“Ut was no thot,” she said. “Margaret was a guid wife an’ a guid mother,
an’ I doubt she would harm a fly. She brought up her fomuly God-fearin’
an’ decent-minded. Her trouble was thot she took lunatic—turned eediot.”
Mrs. Ross tapped significantly on her forehead to indicate a state of
addlement.
“But I talked with her this afternoon,” I objected, “and I found her a
sensible woman—remarkably bright for one of her years.”
“Aye, an’ I’m grantun’ all thot you say,” she went on calmly. “But I am
no referrun’ tull thot. I am referrun’ tull her wucked-headed an’
vucious stubbornness. No more stubborn woman ever luv’d than Margaret
Henan. Ut was all on account o’ Samuel, which was the name o’ her
youngest an’ they do say her favourut brother—hum oz died by hus own hond
all through the munuster’s mustake un no registerun’ the new church ot
Dublin. Ut was a lesson thot the name was musfortunate, but she would no
take ut, an’ there was talk when she called her first child Samuel—hum
thot died o’ the croup. An’ wuth thot what does she do but call the next
one Samuel, an’ hum only three when he fell un tull the tub o’ hot watter
an’ was plain cooked tull death. Ut all come, I tell you, o’ her
wucked-headed an’ foolush stubbornness. For a Samuel she must hov; an’
ut was the death of the four of her sons. After the first, dudna her own
mother go down un the dirt tull her feet, a-beggun’ an’ pleadun’ wuth her
no tull name her next one Samuel? But she was no tull be turned from her
purpose. Margaret Henan was always set on her ways, an’ never more so
thon on thot name Samuel.
“She was fair lunatuc on Samuel. Dudna her neighbours’ an’ all kuth an’
kun savun’ them thot luv’d un the house wuth her, get up an’ walk out ot
the christenun’ of the second—hum thot was cooked? Thot they dud, an’ ot
the very moment the munuster asked what would the bairn’s name be.
‘Samuel,’ says she; an’ wuth thot they got up an’ walked out an’ left the
house. An’ ot the door dudna her Aunt Fannie, her mother’s suster, turn
an’ say loud for all tull hear: ‘What for wull she be wantun’ tull murder
the wee thing?’ The munuster heard fine, an’ dudna like ut, but, oz he
told my Larry afterward, what could he do? Ut was the woman’s wush, an’
there was no law again’ a mother callun’ her child accordun’ tull her
wush.
“An’ then was there no the third Samuel? An’ when he was lost ot sea off
the Cape, dudna she break all laws o’ nature tull hov a fourth? She was
forty-seven, I’m tellun’ ye, an’ she hod a child ot forty-seven. Thunk
on ut! Ot forty-seven! Ut was fair scand’lous.”
* * * * *
From Clara, next morning, I got the tale of Margaret Henan’s favourite
brother; and from here and there, in the week that followed, I pieced
together the tragedy of Margaret Henan. Samuel Dundee had been the
youngest of Margaret’s four brothers, and, as Clara told me, she had
well-nigh worshipped him. He was going to sea at the time, skipper of
one of the sailing ships of the Bank Line, when he married Agnes Hewitt.
She was described as a slender wisp of a girl, delicately featured and
with a nervous organization of the supersensitive order. Theirs had been
the first marriage in the “new” church, and after a two-weeks’ honeymoon
Samuel had kissed his bride good-bye and sailed in command of the
_Loughbank_, a big four-masted barque.
And it was because of the “new” church that the minister’s blunder
occurred. Nor was it the blunder of the minister alone, as one of the
elders later explained; for it was equally the blunder of the whole
Presbytery of Coughleen, which included fifteen churches on Island McGill
and the mainland. The old church, beyond repair, had been torn down and
the new one built on the original foundation. Looking upon the
foundation-stones as similar to a ship’s keel, it never entered the
minister’s nor the Presbytery’s head that the new church was legally any
other than the old church.
“An’ three couples was married the first week un the new church,” Clara
said. “First of all, Samuel Dundee an’ Agnes Hewitt; the next day Albert
Mahan an’ Minnie Duncan; an’ by the week-end Eddie Troy and Flo
Mackintosh—all sailor-men, an’ un sux weeks’ time the last of them back
tull their ships an’ awa’, an’ no one o’ them dreamin’ of the wuckedness
they’d been ot.”
