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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f57f44 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text +*.htm text +*.html text +*.png binary +*.jpg binary +*.svg text +*.pdf binary +*.bmp binary +*.zip binary +*.midi binary +*.mp3 binary diff --git a/79252-0.txt b/79252-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f4b9bf9 --- /dev/null +++ b/79252-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2798 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79252 *** + + + + +DOORWAYS IN DRUMORTY + + + + + DOORWAYS + IN DRUMORTY + + _By_ + LORNA MOON + + [Illustration] + + INDIANAPOLIS + THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY + PUBLISHERS + + COPYRIGHT, 1921, 1922, 1924, 1925 + BY THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY + + _Printed in the United States of America_ + + PRESS OF + BRAUNWORTH & CO + BOOK MANUFACTURERS + BROOKLYN, N. Y. + + + + +_To My Dad_ + +_This, His Wee Nottie’s First Book_ + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + THE CORP’ 11 + + SILK BOTH SIDES 27 + + THE SINNING OF JESSIE MACLEAN 41 + + WANTIN’ A HAND 65 + + THE TATTIE-DOOLIE 79 + + THE COURTIN’ OF SALLY ANN 115 + + + + +DOORWAYS IN DRUMORTY + + + + +THE CORP’ + + + + +_THE CORP’_ + + +By shutting the door to within three inches of the jamb, and moving her +chair nearer the cat’s hassock by the fire, old Kirsty could see Mistress +MacNab’s door and watch the mourners come and go. + +She had been sitting there for three days, secretly watching, her dismay +growing with every hour as she realized that it was possible that +Mistress MacNab could carry her rage about the butter prize to the extent +of not bidding her to see the corpse. + +When Mistress MacKenty brought the startling news on Sunday evening that +“Sandy MacNab had choked on a cold potato and hiccoughed himself to +death,” Kirsty had had a momentary qualm of doubt. She wished she hadn’t +openly scoffed at Mistress MacNab’s butter and flaunted her own first +prize on the way back from the show. It was “an unwise-like thing to do +with death so sure and life so uncertain; but who would expect a braw man +like Sandy MacNab to choke to death on a potato?” + +“And besides,” she reflected, “Mistress MacNab, be she as angry as she +may, would never bury Sandy without all the honor that was due him.” And +who in all Drumorty would think of being buried without Kirsty Fraser to +cry as the lid was screwed down? Had she no’ cried at every funeral for +forty-five years? And was it no’ part and parcel of the ceremony for her +to have a fit when the body was carried out? And was it no’ true that the +laddies of the village hung round the house of sorrow waiting for the +chance to run for the doctor to bring her round? + +She recalled the first time. What a day that had been! Never would she +forget looking into the coffin of Maggie Sclessor and seeing her lying +there so satisfied-like with the best-looking mutch[1] in Drumorty on +her head. Never would she forget the rage that had filled her at the +sight. For who would have expected Maggie Sclessor, poor as she was, to +have a hand-made lace mutch laid away to be buried in and never to say a +word about it? She had cried with envy, but the neighbors thought it was +with grief, and they had turned their attention from Maggie and her braw +mutch to Kirsty as her sobs grew louder; and when the doctor averred that +Kirsty had been “on the very verge o’ a fit,” they screwed the lid down +on Maggie without further to-do. + +And as they carried the body out, Kirsty reflected with satisfaction, +“Weel, she had a fine mutch, but wha will think o’ that noo?” + +And then, with each succeeding funeral, she had added to her laurels; +having once tasted the joy of stealing the attention from the corpse, +she could not forego the excitement and the commiseration and the secret +gratitude of the mourners. Her “fits” grew more and more masterly, until +the neighbors argued boastfully: + +“I’m tellin’ ye, when my man died, she had the worst fit she ever had.” +And the answer, as positive, would be: + +“Mistress MacPherson, hae I no’ got the use o’ my sight, praise be to +God? Did I no’ see her eyes roll up to heaven and her legs stiffen when +my Jeannie was carried oot?” + +Certainly, Mistress MacNab would never think of burying her man without +Kirsty’s being there, butter prize or no butter prize. Thus reassured, +Kirsty had resolved to outdo all her past efforts at the funeral of +Sandy MacNab. Always in the back of her head she had had a notion that +by biting the sides of her cheeks till they bled, and frothing the blood +upon her lips, she could give a more convincing and gruesome fit than any +she had ever given. She had saved this for some great day. And this was +the day. The world would see that Kirsty Fraser scorned to bear a grudge +in the face of death. She would treat Mistress MacNab better than if she +had been a friend. + +On Monday morning she felt so kindly toward Mistress MacNab that she was +minded to step over and say a word of comfort to her. She even thought of +offering to do the “biddin’,” although she knew full that her legs would +never stand it. + +But Mistress MacKenty came in to say that Maggie Tate was to do the +“biddin’,” and that the funeral was on Wednesday, adding meaningly, “But +there’s no need to tell ye that; ye’ll be the first to be bidden, nae +doot.” + +Her tone made Kirsty uneasy. + +At sundown, when Tammas, her son, came wearily in, she watched him wash +his face in the tin basin, and as he spluttered and blew the water,—he +never thought he was clean unless he made a noise about it,—she started +to ask if he had heard anything, but stopped, mistrusting her voice. +It would no’ do to let Tammas know that she was anxious. And should it +be that some were already bidden, Tammas would know that she had been +slighted, being left to the last. + +On Tuesday the coffin was brought home. Jimmy Tocher tripped on the step +as they carried it in, and it banged against the door. Kirsty could hear +Mistress MacNab raking them up-hill and down-dale for their fecklessness, +and she wanted to join them and see for herself if they had dented the +mountings, but she couldn’t make the first advance. + +At dusk she saw Maggie Tate on her rounds doing the bidding. She cried in +at Jessie MacLean’s and then went on to Mistress MacKenty’s. “She’ll be +here inside ten minutes,” Kirsty reflected, and rose to put the kettle +on, so that she could make her a cup of tea. “It’s unco thirsty work, +biddin’ to funerals.” + +It was getting too dark to see. The kettle boiled dry, and she pulled +it forward on the crane. “Mistress MacKenty is talking her stone-blind. +She’ll never get here to-night,” she decided, but she couldn’t give up +watching. + +Tammas came home. He had heard something, and was uneasy in his mind. +Kirsty could tell, because he was whistling _The Lass o’ Ballochmyle_ +between his teeth, which was a sign. And forby that, he said the _long_ +grace before supper, and he said it slowly, as she always had begged him +to. He was trying to be kind to her; he even blew the smoke from his pipe +up the chimney instead of out across the room. It was unnatural-like, and +Kirsty knew that his behavior meant that he was sure that she would not +be bidden to see the corpse. She resented his giving up hope before she +did. He had never valued her fits. On occasions he had even advised her +to bide away if funerals made her take on so. He was like his father, +that he was. He was reliable-like, but he was dull. All the Frasers were +dull. Why could he no’ speak up and say, “Ye’ll no’ be bidden to see the +corp’, and I’m glad o’ ’t,” if that was what he was thinking? She’d give +him just a minute more; then she’d ask him outright. + +“Mither.” She looked at him as he spoke. To avoid her eyes, he bent down, +and used the heel of his boot to press the tobacco into the bowl of his +pipe. + +“Weel?” she prompted, and there was an edge on her voice. + +“I’m thinkin’ o’ drivin’ up to Skilly’s the morn ti borrow their rake. +Would ye like to go wi’ me?” + +So he believed she wouldn’t be bidden, and he was trying to save her +face. He little knew. _He_ had never set store by her fits, but others +had. Mistress MacNab might wait till the last to bid her, as was natural; +she’d