Peter laughed. What did Mrs Toynbee’s vindictiveness matter to him, bound for the luring mysteries of untrod Amazon jungles? He drifted off into a reverie over them, while the two Sams smoked their pipes and reflected, each according to his bent.
VIII
“Little” Sam Dark — who was six-feet-two — and “Big” Sam Dark — who was five-feet-one — were first cousins. “Big” Sam was six years the elder, and the adjective that had been appropriate in childhood stuck to him, as things stick in Rose River and Little Friday Cove, all his life. The two Sams were old sailors and longshore fishermen, and they had lived together for thirty years in Little Sam’s little house that clung like a limpet to the red “cape” at Little Friday Cove. Big Sam had been born a bachelor. Little Sam was a widower. His marriage was so far in the dim past that Big Sam had almost forgiven him for it, though he occasionally cast it up to him in the frequent quarrels by which they enlivened what might otherwise have been the rather monotonous life of retired sea-folk.
They were not, and never had been, beautiful, though that fact worried them little. Big Sam had a face that was actually broader than it was long and a flaming red beard — a rare thing among the Darks, who generally lived up to their name. He had never been able to learn how to cook, but he was a good washer and mender. He could also knit socks and write poetry. Big Sam quite fancied himself as a poet. He had written an epic which he was fond of declaiming in a surprisingly great voice for his thin body. Drowned John himself could hardly bellow louder. When he was low in his mind he felt that he had missed his calling and that nobody understood him. Also that nearly everybody in the world was going to be damned.
“I should have been a poet,” he would say mournfully to his orange-hued cat — whose name was Mustard. The cat always agreed with him, but Little Sam sometimes snorted contemptuously. If he had a vanity it was in the elaborate anchors tattooed on the back of his hands. He considered them far more tasty and much more in keeping with the sea than Drowned John’s snake. He had always been a Liberal in politics and had Sir Wilfrid Laurier’s picture hanging over his bed. Sir Wilfrid was dead and gone, but in Big Sam’s opinion no modern leader could fill his shoes. Premiers and would-be premiers, like everything else, were degenerating. He thought Little Friday Cove the most desirable spot on earth and resented any insinuation to the contrary.
“I like to have the sea, ‘the blue lone sea,’ at my very doorstep like this,” he boomed to the “writing man” who was living in a rented summer cottage at the cove and had asked if they never found Little Friday lonesome.
“Jest part of his poetical nature,” Little Sam had explained aside, so that the writing man should not think that Big Sam had rats in his garret. Little Sam lived in secret fear — and Big Sam in secret hope — that the writing man would “put them in a book.”
By the side of the wizened Big Sam Little Sam looked enormous. His freckled face was literally half forehead and a network of large, purplish-red veins over nose and cheeks looked like some monstrous spider. He wore a great drooping moustache like a horse-shoe that did not seem to belong to his face at all. But he was a genial soul and enjoyed his own good cooking, especially his famous pea soups and clam chowders. His political idol was Sir John Macdonald, whose picture hung over the clock shelf, and he had been heard to say — not in Big Sam’s hearing — that he admired weemen in the abstract. He had a harmless hobby of collecting skulls from the old Indian graveyard down at Big Friday Cove and ornamenting the fence of his potato plot with them. He and Big Sam quarrelled about it every time he brought a new skull home. Big Sam declared it was indecent and unnatural and unchristian. But the skulls remained on the poles.
Little Sam was not, however, always inconsiderate of Big Sam’s feelings. He had once worn large, round, gold earrings in his ears, but he had given up wearing them because Big Sam was a fundamentalist and didn’t think they were Presbyterian ornaments.
Both Big and Little Sam had only an academic interest in the old Dark jug. Their cousinship was too far off to give them any claim on it. But they never missed attending any clan gathering. Big Sam might get material for a poem out of it and Little Sam might see a pretty girl or two. He was reflecting now that Gay Penhallow had got to be a regular little beauty and that Thora Dark was by way of being a fine armful. And there was something about Donna Dark — something confoundly seductive. William Y.’s Sara was undeniably handsome, but she was a trained nurse and Little Sam always felt that she knew too much about her own and other people’s insides to be really charming. As for Mrs Alpheus Penhallow’s Nan, about whom there had been so much talk, Little Sam gravely decided that she was “too jazzy.”
