Читать книгу A Tangled Web - L. M. Montgomery - Страница 11

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The folks in the parlour were getting a bit restless. What—the devil or the mischief—according to sex—was keeping Ambrosine Winkworth so long getting the jug? Aunt Becky lay impassive, gazing immovably at a plaster decoration on the ceiling which, Stanton Grundy reflected, looked exactly like a sore. Drowned John nearly blew the roof off with one of his famous sneezes and half the women jumped nervously. Uncle Pippin absent-mindedly began to hum Nearer My God to Thee, but was squelched by a glare from William Y. Oswald Dark suddenly came to the open window and looked in at these foolish and distracted people.

“Satan has just passed the door,” he said in his intense dramatic fashion.

“What a blessing he didn’t come in,” said Uncle Pippin imperturbably. But Rachel Penhallow was disturbed. It had seemed so real when the Moon Man said it. She wished Uncle Pippin would not be so flippant and jocose. Every one again wondered why Ambrosine didn’t come in with the jug. Had she taken a weak spell? Couldn’t she find it? Had she dropped and broken it on the garret floor?

Then Ambrosine entered, like a priestess bearing a chalice. She placed the jug on the little round table between the two rooms. A sigh of relieved tension went over the assemblage, succeeded by an almost painful stillness. Ambrosine went back and sat down at Aunt Becky’s right hand. Miss Jackson was sitting on the left.

“Good gosh,” whispered Stanton Grundy to Uncle Pippin, “did you ever see three such ugly women living together in your life?”

That night at three o’clock Uncle Pippin woke up and thought of a marvellous retort he might have made to Stanton Grundy. But at the time he could think of absolutely nothing to say. So he turned his back on Stanton and gazed at the jug, as every one else was doing—some covetously, a few indifferently, all with the interest natural to this exhibition of an old family heirloom they had been hearing about all their lives and had had few and far between opportunities of seeing.

Nobody thought the jug very beautiful in itself. Taste must have changed notably in a hundred years if anybody had ever thought it beautiful. Yet it was undoubtedly a delectable thing, with its history and its legend, and even Tempest Dark leaned forward to get a better view of it. A thing like that, he reflected, deserved a certain reverence because it was the symbol of a love it had outlasted on earth and so had a sacredness of its own.

It was an enormous, pot-bellied thing of a type that had been popular in pre-Victorian days. George the Fourth had been king when the old Dark jug came into being. Half its nose was gone and a violent crack extended around its middle. The decorations consisted of pink-gilt scrolls, green and brown leaves and red and blue roses. On one side was a picture of two convivial tars, backed with the British Ensign and the Union Jack, who had evidently been imbibing deeply of the cup which cheers and inebriates, and who were expressing the feelings of their inmost hearts in singing the verse printed above them:

“Thus smiling at peril at sea or on shore

We’ll box the old compass right cheerly,

Pass the grog, boys, about, with a song or two more,

Then we’ll drink to the girls we love dearly.”

On the opposite side the designer of the jug, whose strong point had not been spelling, had filled in the vacant place with a pathetic verse from Byron:

“The man is doomed to sail

With the blast of the gale

Through billows attalantic to steer.

As he bends o’er the wave

Which may soon be his grave

He remembers his home with a tear.”

Rachel Penhallow felt a tear start to her eyes and roll down her long face as she read it. It had been, she thought mournfully, so sadly prophetic.

In the middle of the jug, below its broken nose, was a name and date. Harriet Dark, Aldboro, 1826, surrounded by a wreath of pink and green tied with a true lover’s knot. The jug was full of old pot-pourri and the room was instantly filled with its faint fragrance—a delicate spicy smell, old-maidishly sweet, virginally elusive, yet with such penetrating, fleeting suggestions of warm passion and torrid emotions. Everybody in the room suddenly felt its influence. For one infinitesimal moment Joscelyn and Hugh looked at each other—Margaret Penhallow was young again—Virginia put her hand over Donna’s in a convulsive grasp—Thora Dark moved restlessly—and a strange expression flickered over Lawson Dark’s face. Uncle Pippin caught it as it vanished and felt his scalp crinkle. For just a second he thought Lawson was remembering.

