A Tangled Web

by L. M. Montgomery

  Peter tore across the country all night and caught the boat. So she had Drowned John’s temper as well as his nose! He was well out of that—by the sacred baboon he was! He had no use for women who swore—not knowing how lucky he had been that Donna hadn’t gone into hysterics instead of swearing. Serve him right for taking up with that family at all. Well, madness was finished and hurrah for sanity! Thank heaven, he was his own man again—free to wander the world over, with no clog of a woman tied round his neck. No more love for him—he was through with love.

  6

  Donna was not the only woman of the clan to be out that night. Gay Penhallow was lying among the ferns in the birch grove behind Maywood, weeping her heart out at midnight.

  There was a dance at the Silver Slipper that evening—the closing dance of the summer season, before the last of the guests left the big hotel down by the harbor’s mouth. Noel had promised to come for Gay. Of late a little hope had sprung up in Gay’s heart that everything was coming right between her and Noel again. They had had a little quarrel after that night when Gay had left Noel and Nan on the steps. Gay found herself put in the wrong. Noel was very angry over the way she had acted. A nice position she had put him in. Gay, all her little bit of pride now worn down by suffering, had apologized humbly and been grudgingly forgiven. She even felt a little happy again.

  But only a little. Her pretty, dewy visions were gone never to return. There was always a little cold fear lurking deep down in her heart now. Day by day Noel seemed to drift further away from her. He wrote oftener than he came—and his letters had got so thin. When she hungered for the touch of his hand and the sound of his voice, with a hunger and longing that devoured her soul, came only one of those thin letters of excuse—from Noel, who only a few weeks ago had vowed he could not go on living ten miles away from her.

  But she could not believe he meant to jilt her—her, Gay Penhallow of the proud Penhallows. Gay knew girls had been jilted—even Penhallow girls. But not so soon—so suddenly. Not in a few weeks after your lover had asked you to marry him. Surely the process of cooling off should take longer.

  After she dressed for the dance that night she did a certain thing in secret. She hunted that old chain letter out of her desk and wrote three neat, careful little copies of it. Enveloped and addressed and stamped them. And flung on her coat and slipped down to the post-office in the cool windy September twilight to post them. Who knew? After all—there might be something in it.

  When she got back long-distance was calling. Noel couldn’t come after all. He had to work in the bank that night.

  Gay went out and sat down on the steps, huddled in her gray coat. Her little face with its piteous eyes rose whitely over her soft fur collar. Roger found her there when he dropped in on his return from a sick-call.

  “I thought you’d be at the Silver Slipper tonight,” said Roger—who knew and was furious and helpless over certain things—more things than Gay knew. He looked down at her—this lovely, sensitive little thing who must be suffering as only such a sensitive thing could—with clenched hands. But he avoided her eyes. He could not bear the thought of looking into her eyes and seeing no laughter in them.

  “Noel couldn’t come,” said Gay lightly. Roger was not to know—to suspect. “He has to work tonight. It’s rather a shame, isn’t it? Here I am ‘all dressed up and nowhere to go.’ Roger,”—she bent forward suddenly—“will you run me down to the Silver Slipper? It’s only a mile—it won’t take you long—I can come home with Sally William Y.”

  Roger hesitated.

  “Do you really want to go, Gay?”

  “Of course.” Gay pouted charmingly. “A dance is a dance, isn’t it—even if your best beau can’t be there? Don’t you think it would be a shame to waste these lovely slippers, Roger?”

  She poked out a slender little golden foot in a cobweb of a stocking. Gay knew she had the daintiest ankles in the clan. But she was thinking wildly—desperately—she must be sure—sure that Noel had not lied to her.

  Roger yielded. He did not know what Gay might find at the Silver Slipper but whatever it was she had better know it, hard as it might be. After all, it might not be Noel’s car he had passed where the road turned down to the dunes.