But Joscelyn Dark, now. She had always been a looker. What the divvle could have come between her and Hugh? Little Sam thought “divvle” was far less profane than “devil” — softer like. For an old sea-dog Little Sam was fussy about his language.
Oswald Dark had been standing at the far end of the veranda, his large, agate-grey, expressionless eyes fixed on the sky and the golden edge of the world that was the valley of Bay Silver. He wore, as usual, a long black linen coat reaching to his feet and, as usual, he was bareheaded. His long brown hair, in which there was not a white thread, parted in the middle, was as wavy as a woman’s. His cheeks were hollow but his face was strangely unlined. The Darks and Penhallows were as ashamed of him as they had once been proud. In his youth Oswald Dark had been a brilliant student, with the ministry in view. Nobody knew why he “went off.” Some hinted at an unhappy love affair; some maintained it was simply overwork. A few shook their heads over the fact that Oswald’s grandmother had been an outsider — a Moorland from down east. Who knew what sinister strain she might have brought into the pure Dark and Penhallow blood?
Whatever the reason, Oswald Dark was now considered a harmless lunatic. He wandered at will over the pleasant red roads of the Island, and on moonlight nights sang happily as he strode along, with an occasional genuflection to the moon. On moonless nights he was bitterly unhappy and wept to himself in woods and remote corners. When he grew hungry he would call in at the first house, knock thunderingly on the door as if it had no right to be shut, and demand food regally. As everybody knew him he always got it, and no house was shut to him in the cold of a winter night. Sometimes he would disappear from human ken for weeks at a time. But, as William Y. said, he had an uncanny instinct for clan pow-wows of any sort and invariably turned up at them, though he could seldom be persuaded to enter the house where they were being held. As a rule he took no notice of people he met in his wanderings — except to scowl darkly at them when they demanded jocularly, “How’s the moon?” — but he never passed Joscelyn Dark without smiling at her — a strange eerie smile — and once he had spoken to her.
“You are seeking the moon, too. I know it. And you’re unhappy because you can’t get it. But it’s better to want the moon, even if you can’t get it — the beautiful silvery remote Lady Moon — as unattainable as things of perfect beauty ever are — than to want and get anything else. Nobody knows that but you and me. It’s a wonderful secret, isn’t it? Nothing else matters.”
IX
The folks in the parlour were getting a bit restless. What — the devil or the mischief — according to sex — was keeping Ambrosine Winkworth so long getting the jug? Aunt Becky lay impassive, gazing immovably at a plaster decoration on the ceiling which, Stanton Grundy reflected, looked exactly like a sore. Drowned John nearly blew the roof off with one of his famous sneezes and half the women jumped nervously. Uncle Pippin absent-mindedly began to hum Nearer My God to Thee, but was squelched by a glare from William Y. Oswald Dark suddenly came to the open window and looked in at these foolish and distracted people.
“Satan has just passed the door,” he said in his intense dramatic fashion.
“What a blessing he didn’t come in,” said Uncle Pippin imperturbably. But Rachel Penhallow was disturbed. It had seemed so real when the Moon Man said it. She wished
Uncle Pippin would not be so flippant and jocose. Every one again wondered why Ambrosine didn’t come in with the jug. Had she taken a weak spell? Couldn’t she find it? Had she dropped and broken it on the garret floor?
Then Ambrosine entered, like a priestess bearing a chalice. She placed the jug on the little round table between the two rooms. A sigh of relieved tension went over the assemblage, succeeded by an almost painful stillness. Ambrosine went back and sat down at Aunt Becky’s right hand. Miss Jackson was sitting on the left.
“Good gosh,” whispered Stanton Grundy to Uncle Pippin, “did you ever see three such ugly women living together in your life?”
That night at three o’clock Uncle Pippin woke up and thought of a marvellous retort he might have made to Stanton Grundy. But at the time he could think of absolutely nothing to say. So he turned his back on Stanton and gazed at the jug, as every one else was doing — some covetously, a few indifferently, all with the interest natural to this exhibition of an old family heirloom they had been hearing about all their lives and had had few and far between opportunities of seeing.