Even Drowned John found himself recalling how pretty and flower-like Jennie had been when he married her. What a hell of a pity one couldn’t stay always young.

Every one present knew the romantic story of the old Dark jug. Harriet Dark, who had been sleeping for one hundred years in a quaint English churchyard, had been a slim fair creature with faint rose cheeks and big grey eyes, in 1826, with a gallant sea-captain for a lover. And this lover, on what proved to be his last voyage, had sailed to Amsterdam and there had caused to be made the jug of scroll and verse and true-lover’s knot for a birthday gift to his Harriet, it being the fashion of time to give the lady of your heart such a robust and capacious jug. Alas for true loves and true lovers! On the voyage home the Captain was drowned. The jug was sent to the broken-hearted Harriet. Hearts did break a hundred years ago, it is said. A year later Harriet, her spring of love so suddenly turned to autumn, was buried in the Aldboro churchyard and the jug passed into the keeping of her sister, Sarah Dark, who had married her cousin, Robert Penhallow. Sarah, being perhaps of a practical and unromantic turn of mind, used the jug to hold the black currant jam for the concoction of which she was noted. Six years later, when Robert Penhallow decided to emigrate to Canada, his wife carried the jug with her, full of black currant jam. The voyage was long and stormy; the currant jam was all eaten; and the jug was broken by some mischance into three large pieces. But Sarah Penhallow was a resourceful woman. When she was finally settled in her new home, she took the jug and mended it carefully with white lead. It was done thoroughly and lastingly but not exactly artistically. Sarah smeared the white lead rather lavishly over the cracks, pressing it down with her capable thumb. And in a good light to this very day the lines of Sarah Penhallow’s thumb could be clearly seen in the hardened spats of white lead.

Thereafter for years Sarah Penhallow kept the jug in her dairy, filled with cream skimmed from her broad, golden-brown, earthenware milk-pans. On her death bed she had given it to her daughter Rachel, who had married Thomas Dark. Rachel Dark left it to her son Theodore. By this time it had been advanced to the dignity of an heirloom and was no longer degraded to menial uses. Aunt Becky kept it in her china cabinet, and it was passed around and its story told at all clan gatherings. It was said a collector had offered Aunt Becky a fabulous sum for it. But no Dark or Penhallow would ever have dreamed of selling such a household god. Absolutely it must remain in the family. To whom would Aunt Becky give it? This was the question every one in the room was silently asking; Aunt Becky alone knew the answer and she did not mean to be in any hurry to give it. This was her last levee; she had much to do and still more to say before she came to the question of the jug at all. She was going to take her time about it and enjoy it. She knew perfectly well that what she was going to do would set everybody by the ears, but all she regretted was that she would not be alive to see the sport. Look at all those female animals with their eyes popping out at the jug! Aunt Becky began to laugh and laughed until her bed shook.

“I think,” she said, finally, wiping the tears of mirth from her eyes, “that a solemn assembly like this should be opened with prayer.”

This was by way of being a bombshell. Who but Aunt Becky would have thought of such a thing? Everybody looked at each other and then at David Dark, who was the only man in the clan who was known to have a gift of prayer. David Dark was usually very ready to lead in prayer, but he was not prepared for this.

“David,” said Aunt Becky inexorably. “I’m sorry to say this clan haven’t the reputation of wearing their knees out praying. I shall have to ask you to do the proper thing.”

His wife looked at him appealingly. She was very proud because her husband could make such fine prayers. She forgave him all else for it, even the fact that he made all his family go to bed early to save kerosene and had a dreadful habit of licking his fingers after eating tarts. David’s prayers were her only claim to distinction, and she was afraid he was going to refuse now.

