Free A Tangled Web by L. M. Montgomery Page A

lucky people being those who can choose their masters, so she never made the mistake of kicking uselessly over the traces. Sometimes she was mean, treacherous and greedy. Sometimes she was generous, faithful and unselfish. In short, she was an average person who had lived as long as anybody should live.’
    â€œThere,” said Aunt Becky, tucking her obituary under the pillow, quite happy in the assurance that she had made a sensation. “You will observe that I have not called myself ‘the late Mrs. Dark’ or ‘the deceased lady’ or ‘relict.’ And that’s that.”
    â€œGod bless me, did you ever hear the equal of that?” muttered Uncle Pippin blankly.
    Everyone else was silent in a chill of outraged horror. Surely—surely—that appalling document would never be published. It must not be published, if anything short of the assassination of Camilla Jackson could prevent it. Why, strangers would suppose it had been written by some surviving member of the clan.
    But Aunt Becky was bringing out another document, and all the Darks and Penhallows bottled up their indignation for the time being and uncorked their ears. Who was to get the jug? Until that was settled the matter of the obituary would be left in abeyance.
    Aunt Becky unfolded her will, and settled her owlish shell-ringed glasses on her beaky nose.
    â€œI’ve left my little bit of money to Camilla for her life,” she said. “After her death it’s to go to the hospital in Charlottetown.”
    Aunt Becky looked sharply over the throng. But she did not see any particular disappointment. To do the Darks and Penhallows justice, they were not money-grabbers. No one grudged Camilla Jackson her legacy. Money was a thing one could and should earn for oneself; but old family heirlooms, crusted with the sentiment of dead and gone hopes and fears for generations, were different matters.
    Suppose Aunt Becky left the jug to some rank outsider? Or a museum? She was quite capable of it. If she did, William Y. Penhallow mentally registered a vow that he would see his lawyer about it.
    â€œAny debts are to be paid,” continued Aunt Becky, “and my grave is to be heaped up—not left flat. I insist on that. Make a note of it, Artemas.”
    Aretmas Dark nodded uncomfortably. He was caretaker of the Rose River graveyard, and he knew he would have trouble with the cemetery committee about that. Besides, it made it so confoundedly difficult to mow. Aunt Becky probably read his thoughts, for she said:
    â€œI won’t have a lawn-mower running over me. You can clip my grave nicely with the shears. I’ve left directions for my tombstone, too. I want one as big as anybody else’s. And I want my lace shawl draped around me in my coffin. It’s the only thing I mean to take with me. Theodore gave it to me when Ronald was born. There were times when Theodore could do as graceful a thing as anybody. It’s as good as new. I’ve always kept it wrapped in silver paper at the bottom of my third bureau drawer. Remember, Camilla.”
    Camilla nodded. The first sign of disappointment appeared on Mrs. Clifford Penhallow’s face. She had set her heart on getting the lace shawl, for she feared she had very little chance of getting the jug. The shawl was said to have cost Theodore Dark two hundred dollars. To think of burying two hundred dollars!
    Mrs. Toynbee Dark, who had been waiting all the afternoon for an opportunity to cry, thought she saw it at the mention of Aunt Becky’s baby son who had been dead for sixty years, and got out her handkerchief. But Aunt Becky headed her off.
    â€œDon’t start crying yet, Alicia. By the way, while I think of it, will you tell me something? I’ve always wanted to know and I’ll never have another chance. Which of your three husbands did you like best—Morton Dark, Edgar Penhallow, or Toynbee Dark? Come now, make a clean breast of