do the same herself, but bid her she would, as Kirsty knew well. So +she answered tartly: + +“I’m thinkin’ yer losing the wee bit o’ sense ye were born wi’, Tammas. +The morn’s Sandy MacNab’s funeral.” + +Tammas reddened guiltily. + +“Oh, aye,” he murmured. “I had forgotten, mither.” + +And now this was the day of the funeral. Through the small space between +the jamb and the door Kirsty could see Mistress MacPherson knocking for +admission to the house of sorrow. She had a small parcel in her hand, +which she held gingerly upright. + +“A jar o’ calf’s-foot jelly, nae doot,” Kirsty informed Tammas as she +called his attention to it. “That’s the tenth parcel since ten o’clock. +Mistress MacNab will no’ need ti buy a bite o’ food for a fortnight.” She +said this exultantly. Funerals were Kirsty’s art, and she liked them to +be successful. “Tammas, keep out from between me an’ the door. I can no’ +see through ye.” + +Tammas had made another attempt to shut the door in a yearning desire to +spare her. Manlike, he could not understand why she tortured herself by +looking on. He had seen her put on her black mutch in readiness, and his +heart was sick for her. He wondered why she could not give up hope. He +paced the floor silently, stopping every now and then to do some kindly +useless thing; and she, knowing what prompted him, would snap at him +furiously. + +The minister came. Kirsty sat rigidly forward in her chair as he was +admitted and the door closed after him. Tammas stopped pacing. He didn’t +know what to do with his hands. He tried them in his pockets, and then +took them out again, hanging them limply by his sides. + +From over the street came the singing. Kirsty picked nervously at the +crochet edging on her knitted wristlets. She half turned to look at +Tammas, and her voice quavered: + +“They’re no’ to bid me, Tammas.” But as Mistress MacNab’s door opened and +Skilly’s lad came running out, Kirsty rose to her feet, eager and joyous. +“Aye, they’re sendin’ for me _noo_.” She started toward the door. But the +laddie ran past. Tammas helped her back to her chair. Then, for a Fraser, +he rose to great heights. + +“I’m sorry for them, mither,” he said. “It will be feckless[2]-like +funeral without a fit at it.” + +She sat up at the thought, grasping at it eagerly. + +“Aye, will it no’, Tammas? Will it no’?” she cried gratefully. + +Then, turning it over in her mind, she found it sweet with comfort, and +she chuckled while the tears were still wet upon her face. + +“They’ll value my fits more than ever noo, Tammas. Puir Sandy MacNab!” + +She nursed the thought joyously. She was sorry that it had happened to +Sandy MacNab, for he had been a good man, and deserving of honor; but she +was glad that Mistress MacNab must share the humility. + +“She’s cuttin’ off her nose ti spite her face, puir body! I could feel it +in my heart ti pity her, Tammas.” + +Fully recovered in spirit, she got up lightsomely, and began to unfasten +the strings of her mutch. + +“We’ll shut the door on the rest o’ ’t, Tammas,” she said, and was moving +toward it when Mistress MacKenty came breathlessly in. She was burning +with news to tell, and greedy to see its effect. + +“Mistress MacNab is havin’ a fit, an’ Skilly’s laddie has gone for the +doctor,” she cried. + +“A fit!” Kirsty screamed the words in a hysteria of unbelief. “What would +_she_ be knowing of a fit, she that has never had one?” + +Gloating with the joy of telling it, for she had always envied Kirsty +her fits, Mistress MacKenty’s voice swelled with gratification as she +answered: + +“Such a fit as I have never seen. Her eyes are rollin’ to heaven, and the +blood is frothin’ on her lips.” + +At that Kirsty’s knees began to tremble beneath her. She put out a +wavering hand and gripped Tammas by the sleeve, striving to keep upright +and face Mistress MacKenty, who continued maliciously: + +“Drumorty will never forget this fit. I’ll mind on ’t mysel’ if I ever +hae a corp’.” + +And Kirsty Fraser knew that her glory was gone. Another had stolen the +chief jewel of her crown. There would be none in all Drumorty who would +do her homage again. + +But not before Mistress MacKenty would she bow her head. She took her +hand from Tammas’ sleeve and stood alone, and nothing in her voice as she +spoke told Mistress MacKenty that her pride lay stricken. + +“Gie her the ammonia bottle to take over, Tammas. I hae had slight fits +mysel’, an’ I ken ammonia’s good.” + +And Mistress MacKenty wondered at this heroic thing that made Kirsty +Fraser disclaim the glory of her fits and hand her laurels to another. +She stood shamed before it, and she hung her head and crept away, unable +longer to look Kirsty Fraser in the face. + +Kirsty stood till she had gone; then her hand went feeling blindly for +her chair. She cupped one hand helplessly in the other as she sat. The +string of her black mutch hung down like a weary pendulum that had +wagged its hour. As Tammas knelt by her, dumbly anxious to comfort, she +whispered: + +“Think ye she knows I care, Tammas?” + +“Niver, mither. I would no’ have known it mysel’.” + +Assured of that, she let the tears steal down her wrinkled cheeks. Her +hands trembled together helplessly in her lap. Tammas reached out and +held them firmly in his, and they sat there silently together. + +Her thoughts went seeking comfort everywhere, but found none. With every +funeral her pride would die a little more; with every funeral Mistress +MacNab would reap a greater triumph. None would think of Kirsty’s fits +except to say how poor they were, and how great were the fits of Mistress +MacNab. And so until the end. + +“O Tammas,” she cried, “when I am dead and lying helpless, ye’ll no’ let +that Mistress MacNab have fits at my funeral! Promise me that, Tammas!” + + + + +SILK BOTH SIDES + + + + +_SILK BOTH SIDES_ + + +“—And two and a half yards o’ four inch black satin ribbon.” + +Jessie MacLean added this last fatal item with an upward jerk of her head +lest Mistress MacKenty, at the other side of the counter, should think +she was ashamed of her purchase. But Mistress MacKenty had a nose for +news rather than an instinct for tragedy, and by the suppressed eagerness +in her voice as she asked, “And ye’ll want it silk on both sides I’ll +warrant?” you could see that she was already half-way down the road to +the smithy to spread the news that: “Jessie MacLean had lost heart and +would be out in a bonnet in the morn, so help her Davey.” + +“Aye, silk both sides,” Jessie answered, letting her eyes range the +shelves carelessly to prove that there was nothing momentous in her +buying bonnet strings. + +Silk both sides proved it! A satin-faced ribbon might have many uses, but +silk both sides was a bonnet string by all the laws of millinery known to +Drumorty. + +Telling about it five minutes later, Mistress MacKenty said, “I might +hae been wrang when she bought the silk geraniums, and I may hae been +over-hasty when she said ‘half a yard o’ black lace’—but silk both sides +is as good as swearing it on the Bible.” + +In Drumorty, a bonnet with strings tied below the chin means that youth +is over. About the time the second baby is born, the good wife abandons +her hat—forever—and appears in a bonnet with ties. She may be any age +from eighteen to twenty-five; for matrimony, and motherhood, and age, +come early in Drumorty. The spinster clings longer to her hat, for while +she wears it, any bachelor may take heart and “speer”[3] her; and if she +be “keeping company” she may cling to her hat until she be thirty “and a +bittock”; but after that—if she would hold the respect of her community, +she must cease to “gallivant” about “wi’ a hat” and dress like a decent +woman, in a bonnet with ties. + +And Jessie MacLean was six and thirty as Baldie Tocher could tell you, +for did he no’ have the pleasure of burying the exciseman the very +morning that Jessie first saw the light of day, and was it no’ the very +next year that Nancy MacFarland’s cow got mired in the moss? + +Drumorty had been very lenient with her. Many a good wife thought it was +high time that Jessie laid aside her hat, but always she held her peace, +remembering her bridal gown and the care with which Jessie had made it, +for Jessie was the village seamstress, and it was a secret, whispered, +that she charged only half price for making wedding gowns, because she +liked