they sat stunned and stared at the slip of a girl in pink who was speaking in so matter-of-fact a fashion.
and then seth curtis laughed; but he laughed kindly.
"why," he shouted, "she can't only sing; she can preach too—woman suffrage and prohibition."
the laugh grew and smiles went round and the whole trying situation eased up. jocelyn laughed too and turned to say good night to her host. and from somewhere in the crowd frank burton strode up and carried jim out and drove him home.
everybody began to get ready to go, glad that the evening so nearly tragic had been happily saved. and all green valley mentally promised to repay the girl who had had the wit and the sweetness to serve in an hour of need.
but while the young people and the married ones with children were crowding out through the front door, grandma wentworth was still in the library, staring up into the laughing eyes of the dearest friend life had given her and taken away.
"cynthia, dear," whispered grandma brokenly, "it is still here, the thing that hurt you so—that made a widow of me at twenty-eight. we have grown no wiser in spite of the pain."
sitting in the armchair that jocelyn had pulled out for jim tumley was roger allan. his face was a-quiver with pain. and he too was staring hungrily at the pictured face.
"oh, roger," wept grandma, "if only we could have her back, her and richard."
"yes," hoarsely whispered he, "if only the years would come back and we could have another chance to live them."
over in one corner of the room green valley's three good little men were discussing something hotly. that is, the fiery little barber was discussing something. the other two just listened.
"i tell you that preacher boy is right. this town needs a home, a place where it can all get together for a good time. no one home, not even this one, is big enough. that's why part of the town hangs out in the hotel, another part in the blacksmith shop, the kids in joe's shoe shop or a poolroom. we need a big assembly room with smaller rooms off of it for all kinds of honest fun—pool, billiards, bowling, dancing, swimming. i tell you i ain't crazy and no more is the preacher. and joshua stillman's library that he pretty near gave all his life and money to needs to be moved out into the sunlight and stretched to its full, grand size. i tell you it would be a great thing for this town. this town's sociable but it ain't social—no, sir!"
sam ellis was going home from the party with his girl and two boys.
"well, father," bitterly spoke up the eldest, "it's still our saloon that's killing jim tumley, even though we aren't running it."
"oh, father," murmured tessie miserably, "can't you do anything about it?"
sam groaned.
"dear god—what can i do? i tell you selling the hotel or renting it or dynamiting it won't stop drinking in this town, so long as there are men in it who want drink and will drink. i don't think even the vote that that little girl suggested will do it. if you vote it out you'll have blind pigs to fight. no, sir! it ain't my fault nor no one man's fault. the whole town's to blame. there's only one thing will stop it. if men in this country will quit making it other men will stop drinking it. so long as it's made it'll be used. the whole country's to blame."
fanny foster, having nobody else to talk to, was speaking her mind to john, her husband.
"i told grandma wentworth nobody but the almighty could do anything for jim. you'll see that i'm right. i know."
fanny was right. but what she did not know was that she herself was to be one of the instruments with which a stern and patient god was to clean out forever the one foul blot on green valley life.
the one person who was not discussing jim tumley and his trouble was jocelyn. she couldn't. she was too occupied with troubles of her own.
she had been the first to leave. she slipped away unobserved for she could not bear to have green valley see her leave without an escort. so she got away as noiseless as a fairy. and for the first few rods all was well. the excitement of the past hours, the worry of getting away unseen, kept her mind occupied. but as the night wind cooled her cheeks and the lighted house back of her grew smaller she grew frightened. she was, after all, a city girl and to her there was something fearful in the stillness of the country and the loneliness of the dark road. she hurried her steps, jumped at every sound and grew cold from pure terror as the awful stillness and emptiness closed in about her. she stood still every few minutes, staring at blurred bushes beside the road. the screech of an owl almost made her scream. and in the dark the hard lumpy road hurt her feet cruelly. the little slippers were never meant for dark country roads. so jocelyn had to pick her steps, and with every second's delay her terror grew.
finally the trees thinned a bit and for a good space ahead there was a clearing where the night was not so dark and the road not so lumpy. she hurried to get out of the smother of trees. when once she crossed that open space all would be well, she told herself, for then the village lights would wink at her and the sidewalks begin. as soon as she could see her own lighted windows and set foot on a cement walk she would no longer be afraid.
