The day came at last. A grey day with a grey wind. Autumn groves that had been an enchantment of gold and spruce-green were leaflessly grey now. Red-ribbed fields on the Treewoofe hill testified to many a glad day’s work on Hugh’s part. A great pyramid of pumpkins shone goldenly in Homer Penhallow’s yard. The gulf was dark blue and the pasture fields adream.
Everybody was at Dandy’s, except poor Mrs Sim — Edith had run true to form — and the Jim Trents, who were quarantined for measles and were at home bitterly wondering if they had served God for naught. Dandy’s bull-dog, Alphonso, sat on his haunches at the front door as if he never expected to do anything but sit.
“On the whole, you are the ugliest brute I ever saw,” Peter told him — which didn’t hurt the dog’s feelings any. He simply made a blood-curdling sound that gave Mrs Toynbee a spasm.
“Going to give us anything to eat, Dandy?” whispered Uncle Pippin.
“The wife has prepared refreshments, I believe,” said Dandy nervously. He didn’t think anybody would have much appetite after they heard what he had to say.
Murray Dark sat and watched Thora as usual — with this difference: that he was wondering how soon it would be decent to begin courting her. If Chris had died a natural death Murray would have waited only three months. But as things were, he thought he’d better make it six. Margaret wore an exceedingly pretty grey silk dress — it had been intended for her wedding one — and looked so young and dainty and happy that Penny felt another dreadful qualm and Stanton Grundy wondered if it mightn’t be wise to marry again after all. There must be a good bit of that ten thousand left, in spite of her foolish purchase of that tumbledown little place and all the new furniture they said she had put in it. Stanton determined to think it over. Eventually he decided not to. Which was just as well because Margaret had no longer any hankerings for marriage. She had Whispering Winds and Brian and she was perfectly happy. She no longer even cared about the jug.
Donna still cared a little, but not so greatly. After all, you could not take a jug like that to Africa. She was thinking more of the wedding-breakfast and the decorations of the church. For Peter, who was one of the born wanderers of the earth, found himself roped in for a conventional wedding with all the fuss and frills possible. Drowned John was determined on it. He loved a big colourful wedding, in keeping with the traditions of the clan. He had been cheated out of it on Donna’s hurried war bridal with Barry but by — goodness, he wasn’t going to be cheated out of it the second time. And thank heaven decent dresses were in again! Donna’s wedding-dress, Drowned John decided, should sweep the floor. Donna didn’t care. Where she was going with Peter she would wear nothing but knickerbockers. Luckily Drowned John knew nothing of this. It would have seemed more outrageous to him than the lions.
Roger sat and worshipped Gay openly and shamelessly — her shining hair, her marigold eyes, the charming gestures of her wonderful hands. He looked so happy that he made some of them feel a bit uneasy, as if it were flying in the face of Providence.
Nan was there, darting the mockery of her green eyes over everything, although she rather avoided looking at Gay. Thomas Ashley and his wife, of Halifax, were there, though the clan thought they hadn’t any business to be. They were no relations, although they were visiting the William Y.’s. Nobody, looking at Thomas’ moon face, pursy old mouth and tortoise-shell glasses would have dreamed that he came there fired by a romantic memory. He wanted to see Mrs Clifford Penhallow again. He had been wildly in love with her when he was young and, as his wife knew bitterly, had never wholly got over it. Thomas was looking furtively at all the women in the room. Mrs Clifford had not come yet. He wondered who the grim, homely woman under the mantelpiece was.
Hugh and Joscelyn were there, although Joscelyn would rather have been home, painting the woodwork in the spare room at Treewoofe. Rachel Penhallow was there, as happy as it was possible for her to be. Penny Dark had heard that her bottle of Jordan water had been spilled and he promptly sent her his, glad to get the absurd thing out of the house. Rachel had gone off her milk diet at once. Kate and Frank and their baby were there. The baby cried a great deal and Stanton Grundy glared at it. Tempest Dark was there. Lawson and Naomi Dark were there. Naomi looked a little older and tireder and more hopeless. David Dark was there, comfortably sure that Dandy, at any rate, would not ask him to open with prayer. Uncle Pippin was there, wondering why, in spite of all the repressed excitement, everything seemed a little flat. Not much like Aunt Becky’s levees. Uncle Pippin decided it was because every one was too polite. Things weren’t interesting when people were too polite. Aunt Becky had never been too polite. That was why her levees had been so interesting.
