“Thank the pigs,” thought Drowned John fervently.
Aunt Becky looked over the room gloatingly. She had prolonged her sport as long as it was possible. She had got them just where she wanted them—all keyed up and furious—all except a few who were beyond the power of her venom and whom for that reason she did not despise. But look at the rest of them—squatting there on their ham-bones, pop-eyed, coveting the jug, ready to tear in pieces the one who got it. In a few minutes the lucky one would be known, they thought. Ah, would he? Aunt Becky chuckled. She still had a bomb to throw.
11
“You’re all dying to know who is to get the jug,” she said, “but you’re not going to know yet awhile. I did intend to tell you today who I meant to have it, but I’ve thought of a better plan. I’ve decided to leave the jug in keeping of a trustee until a year from the last day of next October. Then, and not till then, you’ll find out who’s to get it.”
There was a stunned silence—broken by a laugh from Stanton Grundy.
“Sold!” he said laconically.
“Who’s the trustee?” said William Y. hoarsely. He knew who should be trustee.
“Dandy Dark. I’ve selected him because he is the only man I ever knew who could keep a secret.”
Everyone looked at Robert Dark, who squirmed uncomfortably, thus finding himself the center of observation. Everybody disapproved. Dandy Dark was a nobody—his nickname told you that. It was a hangover from the days when he had been a dandy—something nobody would ever dream of calling the fat, shabby, old fellow now, with his double chin, his unkempt hair and his flabby, pendulous cheeks. Only his little, deep-set, beady black eyes seemed to justify Aunt Becky’s opinion of his ability to keep a secret.
“Dandy is to be the sole executor of my will and the custodian of the jug until a year from the last day of next October,” repeated Aunt Becky. “That’s all the rest of you are to know about it. I’m not going to tell you how it will be decided then. It is possible that I may leave Dandy a sealed letter with the name of the legatee in it. In that case Dandy may know the name or he may not know it. Or it is equally possible that I may leave instructions in that same sealed letter that the ownership is to be settled by lot. And again, I may empower Dandy to choose for himself who is to have the jug, always bearing in his mind my opinions and prejudices regarding certain people and certain things. So in case I have chosen the last alternative, it behooves you all to watch your step from now on. The jug may not be given to anyone older than a certain age or to any unmarried person who, in my judgment, should be married, or to any person who has been married too much. It may not be given to anyone who has habits I don’t like. It may not be given to anyone who quarrels or wastes his time fiddling. It may not be given to anyone addicted to swearing or drinking. It may not be given to any untruthful person or any dishonest person or any extravagant person. I’ve always hated to see anyone wasting money, even if it wasn’t mine. It may not be given to anyone who has no bad habits and never did anything disgraceful”—with a glance in the direction of the impeccable William Y. “It may not be given to anyone who begins things and never finishes them, or to anyone who writes bad poetry. On the other hand, these things may not influence in the slightest my decision or Dandy’s decision. And of course if the matter is to be decided by lot, it doesn’t matter what you do or don’t do. And finally it may go to somebody who doesn’t live on the Island at all. Now, you know as much about it as you’re going to know.”
Aunt Becky sank back on her pillows and enjoyed their expressions. Nobody dared say anything but how they thought! And looking at each other as if to say,
“Well, you don’t have much chance. You heard what she said.”
All the old bachelors and old maids reflected that they were practically out of it. Titus Dark and Drowned John were marked men because they swore. Chris Penhallow, a queer widower who lived by himself and played the violin when he should have been carpentering, wondered if he could live nearly a year and a half without touching it. Tom Dark, who had stolen a pot of jam from his aunt’s pantry when he was a boy, wondered if Aunt Becky meant him when she spoke of dishonest people. Gosh, how hard it was to live some things down. Abel Dark, who had put a staging up to paint his house four years ago but had painted only a small patch and left the staging there, reflected that he really must get down to that job right away. Sim Dark wondered uneasily if Aunt Becky had or had not looked at him when she spoke of untruthful persons. She always seemed able to instill such venom into what she said. As for Penny Dark, the idea struck him then and there that it was time he got married.