to make them so much. + +Another reason for their lenience was Jock Sclessor. For fifteen years +Jock had “kept company” with her; not one Sunday morning had he missed +“crying by” for Jessie to go to morning service. He would come round the +bend of the road from Skilly’s farm just as the sexton gave the bell that +first introductory ring which meant “bide a wee till I get her goin’ full +swing and then bide at hame frae the kirk if ye dare”; and Jessie would +come out of her door and mince down the sanded walk between the rows of +boxwood to the gate, and affect surprise at seeing Jock just as if she +had not been watching for him behind her window curtain this past five +minutes. + +Jock was the cotter[4] on Skilly’s farm. Every year he intended to +“speer” Jessie when thrashing was over. Tammas, his dog, will tell you +how many times he had been on the very point of asking her the very next +day, but—always the question of adding another room came up and not for +the life of him could he decide whether to level the rowan tree and build +it on the east—or to move the peats and build it on the west; and by the +time he had made up his mind to cart the peats down behind the byre and +build it on the west, lambing was round again and he let it go by for +another year. + +And every year Jessie was in a flutter as thrashing was nearing the +finish. One year she had been so sure that he would “speer” her that she +bought a new scraper; for Jock could make your very heart stand still, he +was that careless about scraping the mud off his boots. Often when she +was alone, she would practise ways of telling Jock that he must clean +his boots before he came in: “Good man, hae ye forgotten the scraper?” +was abandoned because it wasn’t strictly honest, for Jessie knew full +well that he always forgot the scraper. “Gang back and clean your feet,” +was set aside also, because it was too commanding and “Dinna forget the +scraper” was also discarded because it isn’t good to nag a man before he +has set foot in the door. But none of the expressions had been tried out +yet—for when Jock dropped in with her, after service, Jessie hurried him +by the scraper as if it might shout at him, “She expects you to speer +her!” and so put her to shame. + +But now thrashing had been over for weeks, and every Sunday since then, +she had looked for the white gowan[5] in Jock’s coat, for what swain +“worth his ears full of cold water” ever asked the question without that +emblem of courage in his buttonhole? It is a signal to the world that he +means to propose, that he is going in cold blood to do it—and forever +after his good wife can remind him of that, should he suggest that he was +inveigled into it by some female wile. + +Last Sunday, on their way to church, Jessie cleared her throat nervously +and grasped her new testament, bracing herself as she asked in a thin +voice that was much too offhand: “Would your peats no’ be better +sheltered in the lea o’ the byre?” and Jock replied: “Na, they are better +where they are.” + +And so a hope, nourished fifteen years, died, and through the service she +sat gazing straight ahead, with her eyes wide open, for the wider eyes +are open, the more tears they can hold without spilling over. And next +Saturday she bought black satin ribbon “silk both sides” and the world, +meaning Drumorty, knew that Jessie’s tombstone would not read “Beloved +wife of ——”. + +In Jessie’s cottage the blinds were drawn on Saturday evening, and you +who have suffered will not ask me to pull them aside and show you how a +faded spinster looks when she weeps; nor how her fingers tremble when she +sews upon bonnet strings; but let me tell you how bravely she stepped out +next morning wearing her bonnet, with never a look through the curtain +to see if Jock was on his way, nor a glance to see if the neighbors were +watching. Her step was just as firm upon the sanded path, and her head +just as high; perhaps she grasped her testament more tightly than usual, +but what soul on the rack would not do that? + +Jock came round the bend as she reached the gate. She clung to the latch +to keep herself from tearing the bonnet from her head. Oh, Fate, that +sits high and laughs, have you the heart to laugh now? Jock was wearing +a white gowan. It was just a dozen steps or so back to the house, and a +hat, and happiness; but the world knew that she had bought bonnet strings +and was that not Mistress MacKenty watching from behind her curtain? Go +forward, Jessie—there is no turning back, and go proudly! Open the latch +and answer his “guid morning” and smile—and don’t, don’t, let your hands +tremble so, or he will surely guess! + +Look your fill from behind the curtain, Mistress MacKenty! You can not +see a heartache when it is hidden by a black alpaca gown and when the +heart belongs to Jessie MacLean! + +Jock Sclessor, your one chance of happiness is now! Lead her back into +the house and take the bonnet from her head! No, laggard and fool that +you are, you are wondering if she has noticed the gowan! Has she not! +She has watched for it for fifteen years! Speak, you fool! Don’t keep +staring at her bonnet! You dullard, Jessie must come to your rescue, and +she does, “Is the sexton no’ late this morning?” Jessie turned out of the +gate as she spoke, snapping the latch with the right amount of care. + +“Aye, later than usual,” Jock agreed. (The sexton was never late in his +life, and at that moment the bell rang out to give Jock the lie.) But +Jock was so dazed, he would have agreed if she had said, “Let us choke +the minister.” + +As they walked to the church, he meditated, “Evidently she never expected +me to speer her, and she’s never so much as glimpsed the gowan. I’ll slip +it out when we kneel in the kirk. But maybe I better sound her out first. +It’s gey[6] and lonesome for a man biding by himself.” + +They were just turning round by the town hall where the rowan trees are +red, when he said, “I had been thinkin’ o’ levelin’ my rowan tree.” +Jessie’s heart thumped. Here it came! (That was why he wouldn’t move the +peats.) But she wouldn’t help him a foot of the road—she had waited too +long—he must come every step himself. + +“Oh, that would be a pity—it’s a bonnie tree,” she answered. + +Not much help here, but he would try again. “I was thinking o’ building.” + +“Building? My certies! What could ye be building so near the house?” this +with some malice for all the fifteen long years. But you have gone too +far, Jessie; he needs help. + +“I—oh—I thought I’d build a shed for peats.” + +Thud! That was Jessie’s heart you heard and that queer thin voice is +Jessie’s, saying, “I thought—ye were minded to leave the peats the other +side o’ the house.” + +“Aye, I am minded to leave them there—but a body canna hae too many +peats.” + +And as they knelt in kirk, he slipped the gowan out—and Jessie did not +need to widen her eyes to hold the tears this time. That sorrow was past, +she would never weep over it again. + +At home, she brewed her tea, looking round at her rag rugs and white +tidies with pleasure. The tidy on the big chair was as white and smooth +as when she pinned it there in the morning, and there was no mud to be +carefully washed off the rug by the door. There was a certain contentment +in knowing that it would never be; a certain exhilaration in knowing that +next Sunday she could not be disappointed, because next Sunday she would +not hope. She sipped her tea peacefully and smiled at the bonnet sitting +so restful-like on the dresser, and at the tidy on the big chair so +spotless and smooth, and thought, “Jock Sclessor would have been a mussy +man to have about a house. I’m thinkin’ his mother was over-lenient when +she brought him up.” + +And Jock, at Skilly’s, was thinking, “I wouldna had time to build it +anyway. Lambing is here—and that is too bonnie a tree to be cut down.” + + + + +THE SINNING OF JESSIE MACLEAN + + + + +_THE SINNING OF JESSIE MACLEAN_ + + +Jessie MacLean felt that their romance belonged also to her, for she +had seen their first meeting. It was on a Sunday morning after service, +and Jessie was returning from her walk along by Skilly’s wood. She was +wondering as she stepped daintily, rustling her Sunday-best alpaca +gown, if the gold chain she wore had marked her neck; and whether the +gimlet-eyed Mistress MacKenty had seen it as she sat behind