David, poor wretch, had no intention of refusing, much as he disliked the prospect. To do so would offend Aunt Becky and lose him all chance of the jug. He cleared his throat and rose to his feet. Everybody bowed. Outside the two Sams, realising what was going on as David’s sonorous voice floated out to them, took their pipes out of their mouths. David’s prayer was not up to his best, as his wife admitted to herself, but it was an eloquent and appropriate petition and David felt himself badly used when after his “Amen” Aunt Becky said:

“Giving God information isn’t praying, David. It’s just as well to leave something to His imagination, you know. But I suppose you did your best. Thank you. By the way, do you remember the time, forty years ago, when you put Aaron Dark’s old ram in the church basement?”

David looked silly and Mrs. David was indignant. Aunt Becky certainly had a vile habit of referring in company to whatever incident in your life you were most anxious to forget. But she was like that. And you couldn’t resent it if you wanted the jug. The David Darks managed a feeble smile.

“Noel,” thought Gay, “is leaving the bank now.”

“I wonder,” said Aunt Becky reflectively, “who was the first man who ever prayed. And what he prayed for. And how many prayers have been uttered since then.”

“And how many have been answered,” said Naomi Dark, speaking bitterly and suddenly for the first time.

“Perhaps William Y. could throw some light on that,” chuckled Uncle Pippin maliciously. “I understand he keeps a systematic record of all his prayers, which are answered and which ain’t. How about it, William Y.?”

“It averages up about fifty-fifty,” said William Y. solemnly, not understanding at all why some were giggling. “I am bound to say, though,” he added, “that some of the answers were—peculiar.”

As for Ambrosine Winkworth, David had made an enemy for life of her because he had referred to her as “Thine aged handmaiden.” Ambrosine shot a venomous glance at David.

“Aged—aged,” she muttered rebelliously. “Why, I’m only seventy-two—not so old as all that—not so old.”

“Hush, Ambrosine,” said Aunt Becky authoritatively. “It’s a long time since you were young. Put another cushion under my head. Thanks. I’m going to have the fun of reading my own will. And I’ve had the fun of writing my own obituary. It’s going to be printed just as I’ve written it, too. Camilla has sworn to see to that. Good Lord, the obituaries I’ve read! Listen to mine.”

Aunt Becky produced a folded paper from under her pillow.

“ ‘No gloom was cast over the communities of Indian Spring, Three Hills, Rose River or Bay Silver when it became known that Mrs. Theodore Dark—Aunt Becky as she was generally called, less from affection than habit—had died on’—whatever the date will be—‘at the age of eighty-five.’

“You notice,” said Aunt Becky, interrupting herself, “that I say died. I shall not pass away or pass out or pay my debt to nature or depart this life or join the great majority or be summoned to my long home. I intend simply and solely to die.

“ ‘Everybody concerned felt that it was high time the old lady did die. She had lived a long life, respectably if not brilliantly, had experienced almost everything a decent female could experience, had out-lived husband and children and anybody who had ever really cared anything for her. There was therefore neither sense, reason nor profit in pretending gloom or grief. The funeral took place on’—whatever date it does take place on—‘from the home of Miss Camilla Jackson at Indian Spring. It was a cheerful funeral, in accordance with Aunt Becky’s strongly expressed wish, the arrangements being made by Mr. Henry Trent, undertaker, Rose River.’

“Henry will never forgive me for not calling him a mortician,” said Aunt Becky. “Mortician—Humph! But Henry has a genius for arranging funerals and I’ve picked on him to plan mine.