Nobody thought the jug very beautiful in itself. Taste must have changed notably in a hundred years if anybody had ever thought it beautiful. Yet it was undoubtedly a delectable thing, with its history and its legend, and even Tempest Dark leaned forward to get a better view of it. A thing like that, he reflected, deserved a certain reverence because it was the symbol of a love it had outlasted on earth and so had a sacredness of its own.
It was an enormous, pot-bellied thing of a type that had been popular in pre-Victorian days. George the Fourth had been king when the old Dark jug came into being. Half its nose was gone and a violent crack extended around its middle. The decorations consisted of pink-gilt scrolls, green and brown leaves and red and blue roses. On one side was a picture of two convivial tars, backed with the British Ensign and the Union Jack, who had evidently been imbibing deeply of the cup which cheers and inebriates, and who were expressing the feelings of their inmost hearts in singing the verse printed above them:
Thus smiling at peril at sea or on shore
We’ll box the old compass right cheerly,
Pass the grog, boys, about, with a song or two more,
Then we’ll drink to the girls we love dearly.
On the opposite side the designer of the jug, whose strong point had not been spelling, had filled in the vacant place with a pathetic verse from Byron:
The man is doomed to sail
With the blast of the gale
Through billows attalantic to steer.
As he bends o’er the wave
Which may soon be his grave
He remembers his home with a tear.
Rachel Penhallow felt a tear start to her eyes and roll down her long face as she read it. It had been, she thought mournfully, so sadly prophetic.
In the middle of the jug, below its broken nose, was a name and date. Harriet Dark, Aldboro, 1826, surrounded by a wreath of pink and green tied with a true-lover’s knot. The jug was full of old pot-pourri and the room was instantly filled with its faint fragrance — a delicate spicy smell, old-maidishly sweet, virginally elusive, yet with such penetrating, fleeting suggestions of warm passion and torrid emotions. Everybody in the room suddenly felt its influence. For one infinitesimal moment Joscelyn and Hugh looked at each other — Margaret Penhallow was young again — Virginia put her hand over Donna’s in a convulsive grasp — Thora Dark moved restlessly — and a strange expression flickered over Lawson Dark’s face. Uncle Pippin caught it as it vanished and felt his scalp crinkle. For just a second, he thought Lawson was remembering.
Even Drowned John found himself recalling how pretty and flower-like Jennie had been when he married her. What a hell of a pity one couldn’t stay always young.
Every one present knew the romantic story of the old Dark jug. Harriet Dark, who had been sleeping for one hundred years in a quaint English churchyard, had been a slim fair creature with faint rose cheeks and big grey eyes, in 1826, with a gallant sea-captain for a lover. And this lover, on what proved to be his last voyage, had sailed to Amsterdam and there had caused to be made the jug of scroll and verse and true-lover’s knot for a birthday gift to his Harriet, it being the fashion of the time to give the lady of your heart such a robust and capacious jug. Alas for true loves and true lovers! On the voyage home the Captain was drowned. The jug was sent to the broken-hearted Harriet. Hearts did break a hundred years ago, it is said. A year later Harriet, her spring of love so suddenly turned to autumn, was buried in the Aldboro churchyard and the jug passed into the keeping of her sister, Sarah Dark, who had married her cousin, Robert Penhallow. Sarah, being perhaps of a practical and unromantic turn of mind, used the jug to hold the black currant jam for the concoction of which she was noted. Six years later, when Robert Penhallow decided to emigrate to Canada, his wife carried the jug with her, full of black currant jam. The voyage was long and stormy; the currant jam was all eaten; and the jug was broken by some mischance into three large pieces. But Sarah Penhallow was a resourceful woman. When she was finally settled in her new home, she took the jug and mended it carefully with white lead. It was done thoroughly and lastingly but not exactly artistically. Sarah smeared the white lead rather lavishly over the cracks, pressing it down with her capable thumb. And in a good light to this very day the lines of Sarah Penhallow’s thumb could be clearly seen in the hardened spats of white lead.
