Blinded with an exquisite rush of tears, somehow Nancy reached them,
and fell on her knees at her husband's side, and caught her baby to her
heart. Three hundred persons heard the sobbing cry she gave, and the
flames flung off stars and arrows for more than one pair of sympathetic
eyes. But she neither knew nor cared. She knew only that Bert's arms
and the boys' arms were about her, and that Anne's thin little cheek
was against her hair, and that her hungry lips were devouring the
baby's sweet, bewildered face. She was crying as if there could be no
end to her tears, crying happily and trying to laugh as she cried, and
as she let the waves of relief and joy sweep over her in a reviving
flood.
Bert was in his shirt sleeves, and Priscilla still had on only the
short embroidered petticoat that she wore while she slept; her small
feet were bare. The boys were grimed with ashes and soot, and Anne was
pale and speechless with fright. But they were all together, father,
mother, and children, and that was all that mattered in the world--all
that would ever count, for Nancy, again.
"Don't cry, dearest!" said Bert, the tears streaming down his own
blackened face. "She's all right, dear! We're all here, safe and sound,
we're all right!"
But Nancy cried on, her arms strained about them all, her wet face
against her husband's, and his arm tight across her shoulder.
"Oh, Bert--I ran so! And I didn't know--I didn't know what to be afraid
of--what to think! And I RAN so--!"
"You poor girl--you shouldn't have done it. But dearest, we're all
right now. What a scare you got--and my God, what a scare _I_ got! But
I got to her, Nance--don't look so, dear. I was in plenty of time, and
even if I hadn't been, Agnes would have got her out. She ran all the
way from Ingrams' and she was only a few minutes after me! It's all
right now, Nance."
Nancy dried her eyes, swaying back on her knees to face him.
"I was playing cards--Bert, if anything had happened I think I should
never have been sane again--"
"I was on the court, you know," Bert said. "Underhill's kid came up, on
his bicycle. He shouted at me, and I ran, and jumped into the car, Rose
following. I met Agnes, running back to the house, with the children--I
called out 'Where's Priscilla?' and she shouted back--she shouted
back:' Oh, Mr. Bradley--oh, Mr. Bradley--'" And overcome by the hideous
recollection, Bert choked, and began to unbutton and button the top of
his daughter's little petticoat.
"We were all out walkin'," Ned volunteered eagerly. "And Joe Underbill
went by on his bike. And he yelled at us, 'You'd better go home, your
house is on fire!' and Anne began to cry, didn't you, Anne? So Agnes
said a prayer, right out loud, didn't she, Junior? And then Dad and Mr.
Rose went by us in the car on a run--we were way up by Ingrams'--and
then Anne and Agnes cried, and I guess we all cried some--"
"And mother, lissun," Junior added. "They didn't get the baby out until
after they got out the piano! They got the piano out before they got
Priscilla! Because Pauline ran over to Wallaces', and Hannah was
walking into the village for the mail, and when Dad got here and yelled
to the men, they said they hadn't seen any baby--they thought the house
was empty--"
Nancy turned deathly pale, her eyes reaching Bert's, her lips moving
without a sound.
"I tried the front stairway, but it was--well, I couldn't," Bert said.
"I kept thinking that she must have been got out, by somebody--but I
knew it was only a question of minutes--if she wasn't! All the time I
kept saying 'You're a fool--they couldn't have forgotten her--!' and
Rose kept yelling that she must be somewhere, with someone, but I
didn't--somehow I didn't dare let the few minutes we had go by without
making sure! So I ran round to the side, and got in that window, and
unlocked that door; Hannah must have locked it. I ran upstairs--she was
just waking up. She was sitting up in her crib, rubbing her eyes, and a
little bit scared and puzzled--smoke was in there, then--but she held
out her little arms to me--I was in time, thank God--I thought we'd
never get here--but we were in time!"
And again overcome by the memory of that moment, he brushed his
brimming eyes against Priscilla's bright little head, and his voice
failed.
"But Baby couldn't have burned--Baby couldn't have burned, could she,
Mother?" Anne asked, bursting suddenly into bitter crying. Her anxious
look had been going from one face to another, and now she was half
frantic with fright.
Nancy sat down on a box, and lifted her elder daughter into her lap.
"No, my precious, Daddy was in time," she said, in her old firm
motherly voice, with her comforting arms about the small and tearful
girl. "Daddy and Mother were both rushing home as fast as they could
come, that's what mothers and fathers are for. And now we're all safe
and sound together, and you mustn't cry any more!"
"But our house is burned down!" said Junior dolefully. "And you're
crying, Mother!" he added accusingly.
Nancy smiled as she dried her eyes, and dried Anne's, and the children
laughed shakily as she exhibited the sooty handkerchief.
"Mother's crying for joy and gratitude and relief, Junior!" she said.
"Why," and her reassuring voice was a tonic to the children, "Why, what
do Dad and I care about an old house!" she said cheerfully. "We'd
rather have ten houses burn down than have one of you children sick,
even for a day!"
"Don't you care?" exulted Anne between two violent kisses, her lips
close to her mother's, her thin arms tight about her mother's neck.
"We care about you, and the boys, and the baby, Anne," said Bert, "but
that's all. Why, I sort of think I'm glad to see that house burn down!
It used to worry Mother and me a good deal, and now it won't worry us
any more! How about that, Mother?"
And his reddened eyes, in his soot--and perspiration-streaked face, met
Nancy's with the old smile of fun and courage, and her eyes met his.
Something the children missed passed between them; hours of
conciliatory talk could not have accomplished what that look did, years
of tears and regret would not so thoroughly have washed away the
accumulated burden of heartache and resentment and misunderstanding.