Ancient Lineage and Other Stories

by Morley Callaghan

  “Stealing three barrels of wine from old man Stanley’s cellar.”

  Jim sat down on the bed and they went out, locking the door carefully. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his chin cupped in his hands, staring at three iron bars in the small window. Sitting there on the bed he felt all right till he remembered that an hour ago he had been sitting on his back porch looking at the lilacs. He got up and walked around the room, his thoughts confused, and when he tried thinking slowly his head seemed to ache. He sat down on the bed to forget all about it, stretching his legs out, his arms behind his head. The sun shone through the window, forming barred squares of light on the opposite wall.

  A tap on the door aroused him. “Heh, Jim.” Dannie Parker, the guard, was smiling at him. “Do you want to take some exercise in the yard?”

  “Not now,” Jim said mildly.

  “Ain’t you feeling well?”

  “Awright.”

  “Suit yourself then, I thought you’d like to, that’s all.”

  Jim lay on the bed till Dannie brought him some supper, cold beef, potatoes, and maple syrup. The meat and potatoes he ate greedily, and liked the maple syrup so much he coaxed Dannie to give him an extra saucerful and promised to play checkers after supper.

  For fifteen minutes Jim waited for Dannie to return with the checker-board. Then he heard Dan’s voice and another voice. The Rev. Arthur Sorrel, a plump, agreeable little man with a small nose, the minister who had refused to marry Ettie and Jim, came into the cell with Dannie.

  “Well, Mr. Cline,” he said.

  “Well,” Jim said soberly.

  “I thought we might want to talk things over.”

  “Maybe I’d better get another chair,” Dan said.

  “Don’t bother. I’ll stand, or perhaps sit on the bed.”

  Dan went away. Jim folded his arms across his chest and glared at the minister, who sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “I want you to understand, Jim, that I’ll do all in my power to help you. I’m not against you.” The minister scratched his head thoughtfully, rubbing his cheek with the palm of his hand. “But there’s not much I can do for you,” he added.

  “There’s only one thing I want to know,” Jim said.

  “What’s that?”

  “If I’m guilty, what’ll I get for it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, I’m sure. I mean I can’t say for certain but I’m afraid it will be life and lashes. That’s the usual thing.”

  Jim jumped up. “Life?”

  “And lashes, yes. But I can do all in my power to have them go easy on the lashes.”

  “Life, eh?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Jim sat down, then stretched out on the bed, vaguely aware that the minister was talking but not interested in following the words.

  “Ettie is going down to Barrie tomorrow and she’ll be with the Ladies of Charity and I wouldn’t wonder if she grew up to be a decent woman.”

  Jim, staring at the ceiling, did not answer.

  “Of course she’s had the worst home in town and something should have been done about it long ago,” he said.

  Jim did not answer.

  The minister got up, slightly irritated, and called through the door to Dannie, who let him out.

  Turning over on the bed Jim rubbed his forehead on the pillow. The minister had said he would get life and he had helped Corleys and bought coal for them last winter. Everybody in town knew he had bought coal and food and some men had said the Corley kid would be lucky if he married her. Jim sat up, feeling uneasy. He had almost hit upon an idea that would be a solution for everything. Everybody knew it would be best for Ettie to marry him, and Ettie wanted to, and he could go to work, but the people who had arrested him couldn’t understand it. Fiercely indignant, he felt himself getting excited. If he could get out he could explain his idea to everybody and get people behind him. Jim walked over to the window, and looked out over the yard to the tall brick building, the waterworks.

  A key turned in the door. “How about the checkers now?” Dannie Parker said.

  “I got a headache, Dannie. Can’t I go out in the yard a while?”

  “Wouldn’t you like a little game first?”

  “I feel kinda rotten, Dannie.”

  “Did Sorrel bother you?”

  “No, I just feel punk.”

  “All right, just as you say.”

  Dannie left him alone in the yard. It was about half past seven Daylight Saving Time and the sun was striking the tops of the trees. Jim walked the length of the yard without looking at the walls. Walking back, his eye followed the top line of the wall. He wasn’t thinking of anything, just watching the wall. It was very old. He could remember when it was built twenty-five years ago. Cracks and crevices were spoiling it. One long crevice ran the full height of the wall.