Thereafter for years Sarah Penhallow kept the jug in her dairy, filled with cream skimmed from her broad, golden-brown, earthenware milk-pans. On her death-bed she had given it to her daughter Rachel, who had married Thomas Dark. Rachel Dark left it to her son Theodore. By this time it had been advanced to the dignity of an heirloom and was no longer degraded to menial uses. Aunt Becky kept it in her china cabinet, and it was passed around and its story told at all clan gatherings. It was said a collector had offered Aunt Becky a fabulous sum for it. But no Dark or Penhallow would ever have dreamed of selling such a household god. Absolutely it must remain in the family. To whom would Aunt Becky give it? This was the question every one in the room was silently asking; Aunt Becky alone knew the answer and she did not mean to be in any hurry to give it. This was her last levee; she had much to do and still more to say before she came to the question of the jug at all. She was going to take her time about it and enjoy it. She knew perfectly well that what she was going to do would set everybody by the ears, but all she regretted was that she would not be alive to see the sport. Look at all those female animals with their eyes popping out at the jug! Aunt Becky began to laugh and laughed until her bed shook.
“I think,” she said, finally, wiping the tears of mirth from her eyes, “that a solemn assembly like this should be opened with prayer.”
This was by way of being a bombshell. Who but Aunt Becky would have thought of such a thing? Everybody looked at each other and then at David Dark, who was the only man in the clan who was known to have a gift of prayer. David Dark was usually very ready to lead in prayer, but he was not prepared for this.
“David,” said Aunt Becky inexorably. “I’m sorry to say this clan haven’t the reputation of wearing their knees out praying. I shall have to ask you to do the proper thing.”
His wife looked at him appealingly. She was very proud because her husband could make such fine prayers. She forgave him all else for it, even the fact that he made all his family go to bed early to save kerosene and had a dreadful habit of licking his fingers after eating tarts. David’s prayers were her only claim to distinction, and she was afraid he was going to refuse now.
David, poor wretch, had no intention of refusing, much as he disliked the prospect. To do so would offend Aunt Becky and lose him all chance of the jug. He cleared his throat and rose to his feet. Everybody bowed. Outside the two Sams, realizing what was going on as David’s sonorous voice floated out to them, took their pipes out of their mouths. David’s prayer was not up to his best, as his wife admitted to hers
elf, but it was an eloquent and appropriate petition and David felt himself badly used when after his “Amen” Aunt Becky said:
“Giving God information isn’t praying, David. It’s just as well to leave something to His imagination, you know. But I suppose you did your best. Thank you. By the way, do you remember the time, forty years ago, when you put Aaron Dark’s old ram in the church basement?”
David looked silly and Mrs David was indignant. Aunt Becky certainly had a vile habit of referring in company to whatever incident in your life you were most anxious to forget. But she was like that. And you couldn’t resent it if you wanted the jug. The David Darks managed a feeble smile.
“Noel,” thought Gay, “is leaving the bank now.”
“I wonder,” said Aunt Becky reflectively, “who was the first man who ever prayed. And what he prayed for. And how many prayers have been uttered since then.”
“And how many have been answered,” said Naomi Dark, speaking bitterly and suddenly for the first time.
“Perhaps William Y. could throw some light on that,” chuckled Uncle Pippin maliciously. “I understand he keeps a systematic record of all his prayers, which are answered and which ain’t. How about it, William Y.?”
“It averages up about fifty-fifty,” said William Y. solemnly, not understanding at all why some were giggling. “I am bound to say, though,” he added, “that some of the answers were — peculiar.”
As for Ambrosine Winkworth, David had made an enemy for life of her because he had referred to her as “Thine aged handmaiden.” Ambrosine shot a venomous glance at David.
“Aged — aged,” she muttered rebelliously. “Why, I’m only seventy-two — not so old as all that — not so old.”
“Hush, Ambrosine,” said Aunt Becky authoritatively. “It’s a long time since you were young. Put another cushion under my head. Thanks. I’m going to have the fun of reading my own will. And I’ve had the fun of writing my own obituary. It’s going to be printed just as I’ve written it, too. Camilla has sworn to see to that. Good Lord, the obituaries I’ve read! Listen to mine.”
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 485
