A Tangled Web by L. M. Montgomery Page B

still in it?”
    Nobody dared to laugh but everybody was glad Mercy had the spunk. Aunt Becky nodded undisturbed.
    â€œYes, and I remember how it smelled! We had company, too. I don’t think Theodore ever fully forgave me. I thought that had been forgotten years ago. Is anything ever forgotten? Can people ever live anything down? The honors are to you, Mercy, but I must get square with somebody. Junius Penhallow, do you remember—since Mercy has started digging up the past—how drunk you were at your wedding?”
    Junius Penhallow turned a violent crimson but couldn’t deny it. Of what use was it, with Mrs. Junius at his elbow, to plead that he had been in such a blue funk on his wedding-morning that he’d never have had the courage to go through with it if he hadn’t got drunk? He had never been drunk since, and it was hard to have it raked up now, when he was an elder in the church and noted for his avowed temperance principles.
    â€œI’m not the only one who ever got drunk in this clan,” he dared to mutter, despite the jug.
    â€œNo, to be sure. There’s Artemas over there. Do you remember, Artemas, the evening you walked up the church aisle in your nightshirt?”
    Artemas, a tall, raw-boned, red-haired fellow, had been too drunk on that occasion to remember it, but he always roared when reminded of it. He thought it the best joke ever.
    â€œYou should have all been thankful I had that much on myself,” he said with a chuckle.
    Mrs. Artemas wished she were dead. What was a joke to Artemas was a tragedy to her. She had never forgotten—never could forget—the humiliation of that unspeakable evening. She had forgiven Artemas certain violations of his marriage vow of which everyone was aware. But she had never forgiven—never would forgive—the episode of the nightshirt. If it had been pajamas, it would not have been quite so terrible. But in those days pajamas were unknown.
    Aunt Becky was at Mrs. Conrad Dark.
    â€œI’m giving you my silver saltcellars. Alec Dark’s mother gave them to me for a wedding present. Do you remember the time you and Mrs. Clifford there quarreled over Alec Dark and she slapped your face? And neither of you got Alec after all. There, there, don’t crack the spectrum. It’s all dead and vanished, just like my affair with Crosby.”
    (“As if there was ever any affair,” thought Crosby piteously.)
    â€œPippin’s to have my grandfather clock. Mrs. Digby Dark thinks she should have that because her father gave it to me. But no. Do you remember, Fanny, that you once put a tract in a book you lent me? Do you know what I did with it? I used it for curl papers. I’ve never forgiven you for the insult. Tracts, indeed. Did I need tracts?”
    â€œYou—weren’t a member of the church,” said Mrs. Digby, on the point of tears.
    â€œNo—nor am yet. Theodore and I could never agree which church to join. I wanted Rose River and he wanted Bay Silver. And after he died it seemed sort of disrespectful to his memory to join Rose River. Besides, I was so old then it would have seemed funny. Marrying and church-joining should be done in youth. But I was as good a Christian as any one. Naomi Dark.”
    Naomi, who had been fanning Lawson, looked up with a start as Aunt Becky hurled her name at her.
    â€œYou’re to get my Wedgwood teapot. It’s a pretty thing. Cauliflower pattern, as it’s called, picked out with gold luster. It’s the only thing it really hurts me to give up. Letty gave it to me—she bought it at a sale in town with some of her first quarter’s salary. Have you all forgotten Letty? It’s forty years since she died. She would have been sixty if she were living now—as old as you, Fanny. Oh, I know you don’t own to more than fifty, but you and Letty were born within three weeks of each other. It seems funny to think of Letty being