A Tangled Web (30 page)

Penny, however, had made up his mind after the merry-go-round that Margaret would never suit him—not with that wild strain in her. Where on earth did she get it? There was no Spanish blood in
her.
But how to get out of it?
That
was the difficulty. The whole clan would cry shame on him if he threw Margaret over. And Dandy would never give him the jug. If he could only induce Margaret to throw
him
over. Ah, there was an idea now! But it would be no easy matter—no easy matter. Penny had what he considered a veritable inspiration. He would get drunk—ay, that was it. He would get drunk and go drunk to the church garden-party at Bay Silver. Margaret would be so disgusted that she would turn him down. He knew her strict temperance principles. Hadn't he heard her recite at a concert long ago, “Lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine”? He would shock her till she was blue round the gills, by gad he would. Of course there would be a bit of scandal but he could soon live it down. Lots of other men in the clan got stewed now and then. He did not think it would seriously impair his chances for the jug. Aunt Becky had said “addicted to drinking.” You couldn't be thought an addict on the ground of one spree. It was over twenty-five years since he had been drunk before and an election had been to blame for that. He had been pretty offensive on that occasion. A prim old maid like Margaret wouldn't stand for it. Penny chuckled. He was as good as free.

Everybody was at the garden-party when Penny arrived there. Nan and Noel were there; their wedding, which was to have been in June, had been put off till September. Gay and Roger were there. You had to go to your own church garden-party, even though you would much rather be away for a long moonlit spin together. Gay achieved a careless, impudent little nod for Nan and Noel, though her heart seemed to turn over in her breast at sight of them. Joscelyn was there—and Hugh. Frank and Kate were there, though the women thought Kate would be better at home in her condition. But people had no shame nowadays. The two Sams were there, carefully avoiding each other. Big Sam came to get a square feed, but when he saw Little Sam treating the Widow Terlizzick to hot-dogs and ice-cream it spoiled the party for him.

A cog had slipped in Penny's plans. Most of the clan perceived with a tolerant smile that Penny was more or less lit up, but he was not actually drunk. He had only got as far as the sentimental stage when it was suddenly revealed to him that he was really desperately in love with Margaret. By gad, she was a fine little woman—and he was mad about her. He would go and tell her so. Had he ever thought of jilting her? Never! He hunted out some cloves and set out for Bay Silver, the ardent lover at last.

Margaret had visited Whispering Winds before coming to the party. She went there as often as she could now, because she knew that she would never see it again once she was married to Penny. That night she had hung an old iron pot on a tree and filled it with water for the birds. The little garden was very sweet, with the perfume of young wild ferns growing along the sagging fence. The peace and dignity and beauty of it seemed to envelop her like a charm. She wanted to stay there forever, alone with the happy thoughts that came to her among its flowers and grasses. Tears came into her eyes. She loathed the sparkle of Penny's ring on her hand. It was a diamond—Penny liked to do things handsomely and he was not mean—and Margaret had once thought it would be a wonderful thing to have a diamond engagement-ring. But now it was only a fetter.

Margaret was surprised when Penny rushed to meet her on the church grounds. She had a dreadful feeling that he was going to kiss her right there before everybody; and although he did not actually do it, it was certain she had a narrow escape. Margaret was so innocent that she really never suspected Penny's condition; but she was sure something queer had come over him. He was squeezing her hand—he was gazing at her adoringly—he was—yes, he was actually calling her “Little One.” “Little One,” he was saying, “I had begun to think you were never coming.”

Margaret let Penny carry her off for a walk through the graveyard. He insisted on walking with his arm around her waist, which made her feel terribly self-conscious. From the bottom of the graveyard there was a very fine view of the gulf and the Rose River valley with the moon rising over it.

“What a lovely moon,” said Margaret desperately, because she had to say something. What
had
got into Penny?

“Oh, damn the moon,” said Penny, aggrieved because Margaret was not so responsive as he thought she ought to be.

Margaret was shocked. She knew men swore but surely not in the presence of ladies they were engaged to. Penny might at least wait until they were married.

Penny made haste to apologize.

“I never could see much sense in admiring the moon,” he explained, “but I only said that because I want you to think about
me
and not about the moon. Forgive me, Little One. I won't say naughty words again before my own sweetest.”

“We—we ought to get back to the grounds,” said Margaret confusedly. Really, this love-making which was so attractive in fancy, was nothing more or less than dreadful in reality. “We won't get a good seat if we are late.”

“I don't care where I sit as long as I sit with you, my darling,” said Penny.