  Gay thanked Roger prettily at the door of the dance-hall and would not let him wait—or come in. She ran along the veranda with laughing greetings to folks she knew, her eyes darting hither and thither from one canoodling pair to another in shadowy corners. Across the hall to the dance-room, with its rustic seats and its red lanterns. It was full of whirling couples, and Gay felt her head go around. She steadied herself against the door-post and looked about the room. Her head grew steadier, her lips ceased to tremble. There was no sign of Noel—or Nan. Perhaps—after all—but there was a little room off the dance-room—she must see who was in there. She slipped down the hall and stepped in. There had been laughter in it before her entrance—laughter that ceased abruptly. Several groups of young folks were in the room, but Gay saw only Noel and Nan. They were perched on the edge of the table where the punch-bowl was, eating sandwiches. To speak the strict truth, one sandwich, taking bites from it turn about. Nan, laughing shrilly in a daring new frock of orchid and mauve tulle—a frock that was almost backless—was holding it up to Noel’s mouth when the general hush that followed Gay’s entrance made her look around. A malicious, triumphant sparkle flashed into her eyes.

  “Just in time for the last bite, Gay darling.” She tossed it insultingly at Gay—but Gay was gone, sick and cold with agony to the depths of her being. Through the hall—over the veranda—down the steps. Out into the night where she could be alone. If she could just get away where it was dark and cool and quiet—no lights—no laughter—oh, no laughter! She thought everybody was laughing at her—at her, Gay Penhallow, who had been jilted. Unconsciously she clutched at the little gold bead necklace around her neck as she ran—Noel’s gift—and broke it. The gold beads rolled like tiny stars over the dusty road in the pale autumn moonlight, but she never thought of stopping to pick them up. She knew if she ceased for a moment to run she would shriek aloud with anguish and not be able to stop. Some late-coming cars drenched the distraught little figure with their radiance and one narrowly escaped running her down. Gay wished it had. Would she never get away somewhere where no one could see her? The road seemed endless—endless—she must keep running like this forever—if she stopped her heart would break.

  Eventually she did get to Maywood. There was a light in the living-room. Her mother was there still. Gay couldn’t face her. She couldn’t face anyone then. She was breathless and sobbing. Her pretty honey-hued gown hung about her in shreds, limp with dew, torn by the wild shrubs along the dune road. But that didn’t matter. Dresses would never matter again. Nothing would matter. Gay found her tear-blinded way to a little ferny corner in the birch grove and flung herself down in it in a dreadful little huddle of misery. All the bitterness of all betrayed women was distilled in her young heart. The world had ended for her. There was nothing beyond—nothing. Nobody ever had suffered like this before—nobody ever would suffer like this again. How could she go on living? Nobody could suffer like this and live.

  And it was all the fault of that horrible jug. Aunt Becky seemed to be laughing derisively at her from her grave. As all the world would soon be laughing—with the William Y. brand of laughter.

  7

  Pennycuik Dark had decided that he must get married. Not without long and painful cogitations on the subject. For years Penny had believed he would always remain a bachelor. In his youth he had rather prided himself on being a bit of a lady-killer. He had then every intention of being married sometime. But—somehow—while he was making up his mind the lady always got engaged to somebody else. Before he realized it he had drifted into the doldrums of matrimonial prospects. The young girls began to think him one of the old folks and all the desirable maids of his own generation were wedde
d wives. The clan began to count Penny among its confirmed old bachelors. At first Penny had resented this. But of late years he had been well content. Marriage, he said, had no charms for him. He had enough money to live on without working, a comfortable little house at Bay Silver and a fairly good housekeeper in old Aunty Ruth Penhallow, a smart little car to coast about in, and two magnificent cats forever at his heels. First Peter and Second Peter, who slept at the foot of his bed and ate at his table. What more could matrimony offer him? He compared his lot complacently with most of the married men he knew. He wouldn’t, he vowed, take any of their wives as a gift. As for a family—well, there were enough Darks and Penhallows in the world without his contributing any more. “Better let the cursed breed die out,” Penny had growled irritably when Uncle Pippin rallied him about not being married. He liked to sit in church and pity Charlie Penhallow in the pew ahead, who had to buy dresses for seven foolish daughters and looked it. Penny’s pity had a special flavor for him by reason of the fact that Mrs. Charlie had been the only girl he had ever seriously considered marrying. But before he could make up his mind positively that he wanted her she had married Charlie. Penny told himself he didn’t care, but when now, in his mellow fifties, he sat and recalled his old flames, like a dog remembering how many bones he has buried, he did not linger on the recollection of Amy Dark. Which meant that the thought of her held a sting for him. Amy had been a pretty girl and was a pretty woman still, in spite of seven daughters and two sons, and sometimes when Penny looked at her in church he felt a vague regret that she hadn’t waited until he had decided whether he wanted her or not.