The Imp of the Perverse must have chuckled at the situation. All things
favoured. The marriages had taken place in the first week of May, and it
was not till three months later that the minister, as required by law,
made his quarterly report to the civil authorities in Dublin. Promptly
came back the announcement that his church had no legal existence, not
being registered according to the law’s demands. This was overcome by
prompt registration; but the marriages were not to be so easily remedied.
The three sailor husbands were away, and their wives, in short, were not
their wives.
“But the munuster was no for alarmin’ the bodies,” said Clara. “He kept
hus council an’ bided hus time, waitun’ for the lods tull be back from
sea. Oz luck would have ut, he was away across the island tull a
christenun’ when Albert Mahan arrives home onexpected, hus shup just
docked ot Dublin. Ut’s nine o’clock ot night when the munuster, un hus
sluppers an’ dressun’-gown, gets the news. Up he jumps an’ calls for
horse an’ saddle, an’ awa’ he goes like the wund for Albert Mahan’s.
Albert uz just goun’ tull bed an’ hoz one shoe off when the munuster
arrives.
“‘Come wuth me, the pair o’ ye,’ says he, breathless-like. ‘What for,
an’ me dead weary an’ goun’ tull bed?’ says Albert. ‘Yull be lawful
married,’ says the munuster. Albert looks black an’ says, ‘Now,
munuster, ye wull be jokun’,’ but tull humself, oz I’ve heard hum tell
mony a time, he uz wonderun’ thot the munuster should a-took tull whusky
ot hus time o’ life.
“’We be no married?’ says Minnie. He shook his head. ‘An’ I om no
Mussus Mahan?’ ‘No,’ says he, ‘ye are no Mussus Mahan. Ye are plain
Muss Duncan.’ ‘But ye married ’us yoursel’,’ says she. ‘I dud an’ I
dudna,’ says he. An’ wuth thot he tells them the whole upshot, an’
Albert puts on hus shoe, an’ they go wuth the munuster an’ are married
proper an’ lawful, an’ oz Albert Mahan says afterward mony’s the time,
‘’Tus no every mon thot hoz two weddun’ nights on Island McGill.’”
Six months later Eddie Troy came home and was promptly remarried. But
Samuel Dundee was away on a three-years’ voyage and his ship fell
overdue. Further to complicate the situation, a baby boy, past two years
old, was waiting for him in the arms of his wife. The months passed, and
the wife grew thin with worrying. “Ut’s no meself I’m thunkun’ on,” she
is reported to have said many times, “but ut’s the puir fatherless bairn.
Uf aught happened tull Samuel where wull the bairn stond?”
Lloyd’s posted the _Loughbank_ as missing, and the owners ceased the
monthly remittance of Samuel’s half-pay to his wife. It was the question
of the child’s legitimacy that preyed on her mind, and, when all hope of
Samuel’s return was abandoned, she drowned herself and the child in the
loch. And here enters the greater tragedy. The _Loughbank_ was not
lost. By a series of sea disasters and delays too interminable to
relate, she had made one of those long, unsighted passages such as occur
once or twice in half a century. How the Imp must have held both his
sides! Back from the sea came Samuel, and when they broke the news to
him something else broke somewhere in his heart or head. Next morning
they found him where he had tried to kill himself across the grave of his
wife and child. Never in the history of Island McGill was there so
fearful a death-bed. He spat in the minister’s face and reviled him, and
died blaspheming so terribly that those that tended on him did so with
averted gaze and trembling hands.
And, in the face of all this, Margaret Henan named her first child
Samuel.
* * * * *
How account for the woman’s stubbornness? Or was it a morbid obsession
that demanded a child of hers should be named Samuel? Her third child
was a girl, named after herself, and the fourth was a boy again. Despite
the strokes of fate that had already bereft her, and despite the loss of
friends and relatives, she persisted in her resolve to name the child
after her brother. She was shunned at church by those who had grown up
with her. Her mother, after a final appeal, left her house with the
warning that if the child were so named she would never speak to her
again. And though the old lady lived thirty-odd years longer she kept
her word. The minister agreed to christen the child any name but Samuel,
and every other minister on Island McGill refused to christen it by the
name she had chosen. There was talk on the part of Margaret Henan of
going to law at the time, but in the end she carried the child to Belfast
and there had it christened Samuel.
