A Tangled Web (23 page)

“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? Would 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!

Peter tore across the country all night and caught the boat. So she had Drowned John's temper as well as his nose! He was well out of
that
—by the sacred baboon he was! He had no use for women who swore—not knowing how lucky he had been that Donna hadn't gone into hysterics instead of swearing. Serve him right for taking up with that family at all. Well, madness was finished and hurrah for sanity! Thank heaven, he was his own man again—free to wander the world over, with no clog of a woman tied round his neck. No more love for him—he was through with love.

6

Donna was not the only woman of the clan to be out that night. Gay Penhallow was lying among the ferns in the birch grove behind Maywood, weeping her heart out at midnight.

There was a dance at the Silver Slipper that evening—the closing dance of the summer season, before the last of the guests left the big hotel down by the harbor's mouth. Noel had promised to come for Gay. Of late a little hope had sprung up in Gay's heart that everything was coming right between her and Noel again. They had had a little quarrel after that night when Gay had left Noel and Nan on the steps. Gay found herself put in the wrong. Noel was very angry over the way she had acted. A nice position she had put him in. Gay, all her little bit of pride now worn down by suffering, had apologized humbly and been grudgingly forgiven. She even felt a little happy again.

But only a little. Her pretty, dewy visions were gone never to return. There was always a little cold fear lurking deep down in her heart now. Day by day Noel seemed to drift further away from her. He wrote oftener than he came—and his letters had got so thin. When she hungered for the touch of his hand and the sound of his voice, with a hunger and longing that devoured her soul, came only one of those thin letters of excuse—from Noel, who only a few weeks ago had vowed he could
not
go on living ten miles away from her.

But she could not believe he meant to jilt her—her, Gay Penhallow of the proud Penhallows. Gay knew girls had been jilted—even Penhallow girls. But not so soon—so suddenly. Not in a few weeks after your lover had asked you to marry him. Surely the process of cooling off should take longer.

After she dressed for the dance that night she did a certain thing in secret. She hunted that old chain letter out of her desk and wrote three neat, careful little copies of it. Enveloped and addressed and stamped them. And flung on her coat and slipped down to the post-office in the cool windy September twilight to post them. Who knew? After all—there
might
be something in it.

When she got back long-distance was calling. Noel couldn't come after all. He had to work in the bank that night.

Gay went out and sat down on the steps, huddled in her gray coat. Her little face with its piteous eyes rose whitely over her soft fur collar. Roger found her there when he dropped in on his return from a sick-call.

“I thought you'd be at the Silver Slipper tonight,” said Roger—who knew and was furious and helpless over certain things—more things than Gay knew. He looked down at her—this lovely, sensitive little thing who must be suffering as only such a sensitive thing could—with clenched hands. But he avoided her eyes. He could not bear the thought of looking into her eyes and seeing no laughter in them.

“Noel couldn't come,” said Gay lightly. Roger was not to know—to suspect. “He has to work tonight. It's rather a shame, isn't it? Here I am ‘all dressed up and nowhere to go.' Roger,”—she bent forward suddenly—“will you run me down to the Silver Slipper? It's only a mile—it won't take you long—I can come home with Sally William Y.”

Roger hesitated.

“Do you really want to go, Gay?”

“Of course.” Gay pouted charmingly. “A dance is a dance, isn't it—even if your best beau can't be there? Don't you think it would be a shame to waste these lovely slippers, Roger?”