Homer Penhallow and Palmer Dark wondered if they hadn’t better forswear their ancient grudge. They had always been bad friends, ever since the day in school when a band of boys, headed and incited by Homer Penhallow, had taken the pants off little Palmer Dark and made him walk a mile home in his shirttail. Still, though this rankled for years, they had not been open enemies till the affair of the kittens. Homer Penhallow’s cat went down to Palmer Dark’s barn and had three kittens which were not discovered until they were old enough to run around. Palmer Dark, who was out of cats just then, claimed them as his. Born in his barn and nourished on his premises. Homer wanted the kittens but Palmer, secure in possession, snapped contemptuous fingers at him. Then Homer’s cat did an ungrateful thing. She went home and took the kittens with her. Homer was openly triumphant. What a joke on Palmer! Palmer bided his time in an ominous calm. One Sunday when Homer and his family were all in church, Palmer sneaked up to Homer’s barn, caught the kittens and carried them home in a bag. Homer’s cat came down the next day and succeeded in retrieving one. The other two Palmer kept shut securely up until she had forgotten them. So Palmer thought he had come off best. He had the two handsome striped toms while Homer had only an ugly little spotted tabby, afflicted with a cough. Palmer told the story around the clan, and after that he and Homer were at open feud. This had lasted for years, although all the cats concerned had long since gone where good cats go.
“Now you’ve found out all you’re going to find out, so you can go,” said Aunt Becky. “Be sure to think nice thoughts. I leave you all my forgiveness. I’ve had an amusing afternoon. Heaven will be kind of tame after this, there’s no manner of doubt. Speaking of heaven, would any of you like me to do any errands there for you?”
What a question! Nobody answered, although Drowned John would have liked to send word to Toynbee Dark that he had never repaid him the three dollars he had borrowed of him before his death. But as Aunt Becky had never spoken to Toynbee on earth, it was not likely she would do it in heaven, so it would be a waste of breath to ask her. Anyway, it was too late. Aunt Becky was saying,
“Ambrosine, shut the doors.”
Ambrosine closed the sliding doors, shutting the table with the jug in with Aunt Becky. Tongues were loosed, though they still talked in undertones. They said all, or most, of the things they had been thinking. There was great dissatisfaction. The Darks felt that they had been slighted; the Penhallows thought the Darks had got everything. The idea of giving old Ambrosine Winkworth the diamond ring!
12
Drowned John rose and stalked out. There was one thing he could do, and he did it thoroughly. He banged the door.
“Let’s leave the females to fight it out,” he said. But the men, as soon as they got outside, had plenty to say.
“Would you believe it?” demanded William Y., looking around him as if appealing to the world.
“Nobody got much change out of Aunt Becky, did they?” chuckled Murray Dark.
Dandy Dark was puffing himself out. He had never in all his life been of any importance, save what little accrued from the fact that he was the only man in the countryside who kept a bulldog. And now he had, in a wink, become the most important person in the clan.
“All the weemen will be wishing I was single,” he chuckled. But his face was inscrutable—purposely so. No
fear of his giving away the secret.
“Too mean to give anything away, even a secret,” muttered Artemas Dark.
“The heathen are raging already,” said Stanton Grundy to Uncle Pippin. “If that jug doesn’t set everybody on ears in a month’s time, may I fight with Irishmen to the end of my life. Keep your eyes buttoned back for sights, Pippin.”
“Oh, take in the slack of your jaw,” said Uncle Pippin snappishly.
“Well, a nice lot of family skeletons have had a good airing,” said Palmer Dark.
“I haven’t had as much fun since the dog-fight in church,” said Artemas Dark.
“Aunt Becky never liked any of us, you know,” said Hugh. “She’s bound to get all the rises she can out of us.”
“She isn’t like any other woman,” growled Drowned John.
“Nobody is,” said Grundy.
“You don’t know much about women, John,” said Sim Dark.
No man can endure being told he knows nothing about women—especially if he has coffined two wives. Drowned John went into an icy rage.