  But on the whole, Penny’s bachelor existence suited him very well. He was fond of saying he had “kept the boy’s heart,” and had no suspicion that the younger folks thought him a comic valentine. He thought he was quite a dandy still, admired by all his clan. He could come and go as he liked; he had no responsibilities and few duties.

  Nevertheless, now and then of late years, a doubt of his wisdom in remaining unmarried crept into his mind. Aunt Ruth was growing old and, with her heart, might drop off any time. What in thunder would he do for a housekeeper then? He began to feel rheumatic twinges in his legs and remembered that his grandfather, Roland Penhallow, had been a cripple for years. If he, Penny, went like that, who would wait on him? And if the rheumatism went to his heart, as it had gone to Uncle Alec’s, and he had no housekeeper, he might die in the night and nobody know of it for weeks. The gruesome thought of himself lying there alone dead for weeks was more that Penny could endure. Perhaps, after all, he had better marry before it was too late. But these fleeting fears might not have stirred him to action had it not been for Aunt Becky and her jug. Penny wanted that jug. Not because he cared a hang for the dingus itself but as a question of right. His father was Theodore Dark’s oldest brother and his family ought to have it. And he felt sure he would have no chance of it if he remained unwedded. Aunt Becky had as good as said so. This tipped the balance in favor of matrimony, and Penny, with a long sigh of regret for the carefree and light-hearted existence he was giving up, made up his mind that he would marry if it killed him.

  8

  It remained to decide on the lady. This was no easy matter. It should have been easier than it had been thirty years before. There was not such a wide range of choice, as Penny ruefully admitted to himself. He had no idea of marrying out of the clan. At twenty-five he had liked to toy with such a daring idea but at fifty-three a sensible man does not take such a risk. But which of the old maids and widows should be Mrs. Penny Dark? For old maid or widow it must be, Penny decided with another sigh. Penny was not quite a fool, in spite of his juvenile pretenses, and he knew quite well no young girl would look at him. He had not, he said cynically, enough money for that. He balanced the abstract allurements of old maids and widows. Somehow, an old maid did not appeal to him. He hated the thought of marrying a woman no other man had ever wanted. But then—a widow! Too experienced in managing men. Better a grateful spinster who would always bear in mind what he had rescued her from.

  Still, he would consider them all.

  For several Sundays after he had made up his mind he went to both Rose River and Bay Silver Churches and looked all the possibilities over. It was an interesting experience. Much more fun than trying to count the beads on Mrs. William Y.’s dress, which was how he had contrived for several Sundays to endure the tedium of the sermon. Penny felt quite youthful and exhilarated over it. He wondered slyly what Mr. Trackley would think about it if he knew. And what excitement there would be among all the aforesaid possibilities if they dreamed what was hanging in the balance. Would Hester Penhallow in the choir look so sanctimonious and other-worldly if she knew that her chances of being Mrs. Pennycuik Dark were being debated down in the pew? Not that Hester had much of a chance. Marry that terrible beak of a nose! Never! Not for forty jugs.

  “I can’t marry an ugly woman, you know,” thought Penny plaintively. The rest of the old cats in the choir he dismissed without a second thought.

