The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “And how’s your namesake?” Aunt Becky was asking Mrs Emily Frost. Kennedy Penhallow, who had been jilted by his cousin Emily, sixty-five years before, had called his old spavined mare after her to insult her. Kennedy, happily married for many years to Julia Dark, had forgotten all about it, but Emily Frost, née Penhallow, had never forgotten or forgiven.

  “Hello, Margaret; going to write a poem about this? ‘Weary and worn and sad the train rattled on.’” Aunt Becky went off into a cackle of laughter and Margaret Penhallow, her thin, sensitive face flushing pitifully and her peculiarly large, soft, grey-blue eyes filling with tears, went blindly to the first vacant chair. Once she had written rather awful little poems for a Summerside paper, but never after a conscienceless printer had deleted her punctuation marks, producing that terrible line which haunted the clan forever afterwards like an unquiet ghost which refused to be laid. Margaret could never feel safe from hearing it quoted somewhere with a snicker or a bellow. Even here at Aunt Becky’s death-bed levee it must be dragged up. Perhaps Margaret still wrote poems. A little shell-covered box in her trunk might know something about that. But the public press knew them no more, much to the clan’s thankfulness.

  “What’s the matter with you, Penny? You’re not as good-looking as you generally believe you are.”

  “Stung on the eye by a bee,” said Pennycuik Dark sulkily. He was a fat, tubby little fellow, with a curly grey beard and none-too-plentiful curly hair. As usual, he was as well-groomed as a cat. He still considered himself a gay young wag, and felt that nothing but the jug could have lured him into a public appearance under the circumstances. Just like this devilish old woman to call the attention of the world to his eye. But he was her oldest nephew and he had a right to the jug which he would maintain, eye or no eye. He always felt that his branch of the family had been unjustly done out of it two generations back. In his annoyance and excitement he sat down on the first vacant chair he spied, and then to his dismay discovered that he was sitting beside Mrs William Y., of whom he had the liveliest terror ever since she had asked him what to do for a child who had worms. As if he, Pennycuik Dark, confirmed bachelor, knew anything about either children or worms.

  “Go and sit in that far corner by the door so that I can’t smell that damn’ perfume. Even a poor old nonentity like myself has a right to pure air,” Aunt Becky was telling poor Mrs Artemas Dark, whose taste in perfumes had always annoyed Aunt Becky. Mrs Artemas did use them somewhat too lavishly, but even so, the clan reflected as a unit, Aunt Becky was employing rather strong language for a woman — especially on her death-bed. The Darks and the Penhallows prided themselves on keeping up with the times, but they were not so far advanced as to condone profanity in a woman. That was still taboo. The joke of it was that Aunt Becky herself had always been down on swearing and was supposed to hold in special disfavour the two clansmen who habitually swore — Titus Dark because he could not help it and Drowned John Penhallow, who could help it but didn’t want to.

  The arrival of Mrs Alpheus Penhallow and her daughter created a sensation. Mrs Alpheus lived in St. John and happened to be visiting her old home in Rose River when Aunt Becky’s levee was announced. She was an enormously fat woman, with a rather deplorable penchant for wearing bright colours and over-rich materials, who had been very slim and beautiful in a youth during which she had been no great favourite with Aunt Becky. Mrs Alpheus expected some unpleasant greeting from Aunt Becky and meant to take it with a smile, for she wanted badly to get the jug, and the walnut bed into the bargain, if the fates were propitious. But Aunt Becky, though she said to herself that Annabel Penhallow’s dress was worth more than her carcass, let her off very leniently with,

  “Humph! Smooth as a cat’s ear, just as always,” and looked past her at Nan Penhallow, about whom clan gossip had been very busy ever since her arrival in Rose River. It was whispered breathlessly that she wore pyjamas and smoked cigarettes. It was well known that she had plucked eyebrows and wore breeches when she rode or “hiked,” but even Rose River was resigned to that. Aunt Becky saw a snaky hipless thing with a shingle bob and long barbaric ear-rings. A silky, sophisticated creature in a smart black satin dress who instantly made every other girl in the room seem outmoded and Victorian. But Aunt Becky took her measure on the spot.