And then nothing happened. The whole island was confuted. The boy grew
and prospered. The schoolmaster never ceased averring that it was the
brightest lad he had ever seen. Samuel had a splendid constitution, a
tremendous grip on life. To everybody’s amazement he escaped the usual
run of childish afflictions. Measles, whooping-cough and mumps knew him
not. He was armour-clad against germs, immune to all disease. Headaches
and earaches were things unknown. “Never so much oz a boil or a pumple,”
as one of the old bodies told me, ever marred his healthy skin. He broke
school records in scholarship and athletics, and whipped every boy of his
size or years on Island McGill.
It was a triumph for Margaret Henan. This paragon was hers, and it bore
the cherished name. With the one exception of her mother, friends and
relatives drifted back and acknowledged that they had been mistaken;
though there were old crones who still abided by their opinion and who
shook their heads ominously over their cups of tea. The boy was too
wonderful to last. There was no escaping the curse of the name his
mother had wickedly laid upon him. The young generation joined Margaret
Henan in laughing at them, but the old crones continued to shake their
heads.
Other children followed. Margaret Henan’s fifth was a boy, whom she
called Jamie, and in rapid succession followed three girls, Alice, Sara,
and Nora, the boy Timothy, and two more girls, Florence and Katie. Katie
was the last and eleventh, and Margaret Henan, at thirty-five, ceased
from her exertions. She had done well by Island McGill and the Queen.
Nine healthy children were hers. All prospered. It seemed her ill-luck
had shot its bolt with the deaths of her first two. Nine lived, and one
of them was named Samuel.
Jamie elected to follow the sea, though it was not so much a matter of
election as compulsion, for the eldest sons on Island McGill remained on
the land, while all other sons went to the salt-ploughing. Timothy
followed Jamie, and by the time the latter had got his first command, a
steamer in the Bay trade out of Cardiff, Timothy was mate of a big
sailing ship. Samuel, however, did not take kindly to the soil. The
farmer’s life had no attraction for him. His brothers went to sea, not
out of desire, but because it was the only way for them to gain their
bread; and he, who had no need to go, envied them when, returned from far
voyages, they sat by the kitchen fire, and told their bold tales of the
wonderlands beyond the sea-rim.
Samuel became a teacher, much to his father’s disgust, and even took
extra certificates, going to Belfast for his examinations. When the old
master retired, Samuel took over his school. Secretly, however, he
studied navigation, and it was Margaret’s delight when he sat by the
kitchen fire, and, despite their master’s tickets, tangled up his
brothers in the theoretics of their profession. Tom Henan alone was
outraged when Samuel, school teacher, gentleman, and heir to the Henan
farm, shipped to sea before the mast. Margaret had an abiding faith in
her son’s star, and whatever he did she was sure was for the best. Like
everything else connected with his glorious personality, there had never
been known so swift a rise as in the case of Samuel. Barely with two
years’ sea experience before the mast, he was taken from the forecastle
and made a provisional second mate. This occurred in a fever port on the
West Coast, and the committee of skippers that examined him agreed that
he knew more of the science of navigation than they had remembered or
forgotten. Two years later he sailed from Liverpool, mate of the _Starry
Grace_, with both master’s and extra-master’s tickets in his possession.
And then it happened—the thing the old crones had been shaking their
heads over for years.
It was told me by Gavin McNab, bos’n of the _Starry Grace_ at the time,
himself an Island McGill man.
“Wull do I remember ut,” he said. “We was runnin’ our Eastun’ down, an’
makun’ heavy weather of ut. Oz fine a sailor-mon oz ever walked was
Samuel Henan. I remember the look of hum wull thot last marnun’,
a-watch-un’ them bug seas curlun’ up astern, an’ a-watchun’ the old girl
an’ seeun’ how she took them—the skupper down below an’ drunkun’ for
days. Ut was ot seven thot Henan brought her up on tull the wund, not
darun’ tull run longer on thot fearful sea. Ot eight, after havun’
breakfast, he turns un, an’ a half hour after up comes the skupper,
bleary-eyed an’ shaky an’ holdun’ on tull the companion. Ut was fair
smokun’, I om tellun’ ye, an’ there he stood, blunkun’ an’ noddun’ an’
talkun’ tull humsel’. ‘Keep off,’ says he ot last tull the mon ot the
wheel. ‘My God!’ says the second mate, standun’ beside hum. The skupper
never looks tull hum ot all, but keeps on mutterun” an’ jabberun’ tull
humsel’. All of a suddent-like he straightens up an’ throws hus head
back, an’ says: ‘Put your wheel over, me mon—now domn ye! Are ye deef
thot ye’ll no be hearun’ me?’