  Edna Dark was ladylike but her face was too tame. Charlotte Penhallow was too dowdy and her mouth too wide. Violet Dark was handsome enough still—a high-colored woman with small, light brown eyes and a nasal voice. Handsome but charmless. Penny felt that he could do without beauty and style but charm he must have. Besides, in the back of his mind was an unacknowledged doubt if she would take him.

  Bertha Dark’s face was presentable, but where did she get such thick legs? Penny did not think he could stand a pair of legs like that waddling up the church aisle after him every Sunday. Elva Penhallow had slim, dainty legs but Penny decided she was “too devout” for him. Religion was all very well—a certain amount became a woman—but Elva really had too much to make a comfortable wife. Wasn’t there a story that she was so conscientious that she used to write down in her diary every night the time she had spent in idleness that day, and pray over it? Too strenuous—by far too strenuous.

  Penny wondered how old Lorella Dark really was. Nobody ever seemed to know, beyond the idea that she was kind of thirtyish. She was a plump and juicy little person, and he would have picked her in a second if he had not been afraid that she was not yet old enough to have given up hope of any man except an old bachelor. Penny did not mean to run any risk of a refusal.

  Jessie Dark might have done. But he had heard her say she liked cats “in their place.” She would never believe their place was on the marriage-bed, of that Penny felt sure. First and Second Peter would forbid those banns.

  Bessie Penhallow—no, quite out of the question. He couldn’t endure the big mole with three long hairs on it she had on her chin. Besides, she was as religious in her way as Elva. She was—to quote Penny’s phrase—a foreign-mission crank. The last time he had been talking with her she had told him that interest in Christian literature was increasing in China and had been peeved because he didn’t get excited over it.

  Mildred Dark, who was a stenographer in a law office in town and came home for the week-ends, was stylish and up-to-date. But what a terrible complexion of moth patches. It was very well to say all women were sisters under their skins—Penny wasn’t quite sure whether that was in Shakespeare or in the Bible—but the skin made a difference, confound it.

  As for her sister Harriet, who “went in” for spiritualism and declared she had a “spirit lover” on “the other side,” let her continue to love spiritually. Penny had no intention of being her love on this side. No spooky rivals for him.

  Betty Moore would really have been his choice if she had been Dark or Penhallow. But one took too many chances in marrying a Moore. Emilia Trask had money but she had a temperish look. No, no, Dark or Penhallow it must be. Marriage was a risk at best, but better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know.

  There was Margaret Penhallow. She had been pretty and her eyes were still pretty. Mr. Trackley said she had a beautiful soul. That was probably true—but her body w
as so confoundedly lean. Mrs. Clarence Dark, now—ah, there was a fine armful of a woman for you! But she was a widow and there was a legend that she had once slapped her husband’s face at prayer-meeting. And though Uncle Pippin had said that he would rather be slapped than kissed in public—as Andy Penhallow was—Penny could not see the necessity of either. After all, Margaret’s figure was the more fashionable. All the young girls were skinny nowadays. None of the plump morsels he remembered in his youth. Where were the girls of yesteryear? Girls that were girls—ah! But Margaret was ladylike and gentle and would of course give up writing her silly poems when she had a husband. By the time Mr. Trackley’s sermon was finished Penny had decided that he would marry Margaret. He went out into the crisp sunshine of the October afternoon feeling himself already roped in and fettered. When all was said and done he would have liked a little more—well—romance. Penny sighed. He wished he had got married years ago. He would have been used to it by now.

  9

  Big Sam was not particularly happy. Summer had passed; autumn was coming in; winter loomed ominously near. The Wilkins shanty was draughty and Big Friday Cove was a dod-gasted lonesome place. He was getting indigestion from eating his own cooking. Various clan housewives invited him frequently to meals, but he did not care to go because he felt that they were on Little Sam’s side. Even the Darks and Penhallows were getting lax and modern, Big Sam reflected gloomily. They would tolerate anything.