A Tangled Web (33 page)

“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 your 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.

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.