II
The crucial moment had arrived. Dandy had come in and stood before the stove, his back to the mantelpiece. He was deathly pale and it was observed that his hands were trembling. The strain suddenly became almost unbearable. Artemas Dark tried to steady his nerves by counting the roses on the wallpaper. Rachel Penhallow immediately had a feeling that something was going to happen. Mrs Howard reflected with a gasp that the windows in that house couldn’t have been opened for a hundred years. Why had Mrs Dandy put such a roaring fire in the stove, even on a chilly October day? But she was always a little mad, anyway.
Dandy had once looked forward to this moment, when, clothed with authority, he should stand up before them all and announce Aunt Becky’s decision. And now he wished himself dead. He turned suddenly on Percy Dark.
“Would you mind stopping that everlasting drumming on the table?” he asked irritably.
Percy jumped and stopped. He started to say something but Drowned John nudged him fiercely.
“Dry up,” said Drowned John.
Percy dried up.
“Come, come, Dandy,” said William Y. impatiently. “Step on the juice. We’ve had enough of suspense. Tell us who’s to get it and have it over.”
“I — I can’t,” said Dandy, moistening his lips.
“Can’t what?”
“Can’t tell you who’s to get the jug. I — I — don’t know. Nobody ever will know — now.”
“Look here, Dandy—” William Y. rose threateningly. “What does this mean?”
“It means” — the worst was out and Dandy had a little more courage—”I’ve lost the letter Aunt Becky gave me — the letter with the name in it. There was a name in it — she told me so much.”
“Lost it! Where did you lose it?”
“I’m — not sure,” hesitated the wretched Dandy. “That is — I’m almost sure it fell into the pig-pen. I always carried it round in a folder in my breast pocket. I never let it out of my possession. One day, some two months ago, I was up in the barn loft forking down straw. You know the flooring is just poles — there was gaps between them. I took off my coat when I got warm working and put it on again when I finished. When I went back to the house I — I missed the folder. I hunted everywhere — everywhere. It must have fallen into the pig-pen — the pig-pen is right under the loft, and the pigs must have et it altogether, letter and folder and all.”
For a few minutes everybody said nothing very rapidly. Then —
“Damn it!” exploded Drowned John. All the repression of months was in his ejaculation. Everybody forgave him. Titus Dark looked envious. He had got so out of the habit of swearing he was afraid he could never get into it again. Even his horses had learned to understand a milder vocabulary. And a fat lot of good it had done!
Tom Dark remembered he had seen a black cat run across the road on his way to Dandy’s. William Y. looked around on the circle of outraged faces. This was what you might call a hellish discovery. The situation demanded careful handling and he felt that he, William Y., was the man to handle it.
“Are you sure you had it in your pocket when you went up into the loft — sure it hadn’t dropped out before?”
“Almost sure,” stammered the miserable Dandy, who couldn’t feel sure even of his own name just then. “I searched ev
erywhere. It’s been wearing me to a shadow. The wife said to pray about it. Dang it, I’ve prayed till I was black in the face.”
“And you’ve no idea what name was in the envelope?”
It seemed incredible that Dandy didn’t know that.
“I ain’t got the least idea,” said Dandy. “It was sealed — I never saw so much sealing-wax on the back of any letter. And Aunt Becky made me swear I wouldn’t tamper with it.”
Drowned John determined to take a hand. William Y. wasn’t going to be let run things.
“We’ll have to draw lots for it,” he said.
“That isn’t a Christian way to decide it,” said William Y. “Anybody got any other suggestion?”
“Let’s vote who’s to have it — secret ballot,” said Junius Penhallow.
“With everybody putting his own name in the ballot,” remarked William Y., with a smile of icy contempt for such a suggestion. “No; I’ll tell you what should be done—”
“Here’s the Moon Man running across the yard,” interrupted Uncle Pippin. “He seems in a mighty hurry.”
