"Two o' the sons, Jamie an' Timothy uz married an' be goun' tull
sea. Thot bug house close tull the post office uz Jamie's. The
daughters thot ha' no married be luvun' wuth them as dud marry.
An' the rest be dead."
"The Samuels," Clara interpolated, with what I suspected was a
giggle.
She was Mrs. Ross's daughter, a strapping young woman with handsome
features and
remarkably handsome black eyes.
"'Tuz
naught to be smuckerun' ot," her mother reproved her.
"The Samuels?" I intervened. "I don't understand."
"Her four sons thot died."
"And were they all named Samuel?"
"Aye."
"Strange," I commented in the lagging silence.
"Very strange," Mrs. Ross affirmed,
proceeding stolidly with the
knitting of the woollen singlet on her knees - one of the countless
under-garments that she interminably knitted for her
skipper sons.
"And it was only the Samuels that died?" I queried, in further
attempt.
"The others luved," was the answer. "A fine fomuly - no finer on
the island. No better lods ever sailed out of Island McGill. The
munuster held them up oz models tull pottern after. Nor was ever a
whusper breathed again' the girls."
"But why is she left alone now in her old age?" I persisted. "Why
don't her own flesh and blood look after her? Why does she live
alone? Don't they ever go to see her or care for her?"
"Never a one un twenty years an' more now. She fetched ut on tull
herself. She drove them from the house just oz she drove old Tom
Henan, thot was her husband, tull hus death."
"Drink?" I ventured.
Mrs. Ross shook her head scornfully, as if drink was a weakness
beneath the weakest of Island McGill.
A long pause followed, during which Mrs. Ross knitted stolidly on,
only nodding
permission when Clara's young man, mate on one of the
Shire Line sailing ships, came to walk out with her. I
studied the
half-dozen
ostrich eggs,
hanging in the corner against the wall
like a
cluster of some
monstrous fruit. On each shell were painted
precipitous and impossible seas through which full-rigged ships
foamed with a lack of
perspective only equalled by their sharp
technicalperfection. On the
mantelpiece stood two large pearl
shells,
obviously a pair, intricately carved by the patient hands
of New Caledonian convicts. In the centre of the
mantel was a
stuffed bird-of-paradise, while about the room were scattered
gorgeous shells from the southern seas,
delicate sprays of coral
sprouting from barnacled PI-PI shells and cased in glass, assegais
from South Africa, stone axes from New Guinea, huge Alaskan
tobacco-pouches beaded with heraldic totem designs, a boomerang
from Australia,
divers ships in glass bottles, a
cannibal KAI-KAI
bowl from the Marquesas, and
fragile cabinets from China and the
Indies and inlaid with mother-of-pearl and precious woods.
I gazed at this
varied trove brought home by sailor sons, and
pondered the
mystery of Margaret Henan, who had
driven her husband
to his death and been
forsaken by all her kin. It was not the
drink. Then what was it? - some
shockingcruelty? some amazing
infidelity? or some
fearful, old-world peasant-crime?
I broached my theories, but to all Mrs. Ross shook her head.
"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