her in kirk. +(Well, it wasn’t all gold, but, as Jessie protested defensively to +herself: “Pure gold’s that soft ye have ti mix it.”) + +On hot Sundays it was always a race between the sermon and the chain; +about the time the minister got to the “thirdlies” and “lastlies” Jessie +was in a fidget. She could wear the chain a bare hour and a half without +it marking if the weather was cool; but this had been a very hot Sunday. +Out of the sight of inquisitive eyes she stopped and spread her handkie +between the chain and her neck. Then she turned along Skilly’s burnside +intending to cross it at the stepping-stones; and it was here she came +upon them. So flustered was she, that she forgot the dangling handkie, +but then she might have worn ram’s horns and they would not have noticed +it. + +Gawky and shy, they were exchanging their first “It’s waurm the day” and +“What’s yer hurry” which in Drumorty may mean: “Who is this gallant youth +who stirs my bosom?” or, “Fair maid, eternity were too brief, could I but +spend it gazing in your eyes.” + +Jessie understood, and seeing their embarrassment, blushed in sympathy +and tilted her parasol between herself and them. She had meant to cross +the burn at the stepping-stones, but, her heart pleasantly aflutter with +a sense of being a sharer in a secret, she kept on down the burnside +until she was out of sight; and there she sat down and removed her shoes +and stockings before hitching her dress to her knees and wading the burn. + +Jessie’s own romance laid away in the lavender of memory, stirred again +at the thought of the two. Walking home she pondered who the lad might +be. He was a stranger in Drumorty. The lass was Bella Tocher, the kitchen +wench at Skilly’s farm; a well-favored lass, and hard working, rosy and +full-bosomed although barely sixteen. + +So engrossed was she, that she went all the way home without remembering +to remove the telltale handkie from her neck; and never gave it a +thought, until, as she was turning in at her own door, Mistress MacKenty +leaned over the gate and sweetly malicious, called, so that Jessie would +know she had seen: “Ye do weel ti guard agin’ blood-poisinin’, Jessie +lass.” + +Next Sunday Jessie did an unheard-of thing. She stayed at home from the +morning service and watched the road to Skilly’s farm to see if the +lad would come back. She had fortified herself against disappointment +by boiling dumplings in the broth. No matter how keen the edge of +disappointment, Jessie had proved that dumplings in the broth could ease +it a little. And after spending all morning at the window watching, with +a bandage bound about her neck to advertise to the curious that a sore +throat had kept her at home from the kirk, she was just about to turn to +the dumplings for solace, when he came by whistling and heading up the +road to Skilly’s. + +“My certies!” she cried, pretending to herself that she was shocked at +his ardor. “He’s back _again_, doesna gie the lassie time to draw a +lanely breath.” + +Feeling the need of some one to rejoice with her, she gave the cat a +dumpling. It sniffed it, and showed its contempt for her frivolity by +crossing to the other side of the fireplace and seating itself with its +back to her. Jessie, taking this rebuff with unusual spirit, retorted: +“You’re a persnickety old maid, there’s no’ a romantic hair on yer head.” +And to show that she wouldn’t be brow-beaten by the cat on this joyful +day, she opened the glass-door of the what-not with a loud click; and +later, ate her dumplings off the best willow-pattern china. + +Through that winter Jessie didn’t need the dumplings to fortify her. +The lad was attentive enough. She would see the two by the hayricks, or +wandering with fingers entwined by the burnside every Sunday evening. But +in the spring he stopped coming. And Bella would stand for hours watching +the empty road; while Jessie in an anguish of sympathy would watch both +the girl and the road from her corner window. + +Bella was listless and pale. There was something pathetic in the way she +made no pretense of doing anything but watching. This was intolerable to +Jessie who wanted the girl to save her pride, so when she would see a +neighbor coming, she would whisper fiercely: “Walk along as if ye were +looking for gowans, dinna let them see yer looking for the lad,” but only +the muslin curtains heard Jessie’s advice. Bella, dazed with despair, was +indifferent to gossip. + +Then it was rumored that, “Bella Tocher’s lad had gone to Edinburgh to +the soldierin’.” And after that Bella watched the road no more. + +It was Mistress MacKenty who said: “I’m thinkin’ Skilly’s will be needin’ +a new kitchen wench afore Whitsuntide; and there’s them that will learn +that nae guid ever came o’ gallivantin’ wi’ a strange lad on the Sabbath +day.” And having delivered this darkly meaning speech she pursed withered +lips with vindictive relish and refused to say more, adding only: “I +hae lassies o’ my ain, it ill becomes me to speak; but mark my words, +there’ll be an elders’ meeting in Drumorty afore many weeks.” + +Jessie understood now the pale watching face of Bella; and understood, +also, the despair that made her watch for him without pretense. “Puir wee +lass,” she whispered. “Watching for her man, and him awa’ to no’ come +back.” + +When Mistress MacKenty came in that evening to say, that: “Skilly +was sendin’ the shameless limmer packin’ the morn’s mornin’,” Jessie +furtively hid something white and small upon which she had been sewing. +She stood up while Mistress MacKenty spoke, and no line of her figure, +nor any tone of her voice, could be taken to mean that she invited +Mistress MacKenty to take a chair. + +“It’s a sore disgrace to the whole parish, and harder forby on Skilly +himsel’ and him an elder o’ the kirk.” Mistress MacKenty’s voice was +dulcet with sympathy for the poor elder. She was looking around for a +seat in which to sink and continue her lamentations, when, in the chill +silence of the usually sympathetic Jessie, she sensed something strange. +Jessie was clasping and unclasping her hands in front of her thin waist, +and her eyes were glinting. Could it be that the gentle Jessie MacLean +was fighting to keep her hands from flying in the face of Mistress +MacKenty? Mistress MacKenty must have shared that wild thought also, +for, catching sight of Jessie, she paused and backed away, suddenly +remembering that she had “a pot o’ kale on the fire,” and was gone +without even closing the door as she went. + +Jessie closed the door after her and bolted it, and drew down the blinds. +The little bit of white sewing came out from its hiding-place. Mistress +MacKenty vowed next day that Jessie’s light had burned all night but +added that she didn’t know why, because; “Jessie MacLean is _that_ +secretive her window-blinds fit all the way round.” + +All next morning Jessie sat by the window watching Skilly’s road, her +head propped wearily on her palms, a bright red spot on the wrinkled +apple of each cheek. All Drumorty was watching Skilly’s road, but _not_ +with the tender purpose that was in the heart of Jessie MacLean. Drumorty +was swollen with righteous wrath. The virtue of Drumorty was outraged; +and it was waiting to visit its saintly indignation on the head of “the +shameless limmer.”[7] Jessie shut up alone knew nothing of this. + +At noon she saw Bella coming along the road toward the village street, +a bundle with all her belongings slung on her arm. She would proceed in +little tumbling runs, then stop and sway, gather strength again, and run +a little more. Sometimes she would drop the bundle and have to get down +laboriously on one knee to pick it up. + +Then Jessie saw the thing that stilled her heart for a moment. As Bella +turned into the street, the blinds of Mistress MacPherson’s cottage +snapped down and remained, like eyelids in death. Then, down with swift +vindictiveness came the blinds of the next cottage; Bella heard, and +looked about her, as blinds on either side of her hurried down to their +righteous window-sills. She stopped and tottered feebly, then, as if +blows were showering upon her, she flung her arm across her face, and +lowered her head and ran. + +“Click” went the blind of Mistress MacKenty’s window as she passed; this +brought Jessie to her feet with blazing eyes. Rushing out, she ran along +the street after the fleeing girl, calling: “Bella—Bella Tocher.” + +Thinking she was being pursued only to be taunted, Bella gathered her +strength anew and ran faster. Sobs rose in Jessie’s throat as she saw her +reel in her efforts to get away; and she called her name again, trying +to make her voice both loud and coaxing. As Jessie caught up and touched +her arm, the girl stopped and faced her panting, a driven thing, ready to +fight if she must. + +“Come back to my house, Bella,” Jessie urged breathlessly. + +“So ye can take yer ease while ye tell me I’ve disgraced the parish o’ +Drumorty?