“ ‘Flowers were omitted by request’—no horrors of funeral wreaths for me, mind. No bought harps and pillows and crosses. But if anybody cares to bring a bouquet from their own garden, they may—‘and the services were conducted by the Rev. Mr. Trackley of Rose River. The pall-bearers were Hugh Dark, Robert Dark,’—mind you don’t stumble, Dandy, as you did at Selina Dark’s funeral. What a jolt you must have given the poor old girl—‘Palmer Dark, Homer Penhallow’—put them on opposite sides of the casket so they can’t fight—‘Murray Dark, Roger Penhallow, David Dark, and John Penhallow’—Drowned John, mind you, not that simpering nincompoop at Bay Silver—‘who contrived to get through the performance without swearing as he did at his father’s funeral.’ ”

“I didn’t,” shouted Drowned John furiously, springing to his feet. “And don’t you dare publish such a thing about me in your damned obituary. You—you—”

“Sit down, John, sit down. That really isn’t in the obituary. I just stuck it in this minute to get a rise out of you. Sit down.”

“I didn’t swear at my father’s funeral,” muttered Drowned John sullenly as he obeyed.

“Well, maybe it was your mother’s. Don’t interrupt me again, please. Courtesy costs nothing, as the Scotchman said. ‘Aunt Becky was born a Presbyterian, lived a Presbyterian, and died a Presbyterian. She had a hard man to please in Theodore Dark, but she made him quite as good a wife as he deserved. She was a good neighbour as neighbours go and did not quarrel more than anybody else in the clan. She had a knack of taking the wind out of people’s sails that did not make for popularity. She seldom suffered in silence. Her temper was about the average, neither worse nor better and did not sweeten as she grew older. She always behaved herself decently, although many a time it would have been a relief to be indecent. She told the truth almost always, thereby doing a great deal of good and some harm, but she could tell a lie without straining her conscience when people asked questions they had no business to ask. She occasionally used a naughty word under great stress and she could listen to a risky story without turning white around the gills, but obscenity never took the place of wit with her. She paid her debts, went to church regularly, thought gossip was very interesting, liked to be the first to hear a piece of news, and was always especially interested in things that were none of her business. She could see a baby without wanting to eat it, but she was always a very good mother to her own. She longed for freedom, as all women do, but had sense enough to understand that real freedom is impossible in this kind of a world, the lucky people being those who can choose their masters, so she never made the mistake of kicking uselessly over the traces. Sometimes she was mean, treacherous and greedy. Sometimes she was generous, faithful and unselfish. In short, she was an average person who had lived as long as anybody should live.’

“There,” said Aunt Becky, tucking her obituary under the pillow, quite happy in the assurance that she had made a sensation. “You will observe that I have not called myself ‘the late Mrs. Dark’ or ‘the deceased lady’ or ‘relict.’ And that’s that.”

“God bless me, did you ever hear the equal of that?” muttered Uncle Pippin blankly.

Every one else was silent in a chill of outraged horror. Surely—surely—that appalling document would never be published. It must not be published, if anything short of the assassination of Camilla Jackson could prevent it. Why, strangers would suppose it had been written by some surviving member of the clan.

But Aunt Becky was bringing out another document, and all the Darks and Penhallows bottled up their indignation for the time being and uncorked their ears. Who was to get the jug? Until that was settled the matter of the obituary would be left in abeyance.

Aunt Becky unfolded her will, and settled her owlish shell-ringed glasses on her beaky nose.

“I’ve left my little bit of money to Camilla for her life,” she said. “After her death it’s to go to the hospital in Charlottetown.”

Aunt Becky looked sharply over the throng. But she did not see any particular disappointment. To do the Darks and Penhallows justice, they were not money-grabbers. No one grudged Camilla Jackson her legacy. Money was a thing one could and should earn for oneself; but old family heirlooms, crusted with the sentiment of dead and gone hopes and fears for generations, were different matters. Suppose Aunt Becky left the jug to some rank outsider? Or a museum? She was quite capable of it. If she did, William Y. Penhallow mentally registered a vow that he would see his lawyer about it.

“Any debts are to be paid,” continued Aunt Becky, “and my grave is to be heaped up—not left flat. I insist on that. Make a note of it, Artemas.”