“Ut was a drunken mon’s luck, for the _Starry Grace_ wore off afore thot
God-Almighty gale wuthout shuppun’ a bucket o’ watter, the second mate
shoutun’ orders an’ the crew jumpun’ like mod. An’ wuth thot the skupper
nods contented-like tull humself an’ goes below after more whusky. Ut
was plain murder o’ the lives o’ all of us, for ut was no the time for
the buggest shup afloat tull be runnun’. Run? Never hov I seen the
like! Ut was beyond all thunkun’, an’ me goun’ tull sea, boy an’ men,
for forty year. I tell you ut was fair awesome.
“The face o’ the second mate was white oz death, an’ he stood ut alone
for half an hour, when ut was too much for hum an’ he went below an’
called Samuel an’ the third. Aye, a fine sailor-mon thot Samuel, but ut
was too much for hum. He looked an’ studied, and looked an’ studied, but
he could no see hus way. He durst na heave tull. She would ha’ been
sweeput o’ all honds an’ stucks an’ everythung afore she could a-fetched
up. There was naught tull do but keep on runnun’. An’ uf ut worsened we
were lost ony way, for soon or late that overtakun’ sea was sure tull
sweep us clear over poop an’ all.
“Dud I say ut was a God-Almighty gale? Ut was worse nor thot. The devil
himself must ha’ hod a hond un the brewun’ o’ ut, ut was thot fearsome.
I ha’ looked on some sights, but I om no carun’ tull look on the like o’
thot again. No mon dared tull be un hus bunk. No, nor no mon on the
decks. All honds of us stood on top the house an’ held on an’ watched.
The three mates was on the poop, with two men ot the wheel, an’ the only
mon below was thot whusky-blighted captain snorun’ drunk.
“An’ then I see ut comun’, a mile away, risun’ above all the waves like
an island un the sea—the buggest wave ever I looked upon. The three
mates stood tulgether an’ watched ut comun’, a-prayun’ like we thot she
would no break un passun’ us. But ut was no tull be. Ot the last, when
she rose up like a mountain, curlun’ above the stern an’ blottun’ out the
sky, the mates scattered, the second an’ third runnun’ for the
mizzen-shrouds an’ climbun’ up, but the first runnun’ tull the wheel tull
lend a hond. He was a brave men, thot Samuel Henan. He run straight un
tull the face o’ thot father o’ all waves, no thunkun’ on humself but
thunkun’ only o’ the shup. The two men was lashed tull the wheel, but he
would be ready tull hond un the case they was kult. An’ then she took
ut. We on the house could no see the poop for the thousand tons o’
watter thot hod hut ut. Thot wave cleaned them out, took everythung
along wuth ut—the two mates, climbun’ up the mizzen-ruggun’, Samuel Henan
runnun’ tull the wheel, the two men ot the wheel, aye, an’ the wheel
utself. We never saw aught o’ them, for she broached tull what o’ the
wheel goun’, an’ two men o’ us was drownded off the house, no tull
mention the carpenter thot we pucked up ot the break o’ the poop wuth
every bone o’ hus body broke tull he was like so much jelly.”
And here enters the marvel of it, the miraculous wonder of that woman’s
heroic spirit. Margaret Henan was forty-seven when the news came home of
the loss of Samuel; and it was not long after that the unbelievable
rumour went around Island McGill. I say unbelievable. Island McGill
would not believe. Doctor Hall pooh-pooh’d it. Everybody laughed at it
as a good joke. They traced back the gossip to Sara Dack, servant to the
Henans’, and who alone lived with Margaret and her husband. But Sara
Dack persisted in her assertion and was called a low-mouthed liar. One
or two dared question Tom Henan himself, but beyond black looks and
curses for their presumption they elicited nothing from him.