—So ye can tell me I am justly punished for my sins?” Bella’s +voice rose in hysterical gasps, her white face twitched piteously. + +“Na, na,” urged Jessie, speaking in soothing accents. “Come so I can show +ye the wee shirts I’ve been makin’.” + +It was the tone of her voice and tears on Jessie’s cheeks, not her +words, that brought the answering sob in Bella’s throat and softened the +defensive lines of her form. + +“Come back and stay wi’ me,” Jessie’s tone was tender. + +Responding to it, the tears streamed down Bella’s face, but she shook her +head: “I winna stay an’ face the elders. I’ll walk till I drop first.” + +“Ye’ll no’—I’ll face them for ye. Come awa’,” Jessie coaxed, then in a +warning whisper: “The blinds are down; but they are peekin’ out below +them.” She put an arm round the girl and, reaching out a hand for the +bundle, said tenderly: “Yer nathing but a bairn yersel’—come.” + +Bella relinquished the bundle to Jessie’s urging hand, and, faltering +like a tired child, turned back with her along the street of drawn blinds. + + +2 + +With what terror, or with what bravery, these two met the turmoil of that +night we may not tell. Nor may we echo the brave words that a gentle +spinster used, to hearten an erring child in her hour of sore trial. +These things are written by the angels, and only mothers may read them. + +But we may look in with dawn, and see the puckered pink velvet son of +Bella Tocher as he lies on Jessie’s lap screaming, for he can not see yet +how near is Jessie’s lap to the tender heaven of her heart. But we can +see, and we are shamed to look unbidden upon the glory of a spinster’s +face, when mother-love has wakened in her breast. + + +3 + +There was defiance in Jessie’s gait as she stepped up to the entrance of +Mistress MacPherson’s byre at milking time that evening. She rattled the +two flagons she carried challengingly, and forestalled any comment from +Mistress MacPherson about the extra flagon, by saying cheerily: “I’ll +need a quart extra ilka[8] day now.” + +Her boldness had the effect of completely winding Mistress MacPherson, +who had been waiting all day for milking time so that she could “gie +Jessie MacLean a piece o’ her mind.” “Let her come creepin’ up here +askin’ for milk for that hussy—” Mistress MacPherson had finished the +implication with a grim-faced nod, as she discussed the “goin’s on” with +Mistress MacKenty that morning. + +But Jessie hadn’t “come creepin’,” and Mistress MacPherson, ready to +attack, hesitated with that confusion which comes also to a dog, when it +has got all ready to chase a cat that refuses to run. Jessie, palpitating +with victory, airily handed over the two flagons; and Mistress +MacPherson, unable to rally for the moment, took them murmuring only, +“Oh, aye.” + +But if it was a victory for Jessie, it only added to the virtuous +indignation Drumorty felt toward Bella. Had Bella been found dying in a +ditch that morning, the good women of Drumorty would have found pity for +her in their hearts. But that Bella should have faced her hour with a +roof over her head and a bed beneath her, and a kindly hand to meet her +needs; that, in the opinion of Drumorty was nothing short of “lauding the +evil-doer.” + +“Revelin’ in her sins,” “Made o’ and tended, as if she were an honest +woman,” these and other denunciations flew rife at mart and meeting as +the weeks passed, and it was reported that “Jessie MacLean was sleepin’ +on a shake-down while that limmer was lying like a queen in Jessie’s +feather bed.” But that was only hearsay, for not once did Jessie let one +of them pass the door, though many were the pretexts devised by Mistress +MacKenty to gain admission, from the borrowing of an egg which she +returned the next day (the same egg, as Jessie could prove, for did she +not mark it on purpose; for what use would Mistress MacKenty be having +for an egg three days before Sunday?) to the bringing of a bottle of +raspberry-vinegar to see if Jessie had a corkscrew that could get the +cork out. + +Bella sensed it all with sullen resentment which would show in her eyes +when the baby’s cries forced its existence more sharply upon her. She +hated her motherhood. Motherhood, that was thrust cruelly upon her while +she was still a child; motherhood, robbed of its honor and covered with +shame; motherhood and its pains, stripped of the love which makes its +agony a glory. This was the motherhood Bella knew, and her heart was +bitter against it. She felt trapped. Perhaps the child, helpless in +her arms, crying to her for food, might have saved her from this, and +have roused in her girl-heart that compassion for the helpless which is +mother-love. But Jessie, all eagerness to surround Bella with comfort, +took the care of the baby upon herself; and as love for it fastened upon +her heart, Jessie could not bear to let any hand touch it but her own. +Its morning bath was a rite to be lingered over with exclamations of +wonder and delight. If Jessie noticed at all that Bella did not share +her ecstasy she didn’t think it strange; for Jessie had quickly ceased +to think of Bella as the baby’s mother. Her feeling for Bella was in a +smaller measure the same feeling she had for the baby. She felt herself +mother to both of them. So while Jessie’s heart was greatened and stirred +by her care of these two, Bella, robbed of the saving outlet of service, +became daily more morose. The memory of the drawn blinds seared her; and +she knew that the day would come soon when she must face Drumorty again. +She felt little gratitude toward Jessie, and just a cool wonder that a +good woman could also be kind. + +The baby was about six weeks old, when Jessie came in one day with +heightened color, and her step brisk with excitement. She opened her hand +to disclose three gold sovereigns and a half-sovereign. + +“Three pounds ten, Bella; the gentry at the big hoose hae paid their +sewing bill.” Then turning swiftly to the baby she cried crooningly: +“Jessie’s wee lamb will no’ need ti sleep in the clothes-basket noo; it’s +a pram an’ a cradle he’ll be havin’.” + +Jessie dropped the money into the toby-mug on the mantel and was +preparing to gather the baby up from the clothes-basket when she heard +a step on the path outside. She glanced through the window, then dodged +back with the warning whisper: “It’s Skilly!” + +Like a flash she clapped on her bonnet, and seized a basket and was +stepping sedately out at the door just as Skilly raised his hand to knock +upon it. + +“My certies, Skilly,” exclaimed Jessie, shutting the door carefully +behind her as she stopped facing him on the step. “Wha wid expect _you_ +to be visitin’ this time o’ day?” + +“I hae come ti see Bella Tocher,” said Skilly, looking suggestively at +the closed door before which Jessie stood like a sentinel. + +“Weel, I’m vexed for ye;” cooed Jessie. “Bella’s oot bye somewhere, an’ +I’m on my way ti the flesher’s.” + +Skilly was not deceived, and indeed Jessie didn’t expect him to be. She +smiled grimly as she caught his eye glancing searchingly at the window as +the muslin curtains moved under Bella’s touch; but she continued to stand +barring his way to the door, her arms folded militantly through the empty +basket which posed like a shield upon her breast. + +Skilly lengthened out his gangling inches to a greater assumption of +dignity, and, ignoring Jessie’s hostility with a lofty tolerance, said in +the tone he usually kept for reading the first lesson: + +“As an elder o’ the kirk it is my duty to speak wi’ Bella Tocher aboot +her misbegotten bairn; and wha we may name as the father o’ ’t.” + +“An’ it was yer godly duty as an elder, nae doot, that made ye turn her +oot to die by the roadside?” Jessie’s tone was the essence of sweetened +venom. + +But