so, head bent, she hurried along and was almost near the walk when, looking up, she saw a man hurrying toward her through a little footpath that led to the road. she stood motionless with horror. then the scream that had hovered on her lips all the way escaped her and she tried to run.
she did not run far. for one of the high-heeled slippers just curled up under her and she went down, sobbing "david—david."
and she kept sobbing just that over and over even after david had picked her up and folded her safe in his arms. he tried to soothe her and explained that he had missed her, had guessed that she would try to get home alone down this road and so took the short cut in order to catch up with her and make sure that she got home safely. he never dreamed of frightening her so, but she was safe with him now and there was absolutely nothing to fear.
"but my foot, david. it's swelling. i can feel it—and it hurts."
david took off the little slipper and put it in his pocket. then he told her not to worry because he could carry her home easily enough. but first he sat down with her on an old stone wall and talked to her until the last sob died away and her head nestled gratefully on his big comfortable shoulder.
"jocelyn," he asked presently, "are you still angry with me?"
she shook her head.
"i've never been angry with you, david. but i thought you didn't want to be bothered any longer with a silly girl like me and so—i tried to help and be sensible."
"i know. i was crazy that day you rode through town with the minister. i had no right—"
"oh,"—she raised her head and looked at him in shy wonder and shocked relief, "oh, david—was it that—you were hurt at that?"
for answer he gently drew her close to him.
"but david, i didn't go riding with the minister. i was just taking a little pig home that a boy cousin of mine, who loves to tease me, sent me. i didn't know anything about pigs and the minister happened to be there and helped. he meant no harm."
"oh, i know, jocelyn. but he is such a wonderful man. only another man, i guess, can know what a fine chap he is. and i thought if he did like you i couldn't stand in your way. i found out, of course, that i was mistaken. the minister doesn't care anything about girls. but that wasn't all. you know, jocelyn, i'm uncle roger's own nephew but i bear his name because he legally gave it to me and because i have no name of my own. i was a fatherless baby and a girl like you ought to be courted by a better man than i am."
it was costing david allan something to tell the girl in his arms all that. she guessed how the telling must hurt the boy, for she stopped it with a little, tender laugh.
"but, david dear, i knew all that the day you took me to the decoration day exercises. grandma wentworth told me. she said she knew you'd likely tell me yourself some day but she said that she liked you and she noticed that people who liked you always liked you a little better after they heard that."
he sat still, overwhelmed with her sweetness. then, "jocelyn, is it only liking?"
her answer came like a soft note of joy.
"no, david. it's something bigger than liking and when you wouldn't speak to me that afternoon you darkened all my world."
she had not shed a tear through all those lonely days but now she buried her face in david's breast and cried bitterly.
and then it was that david kissed his sweetheart and the touch of her answering lips healed forever the dull ache that had gnawed at his heart ever since he was old enough to understand the story of his cheated childhood.
they sat in the soft darkness of the night that was full of autumn sighs, a night that stirred in their hearts wistful longings for a low, snug roof singing with rain and a drowsy little home fire beneath it.
when they had sat long enough to remember their great hour forever and had repeated the litany of love to each other till they sensed its wonder, david said regretfully:
"and now i must take you to your mother. and jocelyn, i'm terribly afraid of that mother of yours."
jocelyn laughed.
"why, david, mother isn't as bad as all that. and she likes you. she said you made her think of father. and, david, she's always given me everything i've honestly wanted and she could give. she hasn't been out much here. she hasn't cared to do much of anything since father died. but in the city she used to be so busy. you know she's a great club woman and a suffragette and oh, such a beautiful speaker. it's from her i get my funny, big, deep voice. she used to be in such demand at meetings. but she's given it all up. she blames herself for leaving father so much and not going out to the country with him. he never asked her to leave the city but i know he wanted to. when he died she just came out here to do penance. she thought there wasn't anything for her to do in a place like this. but just wait till i tell her about jim tumley. oh, she'll know what to do. why, mother's wonderful in her way, david! why, i just know she can do something for jim tumley."
david shook his head.
"jocelyn," he sighed, "it'll take this whole town and god almighty too to save jim tumley now."
"well, mother will do her share. and, dav—id, i'd like another kiss—if you don't mind."
david didn't mind in the least.