“Well, I know something about you, Sim Dark, and if you don’t stop circulating lies about me as you’ve been doing for years, you’ll have to reckon with me.”
“But surely you don’t want me to tell the truth about you,” said Sim in bland amazement.
Drowned John did not reply in words—could not—since he dared not swear so near Aunt Becky. He simply spat.
“It’s an outrageous way to leave the jug,” growled William Y.
“You should be thankful she didn’t make it a condition that everybody should turn a somersault in the church aisle,” said Artemas. “She would if she’d thought of it.”
“You would have liked that, I don’t doubt,” retorted William Y. “Grinning like a chessy cat over the very thought of it.”
Oswald Dark turned around and surveyed the irritated William Y.
“Look at the moon,” he said softly, waving his hand at a pale, silver bubble floating over the seaward valley. “Look at the moon,” he repeated insistently, laying a long thin hand on the arm of William Y.
“Heavens, I’ve seen moons before—hundreds of them!” snorted William Y. peevishly.
“But can one see a thing of perfect beauty—like the moon—too often?” inquired Oswald, fixing his large agate eyes questioningly on William Y., who jerked his arm away and turned his back both on Oswald and his moon.
“That jug shouldn’t be in a house where there is no responsible woman,” said Denzil Penhallow sourly. Everybody knew that Mrs. Dandy was as mad as a November partridge by spells.
“If anyone has anything to say against my wife he’d better not let me hear him saying it,” retorted Dandy ominously. “I’ll smash his face for him.”
“Any time and any place,” said Denzil obligingly.
“Come, come, let us preserve decorum,” implored Uncle Pippin nervously.
“Pippin, go home and soak your head in turpentine for three days,” boomed Drowned John.
Uncle Pippin subsided. This, he reflected, was what came of Aunt Becky’s not giving them anything to eat.
“Devil take the jug,” he muttered.
“I doubt if the devil will be so obliging,” said the irrepressible Grundy.
The women were coming out now and the men went off to get car or horse, according to purse or age. Tempest Dark, who was walking, sauntered out of the gate, reflecting that he wanted to see this comedy played out. He would live long enough to see who got the jug.
Titus Dark on the way home was importuned by a tearful wife to give up swearing.
“Damn it, I can’t,” groaned Titus. “And I ain’t the only one in the tribe that swears. Take Drowned John.”
“Drowned John knows when and when not to swear and you don’t,” sobbed Mrs. Titus. “It’s only for a year and a quarter, Titus. You must. Dandy’ll never give us the jug if you don’t.”
“I don’t believe Dandy’ll have a thing to say about it. Aunt Becky wouldn’t let anyone else decide that,” said Titus. “I’d just go for months in misery and not get a da—not get a blessed thing out of it. Besides, Mary, how is anyone going to live with me if I can’t swear? When I swear for ten minutes on end a child could eat out of my hand. Isn’t that better than bottling it up and thinking murder? Take this horse now. I’ve just gotter swear at him or he’d never travel. If I talked anything else to him he wouldn’t understand what I was saying.”
However, Titus had to promise to try. It would, he reflected, be damned hard. These women were so damned unreasonable. But he’d have a go at it, damned if he wouldn’t. The race for the jug was on and devil take the hindmost.
Gay slipped away alone. She knew a certain little ferny corner down the side road where she meant to stop and read Noel’s letter. She looked so happy that the Moon Man shook his head at her.
“Take care,” he whispered warningly. “It’s dangerous to be too happy—those that sit in the high places don’t like it. Look how they hide my Lady from me so much of the time.”
But Gay only laughed at him and ran on down the side path and out by the side gate under the apple blossoms. Gay loved apple blossoms. It always hurt her that they lasted such a little while—such milky, wonderful things with hearts of love’s own hue. To be sure, the roses came afterwards. But if one could only have the apple blossoms and the roses, too. Gay felt greedy of beauty. She wanted every kind all at once, now when life itself seemed just on the point of breaking into some marvelous blossom and all the coming days were in a hurry to be born. Youth is like that. It wants everything at once, not realizing that something must be saved for autumn days. Save? Nonsense! Pour it all out now, a libation to the approaching god. Gay did not think this—she only felt it, hurrying down the road, as sweet and virginal as the apple blossoms.