Skilly, not meaning to lose his unimpeachable superiority by bandying +words with a woman, answered calmly: + +“I hae no call to shelter a wanton and unrepentant woman; if Bella Tocher +is minded to face the elders and make admission o’ her sins——” + +“Her sins!” Jessie broke in. “It’s no’ her sins Drumorty is punishin’ her +for; it’s the evidence, Skilly. It’s the bairn. There’s them that sit +on the elders’ bench and gie judgment, that ken more o’ sin than Bella +Tocher, but they dinna get found out: their siller in the collection +plate blinds the minister.” + +This was a home thrust, and Skilly reddened under it, but he clambered +back to his official dignity by booming pontifically: + +“It behooves us to deal kindly wi’ the repentant. If Bella Tocher is +humble of spirit and contrite of heart, I will see mysel’ that her bairn +is housed in the alms-house; an’ I’ll take her back—” Then, seeing the +chance to make a bargain, Skilly dropped his oratorical tone, and added +hastily: “But mind ye, no’ at the old price; I’ll gie her half o’ ’t.” + +At that Jessie laughed grayly, and two red lights flashed battle from her +eyes. + +“Yer a sainted and godlike man, Skilly, wi’ a heart sweet wi’ charity. +Now that the lass is able to work again, ye’ll put her bairn in the +alms-house at nae cost to yersel’; and ye’ll let her carry swill to yer +pigs at half the siller ye’d have to pay anither; it’s a forgivin’ an’ +tender heart ye have—” + +Skilly bridled impatiently and turned away; the woman would try the +patience of a saint! + +“Aye! Run, run, Skilly,” urged Jessie tauntingly. “If ye bide, I may let +ye see yersel’; and the sight will make ye sick.” + +It was too much! An elder of the kirk couldn’t be expected to stand it +any longer. Skilly left her and stalked down the path, his back stiff as +buckram. + +Jessie turned back into the house all aflutter. Nature had not made her +a fighter; she could not have lifted a whisper to defend herself; but +accident had made her play mother and so she could fight like a tiger, +although her knees might tremble for hours afterward. + +“Did ye hear, Bella?” she asked the girl who sat stolidly on the bench by +the window, ignoring the whimperings from the clothes-basket. + +“Aye.” There was nothing in the girl’s tone to indicate her thoughts. +After a moment her eyes wandered up to the toby-jug on the mantel, and +she said: + +“How much will the pram an’ the cradle cost?” + +Jessie, with most of her attention centered on the commotion in the +basket, answered: + +“I can get the pram for thirty shillings; an’ I’ve been promised the use +o’ Maggie Duncan’s cradle for naething—but she kens fine I’ll make her +next gown on account o’ ’t.” + + +4 + +In the straggling light next morning, Jessie slipped a long thin leg out +of bed, and her toes went searching with cat-like caution for a crocheted +slipper; finding it, they wriggled into its woolly depth. + +Jessie was making one of her countless trips to the clothes-basket by the +fireside in the next room to see if all was well. She clutched her long +pink flannelette night-gown to keep it from touching the floor; and was +moving carefully past Bella’s bed, when its unusual flatness made her +look at it again. + +It was empty! Jessie hastened into the next room with fussy concern, sure +that whatever Bella was doing for the baby was wrong. + +But Bella wasn’t there! Her hat wasn’t hanging on the back of the door +where it had hung for six weeks. Her shoes weren’t on the peat-backet[9] +where she had put them last night. + +The baby! Jessie gave a cry that ended in a strangled sound, half laugh, +half sob, as she sprang to the clothes-basket and dropped down beside it. +The baby was there. Jessie’s heart resumed action again, she bent over +the basket and tenderly touched the baby’s warm sleeping face; then her +thoughts returned to Bella. She looked about for fresh proof that she had +really gone. + +Against the toby-jug a sheet of writing-paper was propped. Jessie reached +for it and carried it to the window. In the graying light she peered at +the words written upon it until they formed into things of meaning. And +she read: + + “I am going to Edinburgh. I have taken two pounds from the + toby-jug; that leaves enough for the pram. It is ill done of + me, but I will no stay in Drumorty. If I get a place I’ll send + back the siller, and if Geordie will wed me I’ll come back for + the bairn. You have been kinder to me than I am deserving, and + I will no forget. You can send the bairn to the alms-house; it + will be better there than with me if Geordie will no have me.” + +Jessie trembled as she read. Bella had gone! And the baby was here,—was +hers to keep! Joy sent her heart racing heavenward. She turned and sank +to her knees beside the clothes-basket, stretching greedy arms about it +and whispering passionately to the sleeping child: + +“She’ll no’ come back. She’ll no’ come back;—and ye’ll be my ain, my ain +wee lamb.” + +Then in the flush of her riches, kneeling there in the still gray +morning, she thought of Bella and her poverty. Bella, stealing out +loveless in the night. Bella who had borne the suffering and shame. Bella +with empty arms. And a great remorse for the greed of her own rejoicing +tore at her breast, and she clasped her hands and cried in anguish: + +“God be merciful to her!—And forgie me, a covetous sinner.” + + + + +WANTIN’ A HAND + + + + +_WANTIN’ A HAND_ + + +The moisture from the tub curled her hair into babyish ringlets that +hung about her flushed face. Despite her form made broad with the daily +travail of washing clothes, and her face pouchy with drink, suggestions +of beauty still lingered about her as perfume might cling to a garment +after it was soiled and torn. + +There was no hint of age or decay in the square tower of her body, no +thought of handicap in her actions as she squeezed and rubbed the clothes +upon the board with her one powerful hand. The small stump of her missing +arm jerked vigorously from the shoulder in time to the hand upon the +board. She would stop at times to pin the empty sleeve more snugly to her +side and then resume the crawling, gripping motion of her one hand in the +tub. It was a great-jointed hand, corded along the back, and broad, and +when it had squeezed the water from a garment she could defy any woman +with two hands to wring one drop more from it. The clothes washed by Jean +Sclessor were truly washed, and clear and fragrant when she took them +from the line. + +And so, although she tried them sorely by her frequent drinking spells, +the good wives of Drumorty would rather wait for Jean than have +some feckless two-handed woman wash in her stead. And the greatest +church-goers among them would ignore the smell of whisky on her breath +and would even comment sympathetically upon her bunions when her steps +began to waver. + +But Jean was long past caring what Drumorty thought about her drinking, +long past the time when she turned her head away so that they wouldn’t +catch her breath. She cared only for evening to come, and she worked +through the day with a driving force which became a frenzy of haste +as night-fall drew near, for she was going home to the kist under the +stairs, home to dreams, home to love and revenge and despair, home to +forgetfulness, home to the flat-sided bottle of whisky wrapped in a gray +petticoat. + +And when at evening she groped her way toward the kist in the musty +hole beneath the stairs filled with the odor of sprouting potatoes, she +was already tearful with welling memories, melting with the vision of +the lass that once was Jean Sclessor and the lad that had been Sandy +Morrison. They came to her as always, bright with the sunlight of a +harvest day and fragrant with the breath of reaping time. _He_ stood by +the reaper bareheaded in the high noon sun. Lesser lads had sought the +shade panting and weary, but he, foreman of them all and master of them +all by height and strength, stood stretching in the glare. And _she_ came +laden with the scones fresh from the griddle and the mulled ale cool in +its great earthen bottle. There was a power in him that brought her eyes +to his, and whether she would or no’ she looked at him, and he looked +back at her. + +And then at milking time he came. She knew it was his shadow in the door +as she sat milking there. But never a move made