THE LITTLE SLIPPER
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.