  Slyly he looked around at the jail, though he kept on walking. Passing the crevice, he saw that there was room for his boot three feet above the ground.

  The second time he passed the crevice he turned quickly, jammed in his boot, reached up, hoisting himself to the wall top. He dropped over to the street. No one in sight. He started to run. As he ran down the street he tried to concentrate on the idea of doing something definite that would explain his feeling for Ettie, and appeal to the whole town. The idea had come to him back in the cell but it was necessary to get home first. He passed Hanson’s grocery store, then the Catholic church, and the caretaker watering the lawn yelled at him.

  He ran across the bridge and on to Corley’s house. Mrs. Corley was sitting on the veranda. Seeing her, he stopped, shaking drops of sweat from his forehead and pulling his shirt open at the throat. “Now you keep out of this, do you hear, you old bat,” he said. She stood up, remained motionless, then squealing, ran in the door, slamming it. “Scared as a rabbit,” Jim said to himself. He laughed out loud. He walked around his own house and in the back way. The evening paper was on the porch.

  No one was in the house. In the front room he sat down on the sofa, breathing deeply, fascinated by the heavy beating of his heart. He was ready to go on with the idea of getting people behind him but did not know how to go about it. He stood up angrily, rubbing his forehead. His own head was to blame. There was a way, only he couldn’t see it and make use of it.

  He stepped into the hall to the telephone and called up the sheriff, Ned Bickle. “Is that you, Ned? This is Jim Cline. You’d better keep away from me. I’m out and I’m going to stay out.”

  Jim didn’t hear what the sheriff said. Walking away from the phone he felt much better. He went upstairs to get a Mauser revolver from the bureau drawer. He put it in his back pocket. No one would bother him, but it was better to have it. Downstairs he felt helpless, wondering how it was the idea seemed so simple back in the cell.

  A car drew up on the road. Jim heard the car and turned to run out of the back door. He rubbed his chin, assuring himself he should go out of the front door. He opened the door and stood there on the veranda. Ned Bickle jumped out of the car, pointing a gun.

  Jim half opened his mouth, getting ready to give an explanation, then looked stupidly at the barrel of the gun. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Hunching his shoulders, he resentfully clenched his fists, leaning forward, his forehead wrinkled. He half turned on one heel, his hand moving toward his hip.

  “Stick ‘em up, Jim.”

  Jim straightened up and let his muscles relax. His mouth closed abruptly; there was no way of getting people behind him. Shaking his head he grinned sheepishly, holding out his hands. Ned slipped on the cuffs.

  It was getting dark and crickets were singing along the road. Jim got in the back seat between two men. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Jim,” Ned said.

  1928

  ANCIENT LINEAGE

  The young man from the Historical Club with a green magazine under his arm got off the train at Clintonville. It was getting dark but the station lights were not lit. He hurried along t
he platform and jumped down on the sloping cinder path to the sidewalk.

  Trees stood alongside the walk, branches dropping low, leaves scraping occasionally against the young man’s straw hat. He saw a cluster of lights, bluish-white in the dusk across a river, many for a small town. He crossed the lift-lock bridge and turned on to the main street. A hotel was at the corner.

  At the desk a bald-headed man in a blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up, looked critically at the young man while he registered. “All right, Mr. Flaherty,” he said, inspecting the signature carefully.

  “Do you know many people around here?” Mr. Flaherty asked.

  “Just about everybody.”

  “The Rowers?”

  “The old lady?”

  “Yeah, the old lady.”

  “Sure, Mrs. Anna Rower. Around the corner to the left, then turn to the right on the first street, the house opposite the Presbyterian church on the hill.”

  “An old family?” suggested the young man.

  “An old-timer all right.” The hotel man made it clear by a twitching of his lips that he was a part of the new town, canal, water power, and factories.