Penny sat with his arm around Margaret all through the program, oblivious to the giggles of the young fry and the amused grins of the oldsters. He squeezed Margaret's hand at all the sentimental passages in the songs, and he told her she had the finest pair of legs in the clan, by gad, she had!

Margaret, who had always secretly thought her slender, well-shaped legs rather nice, nevertheless belonged to a generation that did not discuss legs. She was embarrassed and tucked her legs blushingly out of sight under the plank she sat on. To turn the conversation into safer channels, she told Penny that Nigel Penhallow had called to see her on his recent visit from New York and had told her he wouldn't be surprised if that old
Pilgrim's Progress
Aunt Becky had given her turned out to be of some value. It was a very old edition and in fair condition. He had offered to find out just what it was worth. Margaret wondered if she hadn't better let him. Penny advised against selling it.

“I've enough for our comfort, Little One, and”—Penny was on the verge of tears by now—“when I'm gone, Mar'gret, there'll be enough to keep you in decent widowhood.”

Margaret had not yet accustomed herself to the thought of being Penny's wife. The idea of being his widow overcame her. She went home very unhappy. Penny had almost wept when he kissed her good-night. And, having heard someone ask her if her sore throat were better, he could not leave her until she had promised to tie a stocking round her throat when she went to bed. If he cared as much as this for her she must be faithful to him.

Blindly Wise

1

“That damn jug will be the death of some of us yet,” said Uncle Pippin viciously.

For it had come out that the reason Walter Dark's pig was where it should not have been that particular afternoon, was because Walter was having a spat in his yard with Palmer Penhallow about who should get the jug. They were so hot about it that Walter did not notice before it was too late that his pig had got out of its pen at the barn and was scooting down the lane to the road. When Walter did see it and started in pursuit, the pig was already out on the King's Highway and before Walter could even yell, the whole thing happened.

Young Prince Dark and Milton Granger were spinning up the road in Prince's motorcycle. Hugh Dark was coming down the road in his car, on his way home from a political convention where it had been as good as decided that he was to be his party's candidate at the forthcoming Provincial election. It had been one of Hugh's ambitions for years but he felt no elation over its realization. He was not thinking of it at all as he drove moodily along through the amber haze of the warm July afternoon, past sunny old pastures and rose-sweet lanes, friendly gardens full of wine-hued hollyhocks, misty river shores, old stone dykes under the dark magic of the spruce woods, and windy hills where the fir trees were blowing gaily and the tang of the sea met him. All the beauty of the world around him suggested only thoughts of Joscelyn. Suppose he were going home to Treewoofe to tell
her
of the honor that had come to him. Suppose when he got out at his gate Joscelyn were meeting him with the wind of the hill ruffling her red-gold curls, eager to know what had happened at the convention—ready to console or congratulate, as the event required. It would be worthwhile then. But now—dust and ashes.

At this moment everything happened at once. Walter Dark's pig had reached the road. Prince Dark, tearing onward at his usual headlong rate, struck it before he could turn or slow down. Prince and Granger were both thrown out by the impact, Prince flying clean across the ditch against the fence and Granger being hurled like a stone into the ditch itself. The pig lay calmly, too dead to tell what he thought about it, and the motorcycle shot blindly across the road. Hugh swerved sharply to avoid it. His car skidded in a circle. Everything suddenly became doubly clear. All the colors of the landscape took on an incredible vividness and brilliancy. Also the whole affair seemed to take an interminable time, during which he lived over all the emotions of his life and loved and hated and despaired for an eternity. Then the car went over the edge of the little ravine that skirted the road, just as Walter's belated yell rent the air and the group of men before the blacksmiths forge awoke to the fact that a tragedy had been enacted before their eyes.

Wild confusion followed for a space. Uncle Pippin frantically implored them to keep their heads. The conscious Prince and the unconscious Granger were picked up and carried in, the latter with an ear almost sliced off. Hugh's car was upside down in the ditch with Hugh still clutching the wheel. When he was eventually extricated he gasped Joscelyn's name twice before relapsing into complete unconsciousness. By the time the three victims had been taken to the hospital and Walter Dark had sadly dragged his dead pig home on a stone boat, uneasily speculating whether Prince Dark could sue him for damages or whether he had a case against Prince for killing a valuable pig, the news of the accident had spread to Bay Silver in a garbled fashion that left everyone in doubt as to who was killed and who were maimed for life, and Joscelyn was walking up and down her room in a frenzy of suspense and dread. What really had happened? Was Hugh badly hurt or—she would not let herself even think the word. And she could not go to him. He would not want her. He had no need of her. She meant nothing to him—she who had once meant so much. She could not even telephone to find out the truth about the affair. Anyone—everyone else—could make inquiries but not she. Meanwhile she would go mad; she could not endure it; she had been a fool and an idiot, but even fools and idiots can suffer. Once she paused with clenched hands and looked at Treewoofe. The day had been cloudy by times but now the sun suddenly came out and performed its usual miracle. The hill swam in loveliness and Treewoofe—her home—her
home
—shone on it like a jewel. Was Hugh there—dead—suffering? And she could not go to him! Perhaps Pauline was there!