The rumour died down, and the island fell to discussing in all its
ramifications the loss of the _Grenoble_ in the China seas, with all her
officers and half her crew born and married on Island McGill. But the
rumour would not stay down. Sara Dack was louder in her assertions, the
looks Tom Henan cast about him were blacker than ever, and Dr. Hall,
after a visit to the Henan house, no longer pooh-pooh’d. Then Island
McGill sat up, and there was a tremendous wagging of tongues. It was
unnatural and ungodly. The like had never been heard. And when, as time
passed, the truth of Sara Dack’s utterances was manifest, the island folk
decided, like the bos’n of the _Starry Grace_, that only the devil could
have had a hand in so untoward a happening. And the infatuated woman, so
Sara Dack reported, insisted that it would be a boy. “Eleven bairns ha’
I borne,” she said; “sux o’ them lossies an’ five o’ them loddies. An’
sunce there be balance un all thungs, so wull there be balance wuth me.
Sux o’ one an’ half a dozen o’ the other—there uz the balance, an’ oz
sure oz the sun rises un the marnun’, thot sure wull ut be a boy.”
And boy it was, and a prodigy. Dr. Hall raved about its unblemished
perfection and massive strength, and wrote a brochure on it for the
Dublin Medical Society as the most interesting case of the sort in his
long career. When Sara Dack gave the babe’s unbelievable weight, Island
McGill refused to believe and once again called her liar. But when
Doctor Hall attested that he had himself weighed it and seen it tip that
very notch, Island McGill held its breath and accepted whatever report
Sara Dack made of the infant’s progress or appetite. And once again
Margaret Henan carried a babe to Belfast and had it christened Samuel.
* * * * *
“Oz good oz gold ut was,” said Sara Dack to me.
Sara, at the time I met her, was a buxom, phlegmatic spinster of sixty,
equipped with an experience so tragic and unusual that though her tongue
ran on for decades its output would still be of imperishable interest to
her cronies.
“Oz good oz good,” said Sara Dack. “Ut never fretted. Sut ut down un
the sun by the hour an’ never a sound ut would make oz long oz ut was no
hungered! An’ thot strong! The grup o’ uts honds was like a mon’s. I
mind me, when ut was but hours old, ut grupped me so mighty thot I
fetched a scream I was thot frightened. Ut was the punk o’ health. Ut
slept an’ ate, an’ grew. Ut never bothered. Never a night’s sleep ut
lost tull no one, nor ever a munut’s, an’ thot wuth cuttin’ uts teeth an’
all. An’ Margaret would dandle ut on her knee an’ ask was there ever so
fine a loddie un the three Kungdoms.
“The way ut grew! Ut was un keepun’ wuth the way ut ate. Ot a year ut
was the size o’ a bairn of two. Ut was slow tull walk an’ talk.
Exceptun’ for gurgly noises un uts throat an’ for creepun’ on all fours,
ut dudna monage much un the walkun’ an’ talkun’ line. But thot was tull
be expected from the way ut grew. Ut all went tull growun’ strong an’
healthy. An’ even old Tom Henan cheered up ot the might of ut an’ said
was there ever the like o’ ut un the three Kungdoms. Ut was Doctor Hall
thot first suspicioned, I mind me well, though ut was luttle I dreamt
what he was up tull ot the time. I seehum holdun’ thungs’ un fronto’
luttle Sammy’s eyes, an’ a-makun’ noises, loud an’ soft, an’ far an’
near, un luttle Sammy’s ears. An’ then I see Doctor Hall go away,
wrunklun’ hus eyebrows an’ shakun’ hus head like the bairn was ailun’.
But he was no ailun’, oz I could swear tull, me a-seeun’ hum eat an’
grow. But Doctor Hall no said a word tull Margaret an’ I was no for
guessun’ the why he was sore puzzled.
“I mind me when luttle Sammy first spoke. He was two years old an’ the
size of a child o five, though he could no monage the walkun’ yet but
went around on all fours, happy an’ contented-like an’ makun’ no trouble
oz long oz he was fed promptly, which was onusual often. I was hangun’
the wash on the line ot the time when out he comes, on all fours, hus bug
head waggun’ tull an’ fro an’ blunkun’ un the sun. An’ then, suddent, he
talked. I was thot took a-back I near died o’ fright, an’ fine I knew ut
then, the shakun’ o’ Doctor Hall’s head. Talked? Never a bairn on
Island McGill talked so loud an’ tull such purpose. There was no
mustakun’ ut. I stood there all tremblun’ an’ shakun’. Little Sammy was
brayun’. I tell you, sir, he was brayun’ like an ass—just like
thot,—loud an’ long an’ cheerful tull ut seemed hus lungs ud crack.