Those who could look out of the window did so. They saw the Moon Man with his long black coat streaming out behind him in the wind like the mantle of a prophet of old. In a few seconds he had reached the house, crossed the hall, and was standing breathlessly in the doorway of the room. The whole clan realized that the Moon Man had one of his really crazy fits on.
“I heard the devil cackling as I came down by the barn,” said the Moon Man. “He was in glee over this unholy gathering where envy and all uncharitableness prevail.”
His look scorched everybody and left them feeling like cinders.
“It has been revealed to me what I should do.”
The Moon Man strode to the table between the two windows — he snatched up Aunt Becky’s jug — he hurled it furiously at the mantelpiece. Roger, realizing before any one else, but just too late, what the Moon Man meant to do, sprang up and caught at his arm. He could not save the jug but he deflected slightly the Moon Man’s aim. The jug hurtled through the air at Lawson Dark. And Lawson Dark, who had not stood or walked for eleven years, saw it coming and sprang to his feet to avoid it. The jug struck him squarely on the head, crashed like an egg-shell, slid off against the stove, and fell on the floor in hundreds of tiny fragments. Harriet Dark perhaps turned over in her grave. Possibly Aunt Becky did, too. But Lawson Dark, with blood trickling from a cut on his forehead, had turned dazedly to his wife.
“Naomi!” he cried, holding out his hands to her. “Oh, Naomi.”
III
“Don’t it beat hell?” said Sim Dark.
“And we won’t ever know who should have had the pieces,” said William Y. disconsolately, as they lingered in the yard, after Roger had taken charge of Lawson and carried him and Naomi off home.
The clan were not inclined to discuss what had happened to Lawson. It savoured too strongly of something miraculous and unclan-like. The jug was a safer topic — now.
“That doesn’t matter much,” said David Dark. “There’s thousands of ’em — they could never be stuck together.”
“Anyhow, if anybody had got it I reckon he’d never have got home alive,” said Stanton Grundy. Tom Dark, who had never cried in his life, was crying because he hadn’t got the jug. His wife dragged him hastily off to his car to hide his shame. Joscelyn and Hugh went away together very silently, thinking only of the look on Naomi Dark’s face when Lawson had turned to her with his glad cry of recognition. Mrs Alpheus was furious with both the Moon Man and Dandy. Something — she wasn’t quite clear what — ought to be done to both of them. Homer Penhallow and Palmer Dark passed each other without recognition. It was very satisfying to be enemies again. Life had been so darned dull when they had to be friendly. David and Percy Dark nodded shamefacedly to each other and mentioned the weather. The graveyard fracas was forgotten.
“It’s a funny world,” sighed Uncle Pippin.
“Let’s laugh at it then,” said Stanton Grundy.
Old Thomas Ashley was not happy. Somebody had come up to him on the veranda and said archly, “Don’t dare to say you don’t know me.” He stared at her in silence. It was the grim lady who had sat under the mantelpiece. No, he didn’t know her — and yet —
“I’m Mavis Dark,” she said more archly still.
“Mavis Dark! Impossible!” exclaimed Thomas Ashley.
“Oh, have I changed so much?” said Mrs Clifford poutingly. “Don’t you remember that summer you were here?”
Thomas Ashley looked at her. The skin which had been creamy in youth was yellow now — the smooth cheeks were wrinkled — the smooth neck wattled. The sleek, black hair had turned grey — the gracious curves had vanished.
“But — but — you were beautiful then,” stammered poor old Thomas.
“You’ve changed a little yourself,” Mrs Clifford reminded him acidly.
Thomas Ashley went away, lamenting a lost dream. He wished he had never heard of the old Dark jug. But his plump, pretty little wife was not ill-pleased. The ghostly rival of thirty years was laid at last. God bless Aunt Becky’s jug!
Tempest Dark, his eyes alight with good-humoured mockery, had decided that he would keep on living. He had found a job that would give him bread and discovered that existence was possible even without Winnifred.
“After all, life’s worth living when a comedy like this is played out,” he reflected.
“Dang it, I believe there is something in prayer after all,” said Dandy, when the last car had driven away.