  Mr. Flaherty sauntered out and turned to the left. It was dark and the street had the silence of small towns in the evening. Turning a corner he heard girls giggling in a doorway. He looked at the church on the hill, the steeple dark against the sky. He had forgotten whether the man had said beside the church or across the road, but could not make up his mind to ask the fellow who was watering the wide church lawn. No lights in the shuttered windows of the rough-cast house beside the church. He came down the hill and had to yell three times at the man because the water swished strongly against the grass.

  “All right, thanks. Right across the road,” Mr. Flaherty repeated.

  Tall trees screened the square brick house. Looking along the hall to a lighted room, Mr. Flaherty saw an old lady standing at a sideboard. “She’s in all right,” he thought, rapping on the screen door. A large woman of about forty, dressed in a blue skirt and blue blouse, came down the stairs. She did not open the screen door.

  “Could I speak to Mrs. Anna Rower?”

  “I’m Miss Hilda Rower.”

  “I’m from the University Historical Club.”

  “What did you want to see Mother for?”

  Mr. Flaherty did not like talking through the screen door. “I wanted to talk to her,” he said firmly.

  “Well, maybe you’d better come in.”

  He stood in the hall while the large woman lit the gas in the front room. The gas flared up, popped, showing fat hips and heavy lines on her face. Mr. Flaherty, disappointed, watched her swaying down the hall to get her mother. He carefully inspected the front room, the framed photographs of dead Conservative politicians, the group of military men hanging over the old-fashioned piano, the faded greenish wallpaper and the settee in the corner.

  An old woman with a knot of white hair and good eyes came into the room, walking erectly. “This is the young man who wanted to see you, Mother,” Miss Hilda Rower said. They all sat down. Mr. Flaherty explained he wanted to get some information concerning the Rower genealogical tree for the next meeting of his society. The Rowers, he knew, were a pioneer family in the district, and descended from William the Conqueror, he had heard.

  The old lady laughed thinly, swaying from side to side. “It’s true enough, but I don’t know who told you. My father was Daniel Rower, who came to Ontario from Cornwall in 1830.”

  Miss Hilda Rower interrupted. “Wait, Mother, you may not want to tell about it.” Brusque and businesslike, she turned to the young man. “You want to see the family tree, I suppose.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “My father was a military settler here,” the old lady said.

  “I don’t know but what we might be able to give you some notes,” Miss Hilda spoke generously.

  “Thanks awfully, if you will.”

  “Of course you’re prepared to pay something if you’re going to print it,” she added, smugly adjusting her big body in the chair.

  Mr. Flaherty got red in the face; of course he understood, but to tell the truth he had merely wanted to chat with Mrs. Rower. Now he knew definitely he did not like the heavy nose and unsentimental assertiveness of the lower lip of this big woman with the wide shoulders. He couldn’t stop looking at her thick ankles. Rocking back and forth in the chair she was primly conscious of lineal superiority; a proud unmarried woman, surely she could handle a young man, half-closing her eyes, a young man from the university indeed. “I don’t want to talk to her about the university,” he thought.

  Old Mrs. Rower went into the next room and returned with a framed genealogical tree of the house of Rower. She handed it graciously to Mr. Flaherty, who read, “The descent of the family of Rower, from William the Conqueror, from Malcom 1st, and from the Capets, Kings of France.” It bore the imprimatur of the College of Arms, 1838.

  “It’s wonderful to think you have this,” Mr. Flaherty said, smiling at Miss Hilda, who watched him suspiciously.

  “A brother of mine had it all looked up,” old Mrs. Rower said.

  “You don’t want to write about that,” Miss Hilda said, crossing her ankles. The ankles looked much thicker crossed. “You just want to have a talk with Mother.”

  “That’s it,” Mr. Flaherty smiled agreeably.

  “We may write it up ourselves someday.” Her heavy chin dipped down and rose again.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “But there’s no harm in you talking to Mother if you want to, I guess.”

  “You could write a good story about that tree,” Mr. Flaherty said, feeling his way.

  “We may do it some day but it’ll take time,” she smiled complacently at her mother, who mildly agreed.