she, and never a turn of +her head, although her heart was singing louder than the milk that struck +the pail. And never a word she said about the singing of her heart, and +never a word said he. But every night he came and watched, and every +night he waited while she strained the milk. + +Lightsome days they were, and work was easy in the doing. And she would +sing and scrub the yard for Mary Tate the second lass, and often she +would do the work for both when Mary’s cough confined her to her bed. Nor +did she care about the extra tasks, but rather she welcomed them, knowing +that Sandy loved her all the more that she was strong. And though at +times he looked on Mary with admiring eyes, seeing her hair that lay like +silken wheat against her head, Jean did not care; she knew the kindling +of his heart was but for her, and the strength that lay in her round +arms. And nearing thrashing time he said: + +“Come, Martinmas, I’ll go a cotterin’.” + +And Jean replied with hurrying heart, tossing her head to give the words +a careless lilt: + +“’Deed? An’ wha will cotter wi’ ye?” + +“Yersel’, I’m thinkin’,” he made answer. And lingering by the stooked +grain that stood like little tents beneath the moon, he told her of the +fine bay mare he had his mind upon; and of the farm, come time, they’d +rent together; and of the butter she would make for marketing, and of the +long, long hours that they would work, he, with his back that had the +strength of two, and she, with arms that had the strength of any man’s. +And by and by they’d own a farm, and _she_ would go to kirk in taffetas, +and _he_ would wear a tall gray hat on market days. + +Down on her knees she fumbled for the bottle, pulling it with avid hand +from its wrapper in the kist. Seizing the cork with yellowed teeth, she +spat it out, and drank, gulping dryly in her haste. She settled back upon +the piled potatoes in the fusty murk, her heavy throat racked with bitter +sobbing. The thrashing machine sounded in her ears again. She stood in +its sucking wind, feeding the yellow sheaves to its hungry mouth. Sandy +swung by calling her above the roar, love glimmering in his face. She +stopped to wave at him—to watch his glinting head go by—the crunching +mouth reached for her fingers—drew them onward with the wheat—seized +them, pulled them in,—the hand, the arm, up, up the arm:—Oh, God, stop +it!—stop— + +She jerked from side to side with the pain of sharp remembering, thumping +the potatoes with the splashing bottle. And then she licked the whisky +from her hand, and drank, whimpering as the glow stole round her heart. + +Sandy came to the hospital, silent and down-looking, and every time he +came his stay was shorter. The smell of medicine made him fit to spew, +or the second man was away gallivanting with a lass, and he must hurry +back to do his work. And then he got to bringing Mary Tate along, and she +would sit and look at him and giggle when he looked at her as if they had +a joke between the two of them. And Jean could never speak to him alone +or ask a word about the cottering. + +Long after thrashing she came back from hospital, and Martinmas was +drawing near. Lads were speaking of feeing time and whether they would +stay, or seek a better place. But Sandy never spoke a word, but had some +business in the byre, or other work to do when she would question him. +And Mary Tate would make his brose with extra butter, and mealy-mouth +about him in the evening, and make as if she knew what she would never +tell. When Jean could bear no more of that she asked: + +“Is Sandy biding here or goin’ cotterin’?” + +And Mary laughed and said: + +“If he’s yer man ye’ve little need to ask.” + +And Jean could barely keep from riving her. “What mean ye by that taunt?” +she cried. + +But Mary laughed, smirked and simpered while she stepped about as if the +kitchen were a dancing hall, and all the lads had come to look at her. + +So she cornered Sandy in the stubble field at loosing-time. He bore the +harness on his arms and round his neck, for he would sooner break his +back than tire a horse for no good end. He saw her, and he tried to pass, +making as if the horses needed him, but Jean put out her hand. + +“A word wi’ ye. What’s come o’ a’ yer talk o’ cotterin’?” + +“Oh, nathin’,” he replied. And cried: “Whoa, Bess, whoa!” as if the +horses were astray. + +“Nathin’?” + +“No.” And looked ahead, straining as if to see the horses reach the +watering trough. + +“Look at me, Sandy Morrison: Why will ye no’ go cotterin’?” she cried, +shaking his harness-laden arm with her one hand. + +“I’ll cotter come time, nae doot,” he said, with more ease in his voice +than in his face. + +“Wi’ _me_?” Her voice was shrill and cut him like a lash. The red rose up +his throat. “Wi’ me? Will ye go cotterin’ wi’ me. Answer me _that_, Sandy +Morrison.” + +He could not look at her, and tried to turn away. + +“Answer me!” She screamed and beat his breast, and as she struck her +dangling stump jerked to the motion of the beating. Sandy’s eyes were on +it. + +“I canna, Jean,” he said. “I’ve nae use for a wife wantin’ a hand.” + +And so he married Mary Tate and took her cottering, her that could never +wet her feet, her with arms like matches, and legs like clay-pipe stems. +He took her cottering for a year, and then the baby came, and Mary +couldn’t leave her bed for many a month, and when she _did_ they said +she’d creep about more like a ghost than anything that drew the breath of +life. + +Sandy left the cottering and hired out again. Soon there was another +wean[10] to feed and tend; and every year or two another wean, another +mouth for Sandy Morrison to feed, and Mary always lying in the bed. And +he that had so proud a head left the farming to do what work he could +about the town by nights, and tend the weans and make their porridge by +day. He that spoke of fine bay mares, and cottering, and rented farms, +and tall gray hats, was doing work that none would do,—emptying garbage +in the night. She lived again that first night of his shame, when he +crept up the lane at dawn, his head hung low, hoping none would see. But +_she_ was there and screamed her scorn, as many a dawn since then she’d +screamed her scorn: + +“Nae use for a wife wantin’ a hand, eh? Fine for ye emptying garbage, +fine for ye.” He never looked toward her, crying in the window there, nor +raised his head. And all the years he never looked nor spoke, but moved +about as if her jeering fell on ears that could not hear. + +Why did he not cry back at her or lift his head? Oh, to make him give a +sign, to get her hand upon his shrunken flesh and rive it with her nails. +To tear him open that her eyes could see his bleeding. To make him scream +his pain as _she_ must scream—to make him cry her name—to _know_ that +he was suffering. She rocked tortured on the shifting pile of potatoes, +breaking their white sprouts as her hand grabbed anguished for the bottle. + +Oh, what was he to her? He was a dour down-looking chiel[11], thin he +was, thin and withered, withered like a turnip at the winter’s end. +And his hair, his bonnie hair that shone like a Michaelmas penny, was +grizzled and sparse and dry like dusty moss. And the shoulders of him +that had filled the door from side to side as he stood watching her at +the milking, were shrunk and bent, and bent and shrunken was his neck +that had been straight and pink and moist with the sweat of the fields. +And the eyes of him were bleared and wavering, and his gait was like a +weary dog’s. + +Oh, what cared she? Why wait to shame a bleary dog—a bleary dog—a weary +dog? Why sit and rock, and wait, and cry at dawn? She’d stop her rocking +and her crying. She’d stop her drinking and her wailing. She’d buy a +dolman trimmed with bugle beads and go to kirk on Sunday. She’d cry in by +to her that lay a coughing in the bed, and him that pottered about wiping +noses. She’d stop a while and sweep the floor, and wash the faces of the +glowering weans. And all the time that image in the bed would hate her +for her strength. And Sandy would be shamed and he would see what he had +cast aside. She’d stop and bake and throw her dolman on the chair so that +its beads would shine. She’d feed the weans and tend the image in the +bed, and it would choke with rage and cough, and cough, and cough. + +She’d stop her drinking, this would be the last. She’d be