  “So this is Hannah,” she remarked, hitting instinctively on Nan’s sore spot. Nan would rather have been slapped than called Hannah. “Well — well — well!” Aunt Becky’s “wells” were a crescendo of contempt mingled with pity. “I understand you consider yourself a modern. Well, there were girls that chased the boys in my time, too. It’s only names that change. Your mouth looks as if you’d been making a meal of blood my dear. But see what time does to us. When you’re forty you’ll be exactly like this” — with a gesture towards Mrs Alpheus’ avoirdupois.

  Nan was determined she wouldn’t let this frumpy old harridan put her out. Besides, she had her own hankerings after the jug.

  “Oh, no, Aunt Becky darling. I take after father’s people. They stay thin, you know.”

  Aunt Becky did not like being “darlinged.”

  “Go upstairs and wash that stuff off your lips and cheeks,” she said. “I won’t have any painted snips around here.”

  “You — why, you’ve got rouge on yourself,” cried Nan, despite her mother’s piteous nudge.

  “And who are you to say I should not?” demanded Aunt Becky. “Now, never mind standing there switching your tail at me. Go and do as you’re told or else go home.”

  Nan was minded to do the latter. But Mrs Alpheus was whispering agitatedly at her neck,

  “Go, darling, go — do exactly as she tells you — or — or—”

  “Or you’ll stand no chance of getting the jug,” chuckled Aunt Becky, who at eighty-five had ears that could hear the grass grow.

  Nan went, sulky and contemptuous, determined that she would get even with somebody for her manhandling by this cantankerous old despot. Perhaps it was at this moment, when Gay Penhallow was entering the room in a yellow dress that seemed woven out of sunshine, that Nan made up her mind to capture Noel Gibson. It was intolerable that Gay of all people should be a witness of her discomfiture.

  “Green-eyed girls for trouble,” said Uncle Pippin.

  “She’s a man-eater I reckon,” agreed Stanton Grundy.

  Gay Penhallow, a slight, blossom-like girl whom only the Family Bible knew as Gabrielle Alexandrina, was shaking Aunt Becky’s hand but would not bend down to kiss her as Aunt Becky expected.

  “Hey, hey, what’s the matter?” demanded Aunt Becky. “Some boy been kissing you? And you don’t want to spoil the flavour, hey?”

  Gay fled to a corner and sat down. It was true. But how did Aunt Becky know it? Noel had kissed her the evening before — Gay’s first kiss in all her eighteen years — Nan would have hooted over that! An exquisite fleeting kiss under a golden June moon. Gay felt that she could not kiss any one, especially dreadful old Aunt Becky, after that. It would be sacrilege. Never mind if Aunt Becky wouldn’t give her the jug. What difference did it make about her old jug, anyway? What difference did anything make in the whole wide beautiful world except that Noel loved her and she loved him?

  But something seemed to have come into the now crowded room with the arrival of Gay — something like a sudden quick-passing breeze on a sultry day — something as indescribably sweet and elusive as the fragrance of a forest flower — something of youth and love and hope. Everybody felt inexplicably happier — more charitable — more courageous. Stanton Grundy’s lantern-jaws looked less grim and Uncle Pippin momentarily felt that, after all, Grundy had undoubtedly married a Dark and so had a right to be where he was. Miller Dark thought he really would get started on his history next week — Margaret had an inspiration for a new poem — Penny Dark reflected that he was only fifty-two, after all — William Y. forgot that he had a bald spot — Curtis Dark, who had the reputation of being an incurably disagreeable husband, thought his wife’s
new hat became her and that he would tell her so on the way home. Even Aunt Becky grew less inhuman and, although she had several more shots in her locker and hated to miss the fun of firing them, allowed the remainder of her guests to pass to their seats without insult or innuendo, except that she asked old Cousin Skilly Penhallow how his brother Angus was. All the assembly laughed and Cousin Skilly smiled amiably. Aunt Becky couldn’t put him out. He knew the whole clan quoted his Spoonerisms and that the one about his brother Angus, now dead for thirty years, never failed to evoke hilarity. The minister had come along that windy morning long ago, after Angus Penhallow’s mill-dam had been swept away in the March flood, and had been greeted excitedly by Skilly.

  “We’re all upset here to-day, Mr MacPherson — ye’ll kindly excuse us — my dam brother Angus burst in the night.”