IV
Winter was coming on apace; November wore away. At Treewoofe Hugh and Joscelyn kept glowing fires in every room and laughed at the winds that swirled up from the gulf. Peter and Donna were on their way to Africa. Roger and Gay were not yet home from their honeymoon. Margaret and Brian were nested in Whispering Winds. And one cold evening poor, lonely, hungry Big Sam set out for a walk around the shore to the lighthouse on Bay Silver Point. It was a long walk and he had various rheumatic spots about his anatomy, but there would be some cronies at the lighthouse and Big Sam thought an evening of social intercourse would be better for his nerves than playing tit-tat-o, right hand against the left, at home. These short days and long, early-falling evenings were depressing, he admitted. And the Wilkins’ shanty was draughty. Perhaps Happy Dark would be at the lighthouse, with his ringing tales of life in the tropic seas. And maybe the lighthouse-keeper’s wife might even give them a bite of lunch. But he would not let his thoughts dwell on Little Sam’s suet puddings and chowders and hot biscuits. That way madness lay.
There had been a skim of snow that morning, melting into dampness as the sun rose for an hour or two of watery brightness before shrouding himself in clouds. The brief day had grown cold and raw as it wore on and now land and sea lay wrapped in a grey, brooding stillness. Far away Big Sam heard a train-whistle blow distinctly. The Old Lady of the Gulf moaned now and then. A storm was coming up but Big Sam was not afraid of storms. He would come home by the river road; the tide would be too high on his return to come by the Hole-in-the-Wall.
As a matter of fact, when he reached the long red headland known as the Hole-in-the-Wall, he blankly realized that the tide was already ahead of him. There was no getting around it. He could not climb its steep rugged sides; and to go back to where a road led down to the shore meant a lot of extra walking.
A daring inspiration came to Big Sam. Since he could not get around the Hole-in-the-Wall, could he go through it? Nobody ever had gone through it. But there had to be a first time for anything. It was certainly bigger than last year. Nothing venture, nothing win.
The Hole-in-the-Wall had begun with a tiny opening through the relatively thin side of the headland. Every year it grew a little larger as the yielding sandstone crumbled under wave and frost. It was a fair size now. Big Sam was small and thin. He reckoned if he could get his head through, the rest of him could follow.
He lay down and cautiously began squirming
through. It was tighter than he had thought. The sides seemed suddenly very thick. All at once Big Sam decided that he was not cut out for a pioneer. He would go back out to the road. He tried to. He could not move. Somehow his coat had got ruckled up around his shoulders and jammed him tight. Vainly he twisted and writhed and tugged. The big rock seemed to hold him as in a grip of iron. The more he struggled the tighter he seemed to get wedged in. Finally he lay still with a cold sweat of horror breaking over him. His head was through the Hole-in-the-Wall. His shoulders were tight in it. His legs — where were his legs? There was no sensation in them, but they were probably hanging down the rock wall on the hinder side.
What a position to be in! On a lonely shore on a fast-darkening November night with a storm coming up. He would never live through it. He would die of heart-failure before morning, like old Captain Jobby who tried to climb through a gate when he was drunk, and stuck there.
Nobody could see him and it was no use to yell. Before him, as behind him, was nothing but a curving, shadowy cove bounded by another headland. No house, no human being in sight. Nevertheless, Big Sam yelled with what little breath he had left.
“Wouldn’t you just as soon sing as make that noise?” queried Little Sam, sticking his head around the huge boulder that screened him.
Big Sam stared at the familiar spidery nose and huge moustache. Of all the men in River and Cove to catch him in this predicament, that it should be Little Sam! What the devil was he doing, squatted here a mile away from home on such a night?
“I wasn’t aimin’ to sing, not being afflicted as some folks are,” said Big Sam sarcastically. “I was just trying to fill my lungs with air.”
“Why don’t you come all the way through?” jeered Little Sam, coming around the boulder.
“‘Cause I can’t, and you know it,” said Big Sam savagely. “Look here, Samuel Dark, you and I ain’t friends but I’m a human being, ain’t I?”
“There are times when I can see a distant resemblance to one in you,” acknowledged Little Sam, sitting calmly down on a jut of the boulder.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 508
