A Tangled Web (7 page)

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 potpourri 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.

Everyone 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 gray 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 the 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 brokenhearted 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 deathbed 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 everyone 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, realizing 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 outlived 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 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 neighbor as neighbors 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.'