  “Well, I think everybody is here at last,” said Aunt Becky—”everybody I expected, at least, and some I didn’t. I don’t see Peter Penhallow or the Moon Man, but I suppose one couldn’t expect either of them to behave like rational beings.”

  “Peter is here,” said his sister Nancy Dark eagerly. “He’s out on the veranda. You know Peter hates to be cooped up in a room. He’s so accustomed to — to—”

  “The great open spaces of God’s outdoors,” murmured Aunt Becky ironically.

  “Yes, that’s it — that’s what I mean — that’s what I meant to say. Peter is just as interested in you as any of us, dear Aunt.”

  “I daresay — if that means much. Or in the jug.”

  “No, Peter doesn’t care a particle about the jug,” said Nancy Dark, thankful to find solid ground under her feet in this at least.

  “The Moon Man’s here, too,” said William Y. “I can see him sitting on the steps of the veranda. He’s been away for weeks — just turned up to-day. Queer how he always seems to get wind of things.”

  “He was back yesterday evening. I heard him yelping to the moon all last night down at his shanty,” boomed Drowned John. “He ought to be locked up. It’s a family disgrace the way he carries on, wandering over the whole Island bareheaded and in rags, as if he hadn’t a friend in the world to care for him. I don’t care if he isn’t mad enough for the asylum. He should be under some restraint.”

  Pounce went Aunt Becky.

  “So should most of you. Leave Oswald Dark alone. He’s perfectly happy on nights when there’s a moon, anyhow, and who among us can say that. If we’re perfectly happy for an hour or two at a time, it’s as much as the gods will do for us. Oswald’s in luck. Ambrosine, here’s the key of my brass-bound trunk. Go up to the attic and bring down Harriet Dark’s jug.”

  III

  While Ambrosine Winkworth has gone for the jug and a hush of excitement and suspense has fallen over the assembled clan, let us look at them a little more closely, partly through Aunt Becky’s eyes and partly through our own, and get better acquainted with them, especially with those whose lives were to be more or less affected and altered by the jug. There were all kinds of people there with their family secrets and their personal secrets, their outer lives of which everything — nearly — was known, and their inner lives of which nothing was known — not even to lean, lank Mercy Penhallow, whose lankness and leanness were attributed to the chronic curiosity about every one which gave her no rest day or night. Most of them looked like the dull, sedate folks they were, but some of them had had shocking adventures. Some of them were very beautiful; some were very funny; some were clever; some were mean; some were happy; some were not; some were liked by everybody and some were liked by nobody; some had reached the stodgy plane where nothing more was to be expected from life; and some were still adventurous and expectant, cherishing secret, unsatisfied dreams.

  Margaret Penhallow, for instance — dreamy, poetical Margaret Penhallow, who was the clan dressmaker and lived with her brother, Denzil Penhallow, in Bay Silver. Always overworked and snubbed and patronized. She spent her life making pretty clothes for other people and never had any for herself. Yet she took an artist’s pride in her work and something in her starved soul sprang into sudden transforming bloom when a pretty girl floated into church in a gown of her making. She had a part in creating that beauty. That slim vision of loveliness owed something of its loveliness to her, “old Margaret Penhallow.”

  Margaret loved beauty; and there was so little of it in her life. She had no beauty herself, save in her overlarge, strangely lustrous eyes, and her slender hands — the beautiful hands of an old portrait. Yet there was a certain attractiveness about her that had not been dependent on youth and had not left her with the years. Stanton Grundy, looking at her, was thinking that she was more ladylike than any other woman of her age in the room and that, if he were looking for a second wife — which, thank God, he wasn’t — Margaret would be the one he’d pick.

  Margaret would have been a little fluttered had she known he was thinking even this much. The truth was, though Margaret would have died any horrible death you could devise before she admitted it, she longed to be married. If you were married you were somebody. If not, you were nobody. In the Dark and Penhallow clan, anyhow.

  She wanted a dear little homey place to call her own; and she wanted to adopt a baby. She knew the very kind of baby she wanted — a baby with golden hair and great blue eyes, dimples and creases and adorable chubby knees. And sweet sleepy little kisses. Margaret’s bones seemed to melt in her body as water when she thought of it. Margaret had never cared for the pack of young demons Denzil called his family. They were saucy and unattractive youngsters who made fun of her. All her love was centred in her imaginary baby and her imaginary little house — which was not quite as imaginary as the baby, if truth were known. Yet she had no real hope of ever owning the house, while, if she could get married, she might be able to adopt a baby.