  Mr. Flaherty talked pleasantly to this woman, who was so determined he would not learn anything about the family tree without paying for it. He tried talking about the city, then tactfully asked old Mrs. Rower what she remembered of the Clintonville of seventy years ago. The old lady talked willingly, excited a little. She went into the next room to get a book of clippings. “My father, Captain Rower, got a grant of land from the Crown and cleared it,” she said, talking over her shoulder. “A little way up the Trent River. Clintonville was a small military settlement then …”

  “Oh, Mother, he doesn’t want to know all about that,” Miss Hilda said impatiently.

  “It’s very interesting indeed.”

  The old woman said nervously, “My dear, what difference does it make? You wrote it all up for the evening at the church.”

  “So I did too,” she hesitated, thinking the young man ought to see how well it was written. “I have an extra copy.” She looked at him thoughtfully. He smiled. She got up and went upstairs.

  The young man talked very rapidly to the old lady and took many notes.

  Miss Rower returned. “Would you like to see it?” She handed him a small gray booklet. Looking quickly through it, he saw it contained valuable information about the district.

  “The writing is simply splendid. You must have done a lot of work on it.”

  “I worked hard on it,” she said, pleased and more willing to talk.

  “Is this an extra copy?”

  “Yes, it’s an extra copy.”

  “I suppose I might keep it,” he said diffidently.

  She looked at him steadily. “Well … I’ll have to charge you twenty-five cents.”

  “Sure, sure, of course, that’s fine.” He blushed.

  “Just what it costs to get them out,” the old lady explained apologetically.

  “Can you change a dollar?” He fumbled in his pocket, pulling the dollar out slowly.

  They could not change it but Miss Rower would be pleased to go down to the corner grocery store. Mr. Flaherty protested. No trouble, he would go. She insisted on asking the next-door neighbor to change it. She went across the room, the dollar in hand.

  Mr. Flaherty chatted with the ni
ce old lady and carefully examined the family tree, and wrote quickly in a small book till the screen door banged, the curtains parted, and Miss Hilda Rower came into the room. He wanted to smirk, watching her walking heavily, so conscious of her ancient lineage, a virginal mincing sway to her large hips, seventy-five cents’ change held loosely in drooping fingers.

  “Thank you,” he said, pocketing the change, pretending his work was over. Sitting back in the chair he praised the way Miss Rower had written the history of the neighborhood and suggested she might write a splendid story of the family tree, if she had the material, of course.

  “I’ve got the material, all right,” she said, trying to get comfortable again. How would Mr. Flaherty arrange it and where should she try to sell it? The old lady was dozing in the rocking chair. Miss Rower began to talk rather nervously about her material. She talked of the last title in the family and the Sir Richard who had been at the court of Queen Elizabeth.

  Mr. Flaherty chimed in gaily, “I suppose you know the O’Flahertys were kings in Ireland?”

  She said vaguely, “I daresay, I daresay,” conscious only of an interruption to the flow of her thoughts. She went on talking with hurried eagerness, all the fine talk about her ancestors bringing her peculiar satisfaction. A soft light came into her eyes and her lips were moist.

  Mr. Flaherty started to rub his cheek, and looked at her big legs, and felt restive, and then embarrassed, watching her closely, her lower lip hanging loosely. She was talking slowing, lazily, relaxing in her chair, a warm fluid oozing through her veins, exhausting but satisfying her.

  He was uncomfortable. She was liking it too much. He did not know what to do. There was something immodest about it. She was close to forty, her big body relaxed in the chair. He looked at his watch and suggested he would be going. She stretched her legs graciously, pouting, inviting him to stay a while longer, but he was standing up, tucking his magazine under his arm. The old lady was still dozing. “I’m so comfortable,” Miss Rower said, “I hate to move.”

  The mother woke up and shook hands with Mr. Flaherty. Miss Rower got up to say good-bye charmingly.

  Halfway down the path Mr. Flaherty turned. She was standing in the doorway, partly shadowed by the tall trees, bright moonlight filtering through leaves touching soft lines on her face and dark hair.