Artemas Dark nodded uncomfortably. He was caretaker of the Rose River graveyard, and he knew he would have trouble with the cemetery committee about that. Besides, it made it so confoundedly difficult to mow. Aunt Becky probably read his thoughts, for she said:

“I won’t have a lawn-mower running over me. You can clip my grave nicely with the shears. I’ve left directions for my tombstone, too. I want one as big as anybody else’s. And I want my lace shawl draped around me in my coffin. It’s the only thing I mean to take with me. Theodore gave it to me when Ronald was born. There were times when Theodore could do as graceful a thing as anybody. It’s as good as new. I’ve always kept it wrapped in silver paper at the bottom of my third bureau drawer. Remember, Camilla.”

Camilla nodded. The first sign of disappointment appeared on Mrs. Clifford Penhallow’s face. She had set her heart on getting the lace shawl, for she feared she had very little chance of getting the jug. The shawl was said to have cost Theodore Dark two hundred dollars. To think of burying two hundred dollars!

Mrs. Toynbee Dark, who had been waiting all the afternoon for an opportunity to cry, thought she saw it at the mention of Aunt Becky’s baby son who had been dead for sixty years, and got out her handkerchief. But Aunt Becky headed her off.

“Don’t start crying yet, Alicia. By the way, while I think of it, will you tell me something? I’ve always wanted to know and I’ll never have another chance. Which of your three husbands did you like best—Morton Dark, Edgar Penhallow, or Toynbee Dark? Come now, make a clean breast of it.”

Mrs. Toynbee put her handkerchief back in her bag and shut the latter with a vicious snap.

“I had a deep affection for all my partners,” she said.

Aunt Becky wagged her head.

“Why didn’t you say ‘deceased’ partners? You were thinking it, you know. You have that type of mind. Alicia, tell me honestly, don’t you think you ought to have been more economical with husbands? Three! And poor Mercy and Margaret there haven’t been able even to get one.”

Mercy reflected bitterly that if she had employed the methods Alicia Dark had, she might have had husbands and to spare, too. Margaret coloured softly and looked piteous. Why, oh, why, must cruel old Aunt Becky hold her up to public ridicule like this?

“I’ve divided all my belongings among you,” said Aunt Becky. “I hate the thought of dying and leaving all my nice things. But since it must be, I’m not going to have any quarrelling over them before I’m cold in my grave. Everything’s down here in black and white. I’ve just left the things according to my own whims. I’ll read the list. And let me say that the fact that any one of you gets something doesn’t mean that you’ve no chance for the jug as well. I’m coming to that later.”

Aunt Becky took off her spectacles, polished them, put them on again, and took a drink of water. Drowned John nearly groaned with impatience. Heaven only knew how long it would be before she would get to the jug. He had no interest in her other paltry knick-knacks.

“Mrs. Denzil Penhallow is to have my pink china candlesticks,” announced Aunt Becky. “I know you’ll be delighted at this, Martha dear. You’ve given me so many hints about candlesticks.”

Mrs. Denzil had wanted Aunt Becky’s beautiful silver Georgian candlesticks. And now she was saddled with a pair of unspeakable china horrors, in colour a deep magenta-pink with what looked like black worms wriggling all over them. But she tried to look pleased, because if she didn’t, it might spoil her chances for the jug. Denzil scowled, jug or no jug, and Aunt Becky saw it. Pompous old Denzil! She would get even with him.

“I remember when Denzil was about five years old he came down to my place with his mother, one day, and our old turkey gobbler took after him. I suppose the poor bird thought no one else had a right to be strutting around there. ‘Member, Denzil? Lord, how you ran and blubbered! You certainly thought Old Nick was after you. Do you know, Denzil, I’ve never seen you parading up the church aisle since but I’ve thought of that.”

Well, it had to be endured. Denzil cleared his throat and endured it.

“I haven’t much jewellery,” Aunt Becky was saying. “Two rings. One is an opal. I’m giving that to Virginia Powell. They say it brings bad luck, but you’re too modern to believe that old superstition, Virginia. Though I never had any luck after I got it.”