  Margaret also wanted very much to get the Dark jug. She wanted it for the sake of that far-off unknown Harriet Dark, concerning whom she had always had a strange feeling, half pity, half envy. Harriet Dark had been loved; the jug was the visible and tangible proof of that, outlasting the love by a hundred years. And what if her lover had been drowned! At least, she had had a lover.

  Besides, the jug would give her a certain importance. She had never been of any importance to any one. She was only “old Margaret Penhallow,” with fifty drab, snubbed years behind her and nothing ahead of her but drab, snubbed old age. And why should she not have the jug? She was a real niece. A Penhallow, to be sure, but her mother had been a Dark. Of course Aunt Becky didn’t like her, but then whom did Aunt Becky like? Margaret felt that she ought to have the jug — must have the jug. Momentarily, she hated every other claimant in the room. She knew if she had the jug she could make Mrs Denzil give her a room to herself in return for the concession of allowing the jug to be put on the parlour mantelpiece. A room to herself! It sounded heavenly. She knew she could never have her little dream-house or her blue-eyed, golden baby, but surely she might have a room to herself — a room where Gladys Penhallow and her shrieking chums could never come — girls who thought there was no fun in having a beau unless you could tell the world all about him and what he did and what he said — girls who always made her feel old and silly and dowdy. Margaret sighed and looked at the great sheaf of mauve and yellow iris Mrs William Y. had brought up for Aunt Becky, who had never cared for flowers. If their delicate, exotic beauty was wasted on Aunt Becky, it was not lost on Margaret. While she gazed at them she was happy. There was a neglected clump of mauve iris in the garden of “her” house.

  IV

  Gay Penhallow was sitting next to Margaret and was not thinking of the jug at all. She did not want the jug, though her mother was wild about it. Spring was singing in her blood and she was lost in glamorous recollections of Noel’s kiss — and equally glamorous anticipations of Noel’s letter, which she had got at the post-office on her way up. As she heard it crackle in its hiding-place she felt the little thrill of joy which had tingled over her when old Mrs Conroy had pass
ed it out to her — his wonderful letter held profanely between a mailorder catalogue and a millinery advertisement. She had not dreamed of getting a letter, for she had seen him — and been kissed — only the night before. Now she had it, tucked away under her dress, next to her white satin skin, and all she wished was that this silly old levee was over and she was away somewhere by herself, reading Noel’s letter. What time was it? Gay looked at Aunt Becky’s solemn old grandfather clock that had ticked off the days and hours of four forgotten generations and was still ticking them relentlessly off for the fifth. Three! At half-past three she must think of Noel. They had made a compact to think of each other every afternoon at exactly half-past three. Such a dear, delightful, foolish compact — because was she not thinking of Noel all the time? And now she had his kiss to think about — that kiss which it seemed every one must see on her lips. She had thought about it all night — the first night of her life she had never slept for joy. Oh, she was so happy! So happy that she felt friendly to everybody — even to the people she had never liked before. Pompous old William Y. with his enormous opinion of himself — lean, curious, gossipy Mercy Penhallow — overtragic Virginia Powell with her tiresome poses — Drowned John, who had shouted two wives to death — Stanton Grundy, who had cremated poor Cousin Robina and who always looked at everybody as if he were secretly amused. One didn’t like a person who was amused at everybody. Dapper Penny Dark, who thought he was witty when he called eggs cackleberries — Uncle Pippin with his old jaws always chewing something — most of all, poor piteous Aunt Becky herself. Aunt Becky was going to die soon and no one was sorry. Gay was so sorry because she wasn’t sorry that the tears came into her eyes. Yet Aunt Becky had been loved once — courted once — kissed once — ridiculous and unbelievable as it seemed now. Gay looked curiously at this solitary old crone who had once been young and beautiful and the mother of little children. Could that old wrinkled face ever have been flower-like? Would she, Gay, ever look like that? No, of course not. Nobody whom Noel loved would ever grow old and unlovely.