“If I think things like this I'll lose my senses,” moaned Joscelyn. “Oh, God, dear God, I know I was a fool. But haven't You any pity for fools? There are so many of us.”

Joscelyn had to endure as best she could until the evening. And yet, amid all her agony, she was conscious of an exultation that she had this to be in anguish over. Anguish was not so dreadful as the emptiness that had been her life of late. Then Uncle Pippin called and told them the truth. Things were not so bad after all. Prince and Hugh were not seriously hurt. Prince was already home, and Hugh was still in the hospital, suffering from slight concussion, but would be all right in a few days. Young Granger was the worst; he had nearly lost an ear and was still unconscious, but the doctors thought he would recover and meanwhile they had sewed on his ear.

“I hope it will cure Prince of that habit of reckless driving,” said Uncle Pippin, shaking his head, “but I dunno's anything will do that. He was swearing dreadful when we picked him up; I rebuked him. I says. ‘Any one that's been as near the pearly gates as you was two minutes ago hadn't ought to swear like that,' but he just kept on. He damned that poor pig up and down and the universe thrown in.”

“I didn't like the way the wind sobbed last night,” said Aunt Rachel, shaking her head. “I knew sorrow was a-coming. This proves it.”

“But sorrow hasn't come—Hugh wasn't badly hurt,” cried Joscelyn involuntarily. She was so suddenly light-hearted in her release from torture that she hardly knew what she was saying.

“What about poor young Granger in the hospital, with his ear off?” said Aunt Rachel reproachfully.

“And the pig?” said Uncle Pippin. “It was sorrow enough for the pig.”

2

Joscelyn, coming home across lots from an errand to the harbor, paused for a moment at the little gate in Simon Dark's pasture that opened on the side road leading down to Bay Silver. It was a windy, dark gray night, cold for August, with more than a hint of nearing autumn in it. Between the gusts of wind the air was full of the low continuous thunder of the sea. Low in the west was a single strip of brilliant primrose against which the spire of a church stood up blackly. Above it was the dark sullen beauty of the heavy stormclouds. Everywhere, on the hills and along the roads, trees were tossing haglike in the wind. A group of them overhanging the gate was like a weird cluster of witches weaving unholy spells.

The summer—another summer—was almost over; asters and goldenrod were blooming along the red roads; goldfinches were eating the cosmos and sunflower seeds in the gardens; and in a little over a month the matter of the jug would be decided. Clan interest was again being keenly worked up over it. Dandy had kept his mouth shut immovably and nobody knew anything more about it than at the start.

But Joscelyn cared nothing who got the jug. She was glad to be alone with the night—especially this kind of a night. It was in keeping with her own stormy mood. She liked to hear the wild night wind whistling in the reeds of the swamp in the corner of the pasture—she liked to hear its sweep in the trees above her.

She had been tempest-tossed all day. In such stress she was accustomed to think that peace was all she asked or desired. But now she faced the thought that she wanted much—much more. She wanted womanhood and wifehood—she wanted Hugh and Treewoofe—she wanted everything she had wanted before her madness came upon her.

Everything beautiful had gone out of her life. She had lived for years in a fool's paradise of consecration to a great passion. Now that she had been rudely made wise, life was so unbelievably poor—thin—barren—so bitterly empty. If Frank had never come home she could have gone on loving him. But she could not love the tubby, middle-aged husband of Kate and the prospective father of Kate's baby. Life, with all its fineness and vulgarity, its color and drabness, its frenzy and its peace, seemed to have passed her by utterly and to be laughing at her over its shoulder.

Nothing was talked of in the clan just now but weddings—Nan and Noel, Gay and Roger, Penny and Margaret, Little Sam and the Widow Terlizzick—even Donna and Peter. For Peter was home again, and report said he had come for Donna and would have her in Drowned John's very teeth. As Uncle Pippin said, Cupid was busy. Amid all this chatter of marrying and giving in marriage, Joscelyn felt like a nonentity—and nobody, least of all a Penhallow with Spanish blood in her, likes to feel like a nonentity.