Virginia tried to look happy, though she had wanted the Chinese screen. As for luck or no luck, how could that matter? Life was over for her. Nobody grudged her the opal, but when Aunt Becky mentioned rings many ears were pricked up. Who would get her diamond ring? It was a fine one and worth several hundreds of dollars.

“Ambrosine Winkworth is to have my diamond ring,” said Aunt Becky.

Half those present could not repress a gasp of disapproval and the collective effect was quite pronounced. This, thought the gaspers, was absurd. Ambrosine Winkworth had no right whatever to that ring. And what good would it do her—an old broken-down servant? Really, Aunt Becky’s brain must be softening.

“Here it is, Ambrosine,” said Aunt Becky, taking it from her bony finger and handing it to the trembling Ambrosine. “I’ll give it to you now, so there’ll be no mistake. Put it on.”

Ambrosine obeyed. Her old wrinkled face was aglow with the joy of a long-cherished dream suddenly and unexpectedly realised. Ambrosine Winkworth, through a drab life spent in other people’s kitchens, had hankered all through that life for a diamond ring. She had never hoped to have it; and now here it was on her hand, a great starry wonderful thing, glittering in the June sunshine that fell through the window. Everything came true for Ambrosine in that moment. She asked no more of fate.

Perhaps Aunt Becky had divined that wistful dream of the old woman. Or perhaps she had just given Ambrosine the ring to annoy the clan. If the latter, she had certainly succeeded. Nan Penhallow was especially furious. She should have the diamond ring. Thekla Penhallow felt the same way. Joscelyn, who once had had a diamond ring, Donna, who still had one, and Gay, who expected she soon would have one, looked amused and indifferent. Chuckling to herself Aunt Becky picked up her will and gave Mrs. Clifford Penhallow her Chinese screen.

“As if I wanted her old Chinese screen,” thought Mrs. Clifford, almost on the point of tears.

Margaret Penhallow was the only one whom nobody envied. She got Aunt Becky’s Pilgrim’s Progress, a very old, battered book. The covers had been sewed on; the leaves were yellow with age. One was afraid to touch it lest it might fall to pieces. It was a most disreputable old volume which Theodore Dark, for some unknown reason, had prized when alive. Since his death Aunt Becky had kept it in an old box in the garret, where it had got musty and dusty. But Margaret was not disappointed. She had expected nothing.

“My green pickle leaf is to go to Rachel Penhallow,” said Aunt Becky.

Rachel’s long face grew longer. She had wanted the Apostle spoons. But Gay Penhallow got the Apostle spoons—to her surprise and delight. They were quaint and lovely and would accord charmingly with a certain little house of dreams that was faintly taking shape in her imagination. Aunt Becky looked at Gay’s sparkling face with less grimness than she usually showed and proceeded to give her dinner-set to Mrs. Howard Penhallow, who wanted the Chippendale sideboard.

“It was my wedding-set,” said Aunt Becky. “There’s only one piece broken. Theodore brought his fist down on the cover of one of the tureens one day when he got excited in an argument at dinner. I won out in the argument, though—at least I got my own way, tureen or no tureen. Emily, you’re to have the bed.”

Mrs. Emily Frost, née Dark, a gentle, faded little person, who also had yearned for the Apostle spoons, tried to look grateful for a bed which was too big for any of her tiny rooms. And Mrs. Alpheus Penhallow, who wanted the bed, had to put up with the Chippendale sideboard. Donna Dark got an old egg-dish in the guise of a gaily coloured china hen sitting on a yellow china nest, and was glad because she had liked the old thing when she was a child. Joscelyn Dark got the claw-footed mahogany table Mrs. Palmer Dark had hoped for, and Roger Dark got the Georgian candlesticks and Mrs. Denzil’s eternal hatred. The beautiful old Queen Anne bookcase went to Murray Dark, who never read books, and Hugh Dark got the old hourglass—early eighteenth century—and wondered bitterly what use it would be to a man for whom time had stopped ten years ago. He knew, none better, how long an hour can be and what devastating things can happen in it.