“He was a eediot—a great, awful, monster eediot. Ut was after he talked
thot Doctor Hall told Margaret, but she would no believe. Ut would all
come right, she said. Ut was growun’ too fast for aught else. Guv ut
time, said she, an’ we would see. But old Tom Henan knew, an’ he never
held up hus head again. He could no abide the thung, an’ would no brung
humsel’ tull touch ut, though I om no denyun’ he was fair fascinated by
ut. Mony the time, I see hum watchun’ of ut around a corner, lookun’ ot
ut tull hus eyes fair bulged wuth the horror; an’ when ut brayed old Tom
ud stuck hus fungers tull hus ears an’ look thot miserable I could
a-puttied hum.
“An’ bray ut could! Ut was the only thung ut could do besides eat an’
grow. Whenever ut was hungry ut brayed, an’ there was no stoppun’ ut
save wuth food. An’ always of a marnun’, when first ut crawled tull the
kutchen-door an’ blunked out ot the sun, ut brayed. An’ ut was brayun’
that brought about uts end.
“I mind me well. Ut was three years old an’ oz bug oz a led o’ ten. Old
Tom hed been goun’ from bed tull worse, ploughun’ up an’ down the fields
an’ talkun’ an’ mutterun’ tull humself. On the marnun’ o’ the day I mind
me, he was suttun’ on the bench outside the kutchen, a-futtun’ the handle
tull a puck-axe. Unbeknown, the monster eediot crawled tull the door an’
brayed after hus fashion ot the sun. I see old Tom start up an’ look.
An’ there was the monster eediot, waggun’ uts bug head an’ blunkun’ an’
brayun’ like the great bug ass ut was. Ut was too much for Tom.
Somethun’ went wrong wuth hum suddent-like. He jumped tull hus feet an’
fetched the puck-handle down on the monster eediot’s head. An’ he hut ut
again an’ again like ut was a mod dog an’ hum afeard o’ ut. An’ he went
straight tull the stable an’ hung humsel’ tull a rafter. An’ I was no
for stoppun’ on after such-like, an’ I went tull stay along wuth me
suster thot was married tull John Martin an’ comfortable-off.”
* * * * *
I sat on the bench by the kitchen door and regarded Margaret Henan, while
with her callous thumb she pressed down the live fire of her pipe and
gazed out across the twilight-sombred fields. It was the very bench Tom
Henan had sat upon that last sanguinary day of life. And Margaret sat in
the doorway where the monster, blinking at the sun, had so often wagged
its head and brayed. We had been talking for an hour, she with that slow
certitude of eternity that so befitted her; and, for the life of me, I
could lay no finger on the motives that ran through the tangled warp and
woof of her. Was she a martyr to Truth? Did she have it in her to
worship at so abstract a shrine? Had she conceived Abstract Truth to be
the one high goal of human endeavour on that day of long ago when she
named her first-born Samuel? Or was hers the stubborn obstinacy of the
ox? the fixity of purpose of the balky horse? the stolidity of the
self-willed peasant-mind? Was it whim or fancy?—the one streak of lunacy
in what was otherwise an eminently rational mind? Or, reverting, was
hers the spirit of a Bruno? Was she convinced of the intellectual
rightness of the stand she had taken? Was hers a steady, enlightened
opposition to superstition? or—and a subtler thought—was she mastered by
some vaster, profounder superstition, a fetish-worship of which the Alpha
and the Omega was the cryptic _Samuel_?
“Wull ye be tellun’ me,” she said, “thot uf the second Samuel hod been
named Larry thot he would no hov fell un the hot watter an’ drownded?
Atween you an’ me, sir, an’ ye are untellugent-lookun’ tull the eye,
would the name hov made ut onyways dufferent? Would the washun’ no be
done thot day uf he hod been Larry or Michael? Would hot watter no be
hot, an’ would hot watter no burn uf he hod hod ony other name but
Samuel?”