased and a peep from the window showed Brian a world wrapped in gray fog. But the horror of his dream was still on him. Somehow—he could not have told how or why—he felt sure it had something to do with Cricket. Softly he slipped out of bed and into his ragged clothes—softly slipped out of the house and latched the door behind him. An hour later he reached home. Nobody was up. There was a strange car in the garage. Brian tiptoed across the kitchen and climbed the ladder to the loft. His heart was beating painfully. He prayed desperately that he might find Cricket there, warm and furry and purring.
What Brian saw was his Uncle Duncan asleep on his bed. There was no sign of Cricket anywhere. Brian sat down on the floor, with a sick feeling coming over him. He knew what must have happened—what had happened once before. Visitors had come—more visitors than there were beds for. His uncle had given up his own bed and come to the loft.
Had Cricket come? And if so, had he gone away safely? Brian was asking these questions of himself over and over when his uncle woke, stretched, sat up, and looked at him.
“Find the cattle?” he said.
“No-o-o, but Little Sam says he thinks they’re in Jake Harmer’s wood-lot. I’ll go right away and get them.”
Brian voice shook beyond control but it was not with fear about the cattle. What—oh, what was the truth about Cricket?
Duncan Dark yawned.
“You’d better. And where’d that cat come from that woke me up pawing at my face? You bin having cats here, youngster?”
“No-o-o, only one—it came sometimes at nights,” gasped Brian. It seemed that his very soul grew cold within him.
“Well it won’t come again. I wrung its neck. Now, you hustle off after them cows. You’ve plenty of time before breakfast.”
Later on, Brian found the poor dead body of his little pet among the burdocks under the window. Brian felt that his heart was breaking as he gathered Cricket up in his arms and tried to close the glazed eyes. He felt so helpless—so alone. The only thing that loved him in the world was dead—murdered. Never again would he hear the pad-pad of little feet on the porch roof—never again would a soft paw touch his face in the darkness—never again would a purring thing snuggle against him lovingly. There was no God. Not even a young careless God could have let a thing like this happen.
When night came Brian felt that he could not—could not—go to his bed in the loft. He could not lie there alone, waiting for Cricket, who could never come again—Cricket lying cold and stiff in the little grave Brian had dug for him under the wild cherry tree. In his despair the child rushed away from the house and along the twilit road. He hardly knew where he was going. By some blind instinct rather than design, his feet bore him to the Rose River graveyard and his mother’s neglected grave. He cast himself down upon it, sobbing terribly.
“Oh, Mother—Mother. I wish I was dead—with you. Mother—Mother—take me—I can’t live any longer—I can’t—I can’t. Please, Mother.”
Margaret Penhallow stood looking down at him. She had been down to Artemas Dark’s with a dress for May Dark and had taken a short cut through the graveyard on her way back, walking slowly because she rather enjoyed being in this dreamy spot where so many of her kindred slept and where the crisp, frosty west wind was blowing over old graves. Was this poor Laura Dark’s boy? And what was his trouble?
She bent down and touched him gently.
“Brian—what is the matter,
dear?”
Brian started convulsively and got up, shrinking into himself. His painful little sobs ceased.
“Brian—tell me, dear.”
Brian had thought he could never tell anybody. But Margaret’s soft gray-blue eyes were so tender and pitiful. He found himself telling her. He sobbed out the story of poor Cricket.
“It was all I had to love—and nobody but Cricket ever loved me.”
Margaret stood very still for a few moments, patting Brian’s head. In those few moments the dream of the golden-haired baby vanished forever from her heart. She knew what she must do—what she wanted to do.
“Brian, would you like to come and live with me—down at Whispering Winds? I’m moving there next week. You will be my little boy—and I will love you—I loved your mother, dear, when we were girls together.”
Brian stopped sobbing and looked at her incredulously.
“Oh, Miss Penhallow—do you mean it? Can I really live with you? And will—will Uncle Duncan let me?”
“Yes, I do mean it. And I don’t think there’s much doubt that your uncle will be glad to get—to let you come to me. Don’t cry any more, dear. Run right home—it’s too cold for you to be here like this. Next week we’ll arrange it all. And will you call me Aunt Margaret?”
“Oh, Aunt Margaret,”—Brian caught her hand—her pretty slender hand that had so kindly touched his hair—“I—I—oh, I’m afraid you won’t love me when you know all about me. I’m—I’m not good, Aunt Margaret. Aunt Alethea says so. And she’s—she’s right. I didn’t want to go to church, Aunt Margaret, because my clothes were so shabby. I know that was wicked. And I—I had such dreadful thoughts when Uncle Duncan told me he’d killed Cricket. Oh, Aunt Margaret, I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed in me when you found out I wasn’t a good boy.”
A Tangled Web Page 27