“Crosby, you’re to have my old cut-glass whiskey decanter,” Aunt Becky was saying. “There hasn’t been any whiskey in it for many a year, more’s the pity. It’ll hold the water you’re always drinking in the night. I heard you admire it once.”

Old Crosby Penhallow, who had been nodding, wakened up and looked pleased. He really hadn’t expected anything. It was kind of Becky to remember him. They had been young together.

Aunt Becky looked at him—at his smooth, shining bald head, his sunken blue eyes, his toothless mouth. Old Crosby would never have false teeth. Yet in spite of the bald head and faded eyes and shrunken mouth, Crosby Dark was not an ill-looking old man—quite the reverse.

“I have a mind to tell you something, Crosby,” said Aunt Becky. “You never knew it—nobody ever knew it—but you were the only man I ever loved.”

The announcement made a sensation. Everybody—so ridiculous is outworn passion—wanted to laugh but dared not. Crosby blushed painfully all over his wrinkled face. Hang it all, was old Becky making fun of him? And whether or no, how dared she make a show of him like this before everybody?

“I was quite mad about you,” said Aunt Becky musingly. “Why? I don’t know. You were handsomer sixty years ago than any man has a right to be, but you had no brains. Yet you were the man for me. And you never looked at me. You married Annette Dark—and I married Theodore. Nobody knows how much I hated him when I married him. But I got quite fond of him after a while. That’s life, you know—though those three romantic young geese there, Gay and Donna and Virginia, think I’m talking rank heresy. I got over caring for you in time, even though for years after I did, my heart used to beat like mad every time I saw you walk up the church aisle with your meek little Annette trotting behind you. I got a lot of thrills out of loving you, Crosby—many more I don’t doubt than if I’d married you. And Theodore was really a much better husband for me than you’d have been—he had a sense of humour. And it doesn’t matter now whether he was or wasn’t. I don’t even wish now that you had loved me, though I wished it for so many years. Lord, the nights I couldn’t sleep for thinking of you—and Theodore snoring beside me. But there it is. Somehow, I’ve always wanted you to know it and at last I’ve had the courage to tell you.”

Old Crosby wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Erasmus would never let him hear the last of this—never. And suppose it got into the papers! If he had dreamed anything like this was going to happen, he would never have come to the levee. He glowered at the jug. It was to blame, durn it.

“I wonder how many of us will get out of this alive,” whispered Stanton Grundy to Uncle Pippin.

But Aunt Becky had switched over to Penny Dark and was giving him her bottle of Jordan water.

“What the deuce do I care for Jordan water,” thought Penny. Perhaps his face was too expressive, for Aunt Becky suddenly grinned dangerously.

“Mind the time, Penny, you moved a vote of thanks to Rob Dufferin on the death of his wife?”

There was a chorus of laughs of varying timbre, among which Drowned John’s boomed like an earthquake. Penny’s thoughts were as profane as the others’ had been. That a little mistake between thanks and condolence, made in the nervousness of public speaking, should be everlastingly coming up against a man like this. From old Aunt Becky, too, who had just confessed that most of her life she had loved a man who wasn’t her husband, the scandalous old body.

Mercy Penhallow sighed. She would have liked the Jordan water. Rachel Penhallow had one and Mercy had always envied her for it. There must be a blessing in any household that had a bottle of Jordan water. Aunt Becky heard the sigh and looked at Mercy.

“Mercy,” she said apropos of nothing, “do you remember that forgotten pie you brought out after everybody had finished eating at the Stanley Penhallow’s silver-wedding dinner?”

But Mercy was not afraid of Aunt Becky. She had a spirit of her own.

“Yes, I do. And do you remember, Aunt Becky, that the first time you killed and roasted a chicken after you were married, you brought it to the table with the insides still in it?”

Nobody dared to laugh but everybody was glad Mercy had the spunk. Aunt Becky nodded undisturbed.