It was not quite dark yet—not too dark to see Treewoofe. The hill had been austere all that day, under the low, flying gray clouds. Now it was withdrawn and remote. One solitary light loomed on it through the stormy dusk. Was Hugh there—alone? Suppose he did really love Pauline and wanted to be free? The thought of Pauline was like a poison. Pauline had gone to see him when he was in the hospital. But so had every other Dark and Penhallow in the clan—except Joscelyn and her mother and aunt.

Sometimes, as now, Joscelyn felt that if she could not discover the answer to certain questions that tortured her she would go wholly mad.

She did not see Mrs. Conrad Dark until they were fairly face to face over the gate. Joscelyn started a little as she recognized the tall, dark, forbidding woman before her. Then she stood very still. She had not seen Mrs. Conrad for a long while. Now, even in the gloom, she could recognize that hooded look of hers as she brooded her venom.

“So?” said Mrs. Conrad tragically. Stanton Grundy had once said that Mrs. Conrad always spoke tragically, even if she only asked you to pass the pepper. But now she had a fitting setting for her tragic tone and a fitting object. She leaned across the gate and peered into Joscelyn's face. They were both tall women—Joscelyn a little the taller. People had once said that the main reason Mrs. Conrad didn't like Joscelyn was that she didn't want a daughter-in-law she would have to look up to.

“So it's you—Joscelyn Penhallow. Hm—very sleek—very handsome—not quite so young as you once were.”

Convention fell away from Joscelyn. She felt as if she and Mrs. Conrad were alone in some strange world where nothing but realities mattered.

“Mrs. Dark,” she said slowly, “why have you always hated me—not just since—since—since I married Hugh—but before it?”

“Because I knew you didn't love Hugh enough,” answered Mrs. Conrad fiercely. “I hated you on your wedding-night because you didn't deserve your happiness. I knew you would play fast and loose with him in some way. Do you know there hasn't been a night since your wedding that I haven't prayed for evil to come on you. And yet—if you'd go back to him and make him happy—I'd—I'd forgive you. Even you.”

“Go back to him. But does he want me back? Doesn't he—doesn't he love Pauline?”

“Pauline! I wish he did.
She
wouldn't have broken his heart—she wouldn't have made him a laughingstock. I used to pray he would love her. But she wasn't pretty enough. Men have such a cursed hankering for good looks.
You
had him fast—snared in the gold of your hair. Even yet—even yet. When he was fainting on the road down there, after the accident that might have killed him—he called for you—you who had left him and shamed him—it was you he wanted when he thought he was dying.”

A fierce pang of joy stabbed through Joscelyn. But she would not let Mrs. Conrad suspect it.

“Isn't he going to sell Treewoofe?”

“Sell Treewoofe! Sometimes I'm afraid he will—and go God knows where—my dearest son.”

Something gave way in Mrs. Conrad. Joscelyn's apparent immobility maddened her. She let loose all the suppressed hatred of years. She shouted—she cried—she raved—she leaned across the gate and tried to shake Joscelyn. In short she made such a show of herself that all the rest of her life she went meekly and humbly before Joscelyn, remembering it. Uncle Pippin, ambling along the side road from a neighborly call, heard her and paused in dismay. Two women fighting—two women of the clan—they must be of the clan, for nobody but Darks and Penhallows lived just around there. It must be Mrs. Sim Dark and Mrs. Junius Penhallow. They were always bickering, though he could not recollect that they had ever made such a violent scene as this in public before. What if Stanton Grundy should hear of it? It must be put a stop to. Little Uncle Pippin valiantly trotted up to the gate and attempted to put a stop to it.

“Now, now,” he said. “This is most unseemly!”

Just then he discovered that it was Joscelyn Dark and her mother-in-law. Uncle Pippin felt that he had rushed in where both angels and fools might fear to tread.

“I—I beg your pardon,” he said feebly, “I just thought it was someone fighting over Aunt Becky's jug again.”

It was quite unthinkable that Joscelyn and Mrs. Conrad could be rowing over the jug. Since it couldn't be the jug it must be Hugh, and Uncle Pippin, who was not lacking in sense of a kind—as he put it himself, he knew how many beans made five—understood that this was no place for a nice man.

“Pippin,” said Mrs. Conrad, rather breathlessly but still very tragically, “go home and thank the good Lord He made you a fool. Only fools are happy in this world.”

Uncle Pippin went. And if he did not thank the Lord for being a fool he did at least thank Him devoutly that he still had the use of his legs. He paused when he got to the main road to wipe the perspiration from his brow.

“A reckless woman that—a very reckless woman,” said Uncle Pippin sadly.