“A nice little cuddler that, if you ask me,” chuckled Stanton Grundy admiringly, giving Uncle Pippin a dig in the ribs.
“I’m not asking you,” said Uncle Pippin irritably. He had a sense of the fitness of things. Poke fun at old maids and fat married women if you like, but leave young things like Gay alone. Grundy’s vulgar chuckle seemed to debase everything. Hadn’t that man any reverence for anything? And why didn’t he read a few halitosis advertisements? Heaven knew the magazines were full of them.
Gay read her letter in her ferny corner and kissed it and put it back in her bosom. There was only one terrible thing in it. Noel said he could not come out till Saturday. They were going to be extra busy in the bank. Had she to live three whole days without seeing him? Could she? A little cluster of silver daisies growing by a lichened old stone nodded at her. She picked one of them—witch daisies that knew whether your sweetheart loved you or not. Too-wise daisies. Gay pulled away the tiny ivory petals one by one—he loves me—he loves me not—he loves me. Gay took out the letter again and kissed it and put the torn daisy petals into it. She was young and pretty and very much in love. And he loved her. The daisies said so. What a world! The poor Moon Man! As if one could be too happy! As if God didn’t like to see you happy! Why, people were made for happiness. And wasn’t it the most miraculous thing that out of all the world she and Noel should have met and loved! When there were so many other girls he might have fancied. She seemed to be at the very heart of some exquisite magic that had changed everything in life for her.
13
Donna came out beside Virginia. She had begun to collect her wits, but she did not quite know yet exactly what had taken place. She knew Peter was sitting on the railing, and she meant to sweep past him haughtily in all her dark dignity of widowhood, with lids cast down. But as she passed him she had to look up. They had another momentary unforgettable exchange of eyes. Virginia saw it this time and was vaguely disturbed by it. It did not look like a glance of hatred. She clutched Donna’s arm as they went down the steps.
“Donna, I believe that pig of a Peter is falling in love with you.”
“Oh—do you think so—do you really think so?” said Donna. Virginia could not understand her tone at all. But it must be a horrified one.
“I’m afraid so. Wouldn’t it be terrible for you? What a blessing he’s leaving for South America tonight. Just think what it would be like to have him trying to make love to you.”
Donna did think of it. A strange shiver of terror and delight went over her from head to foot. She felt thankful that Drowned John bellowed to her that instant to hurry up. She fled to his car, leaving a puzzled and somewhat alarmed Virginia on the steps. What had come over Donna?
Mrs. Foster Dark went home and ate her supper under Happy’s fiddle hanging on the wall. Murray Dark went home and thought about Thora. Artemas Dark reflected dismally that it wouldn’t do for him to get drunk for over a year. Crosby Penhallow and Erasmus spent the evening with their flutes—on the whole happily, although Crosby had to put up with some sly digs from Erasmus about old Becky’s being in love with him. Peter Penhallow went home and unpacked his trunk. He had searched the world over for the meaning of life’s great secret and now he had found it in one look from Donna Dark’s eyes. Was he a fool? Then welcome folly.
Big and Little Sam went home across windy seafìelds, and on the way home Little Sam bought a ticket from little Mosey Gautier for the raffle Father Sullivan was getting up down at Chapel Point to raise funds for the Old Sailors’ Home. Big Sam wouldn’t buy a ticket. He wasn’t going to have no truck with Catholics and their doings, and he thought Little Sam might have expended his quarter to far better advantage. They had the heathen to think of.
“No good’s going to come of it,” he remarked sourly.
Little Sam went home and, dismissing the old Dark jug from his mind, sat down to read his favorite volume, Fox’s Book of Martyrs, with the salt wind that even his battered and unromantic heart loved, blowing in at his window. Big Sam went down to the rocks and solaced himself by repeating the first canto of his epic to the gulf.