“Yes, and I remember how it smelled! We had company, too. I don’t think Theodore ever fully forgave me. I thought that had been forgotten years ago. Is anything ever forgotten? Can people ever live anything down? The honours are to you, Mercy, but I must get square with somebody. Junius Penhallow, do you remember—since Mercy has started digging up the past—how drunk you were at your wedding?”

Junius Penhallow turned a violent crimson but couldn’t deny it. Of what use was it, with Mrs. Junius at his elbow, to plead that he had been in such a blue funk on his wedding-morning that he’d never have had the courage to go through with it if he hadn’t got drunk? He had never been drunk since, and it was hard to have it raked up now, when he was an elder in the church and noted for his avowed temperance principles.

“I’m not the only one who ever got drunk in this clan,” he dared to mutter, despite the jug.

“No, to be sure. There’s Artemas over there. Do you remember, Artemas, the evening you walked up the church aisle in your nightshirt?”

Artemas, a tall, raw-boned, red-haired fellow, had been too drunk on that occasion to remember it, but he always roared when reminded of it. He thought it the best joke ever.

“You should have all been thankful I had that much on myself,” he said with a chuckle.

Mrs. Artemas wished she were dead. What was a joke to Artemas was a tragedy to her. She had never forgotten—never could forget—the humiliation of that unspeakable evening. She had forgiven Artemas certain violations of his marriage vow of which every one was aware. But she had never forgiven—never would forgive—the episode of the nightshirt. If it had been pajamas, it would not have been quite so terrible. But in those days pajamas were unknown.

Aunt Becky was at Mrs. Conrad Dark.

“I’m giving you my silver saltcellars. Alec Dark’s mother gave them to me for a wedding-present. Do you remember the time you and Mrs. Clifford there quarrelled over Alec Dark and she slapped your face? And neither of you got Alec after all. There, there, don’t crack the spectrum. It’s all dead and vanished, just like my affair with Crosby.”

(“As if there was ever any affair,” thought Crosby piteously.)

“Pippin’s to have my grandfather clock. Mrs. Digby Dark thinks she should have that because her father gave it to me. But no. Do you remember, Fanny, that you once put a tract in a book you lent me? Do you know what I did with it? I used it for curl papers. I’ve never forgiven you for the insult. Tracts, indeed. Did I need tracts?”

“You—weren’t a member of the church,” said Mrs. Digby, on the point of tears.

“No—nor am yet. Theodore and I could never agree which church to join. I wanted Rose River and he wanted Bay Silver. And after he died it seemed sort of disrespectful to his memory to join Rose River. Besides, I was so old then it would have seemed funny. Marrying and church-joining should be done in youth. But I was as good a Christian as any one. Naomi Dark.”

Naomi, who had been fanning Lawson, looked up with a start as Aunt Becky hurled her name at her.

“You’re to get my Wedgwood teapot. It’s a pretty thing. Cauliflower pattern, as it’s called, picked out with gold lustre. It’s the only thing it really hurts me to give up. Letty gave it to me—she bought it at a sale in town with some of her first quarter’s salary. Have you all forgotten Letty? It’s forty years since she died. She would have been sixty if she were living now—as old as you, Fanny. Oh, I know you don’t own to more than fifty, but you and Letty were born within three weeks of each other. It seems funny to think of Letty being sixty—she was always so young—she was the youngest thing I ever knew. I used to wonder how Theodore and I ever produced her. She couldn’t have been sixty ever—that’s why she had to die. After all, it was better. It hurt me to have her die—but I think it would have hurt me more to see her sixty—wrinkled—faded—grey-haired—my pretty Letty, like a rose tossing in a breeze. Have you all forgotten that gold hair of hers—such living hair? Be good to her teapot, Naomi. Well, that’s the end of my valuable belongings—except the jug. I’m a bit tired—I want a rest before I tackle that business. I’m going to ask you all to sit in absolute silence for ten minutes and think about a question I’m going to ask you at the end of that time—all of you who are over forty. How many of you would like to live your lives over again if you could?”