looked up to +and respected, she’d go to kirk, she’d make red petticoats for naked +heathens, she’d stop her drinking. The higher she was held the more would +be his shame. She’d stop her drinking, break the bottle—break it on the +wall—but first she’d drink—no use to waste good whisky—this would be the +last—the very last—the last. + +She started to sway pendulum-wise, settling deeper in the pile, rolling +her head as if in time to some well-remembered chant. Her vacant eyes +were bleared with tears that fell on this shoulder, and on that, with the +rolling of her head. Her purple lips forming the silent words twisted +in a half-forgotten pain, and then her voice meaningless as a wind in +a hollow place took up the dirge: “Nae use for a wife wantin’ a hand, +wantin’ a hand....” + + + + +THE TATTIE-DOOLIE + + + + +_THE TATTIE-DOOLIE_[12] + + +His name was James MacDonald MacGregor, as you could prove by reading the +newly painted sign over his door, which told Drumorty in yellow and black +that he was: “A high-class tailor; pressing and mending also done.” But +Jean MacFarlane had nicknamed him the “Tattie-Doolie” on the very first +Sunday. But this was not until after the service, not until after he had +outsung her, outsung her in time and outsung her in volume. Even in the +final hymn, when she had held the last note until her ears buzzed and her +face was like a harvest moon, _he_ had held it just a second longer. + +Jean had always been proud of her breath. It lasted longer than any +breath in the parish of Drumorty. She was proud, too, that no voice in +the parish could be heard above her own. Many had tried it, both man and +woman! + +Skilly’s “Gype,”[13] called that because he was daft-like and wore fancy +waistcoats on week-days, had a roaring fine voice; and Mary Macrimmon, +who had a wooden leg, “could make a braw noise when she put her mind to +’t.” But even they had lost heart at last and had left Jean to lead the +singing. The Gype stayed away from the service altogether and spent his +Sunday mornings “sellin’ his soul to the devil on a dambrod.” But Mary +Macrimmon was a God-fearing woman, so she made up for her loss by coming +late every Sunday, and the ring of the brass ferrule on her wooden leg +announced her passage up the flagged aisle to her seat in the front pew. +Each entrance was a dramatic triumph, for she changed the trimming on her +hat every week, so that the congregation “wouldna crane their necks for +naught.” Jean MacFarlane was well content to let her have this triumph: +there _should_ be compensations for a wooden leg. + +In four years none had ventured to dispute Jean’s right to sing the last +note of each line as a solo. The members of the congregation accepted it +with the same placidity that they accepted the fact that the varnish had +never really hardened on the pews; and if you sat too long or too solidly +on one place, you left the nap of your suit embedded on the seat. + +In time they came to be proud of Jean, and they waited for her to finish +with their mouths agape, as much out of admiration as out of a desire to +be ready to start the next line when her breath finally gave out. + +The organist, who was blind, knew better, and longed for the courage +to terminate Jean’s stentorian solos. But she dared not, for the +congregation believed that she couldn’t be so good as an organist that +could see, and this made her timid; so she would humbly hold the last +note until Jean’s final gasp signaled that she could start a new measure. +But in return for this, Jean defended her when some young snip would +suggest that she wasn’t much of an organist. “No,” Jean would admit. +“She’s no’ a great musician, but she’s a gran’ accompanist, an’ that’s +what’s needed in a kirk like ours.” + +Until that first Sunday Jean had held no grudge against James MacDonald +MacGregor, although it would have been natural, and even dutiful, for +her to have sniffed a little in affected disdain when she heard his +name mentioned, for his arrival was a source of much distress to her +father, Perney MacFarlane, who had been the only tailor in Drumorty for +twenty-five years, as had been his father before him. Indeed, old Perney +had given Jean the rough side of his tongue for her undaughterly lack of +resentment over the new tailor. But Jean, while realizing that his advent +would end her father’s sartorial monarchy, was none the less conscious of +a pleased flutter when Mistress MacKenty stepped in by to say: “The puir +man’s single dootless, for I hae seen neither hide nor hair o’ a wife, +nor her belongings.” + +“That’s a consideration,” Jean had answered; and, giving her father an +accusing look, added: “to them that never sees a man frae one day’s end +to the other.” + +Jean was a little irritated with her father on this score, and blamed him +that she hadn’t been married long since. For, although his trade should +have supplied her with more suitors than any other lass in Drumorty, it +was a fact that, while the grocer’s daughter by making smirking pretense +of helping, could meet young men on Saturday evenings in her father’s +shop; and even the druggist’s boarding-school daughter could “happen” to +come in to kiss her father good night when a prosperous young farmer was +in, Jean could never meet a man that way, because Perney insisted that +it wasn’t seemly for a single woman to come in, when a man _might_ be +having his trousers fitted. To Jean’s protest: “Father, ye canna always +be fittin’ the crotch,” he merely answered, “I _might_ be.” + +On the way to kirk that first Sunday, Jean was in a twitter. She had even +gone the length of putting Jockey Club on the front of her bodice as well +as on her handkerchief. This made her feel akin to Jezebel, and for a +moment she liked the feeling. She wished that a woman could be “wanton in +her ways” and yet seem respectable. Then, appalled at her own wickedness, +she made a hasty prayer for her soul’s salvation, and decided that scent +was a hand-maiden of the devil and that she would never use it again. But +the next moment she was glad that she _had_ used it, and sorry that she +hadn’t used more, as the new tailor passed her on the road and remarked +to his neighbor something about “a fine smell.” + +He was grand beyond Jean’s expectations. He wore a frock coat and a +“tile,”[14] and she gasped in admiration of his “venturesomeness” in +wearing them when there was neither a marriage nor a funeral in the +neighborhood to justify such splendor. + +For in Drumorty the laird is the only man entitled by common opinion +to wear such grandeur on ordinary Sundays. Many a tattie-doolie in the +fields around Drumorty flapped in solitary dignity with the scarcely worn +frock coat and “tile” of some deceased farmer, who had been too modest to +wear them. + +Jean had even been pleased when he came boldly up to the choir and took a +seat in the front row of the men’s pew directly facing her. It was a bit +forward of him to sit in the choir without a public invitation from the +minister, but Jean thrilled. “It’s all of a piece wi’ his wearin’ a tile, +he’s a man that kens his mind and does it.” She was glad also that he was +where he could see her, and know at once who it was that sang so long and +so loud. + +She settled herself in her seat with the dignity that a duck acquires +upon water. Debating the relative effectiveness of a lace handkerchief +emerging from her sleeve or thrust daintily into the front of her bodice, +she decided in favor of the former, because if she wore it on her breast +the book would hide it when she stood up to sing. + +Satisfied that she was at her best, she glanced across the aisle. She +was disappointed to find that he was not watching her. He was reading +the hymn numbers on the announcement slate and looking them up in his +hymn-book. + +“A singer himsel’, nae doot,” she reflected. “All the better; it takes a +singer t’ appreciate a singer.” She looked him over carefully and decided +that he was “over thin for good looks, and over white in the face. But he +had a grand mustache! A manly-like an’ full-growin’ mustache. A careful +wife that tended him like a chicken on a brod,[15] could make a fine +strappin’ chiel out o’ him.” + +A yearning tenderness toward him, the passion of a brood hen, stirred in +her breast. She wanted to envelop him in her care; already he seemed to +belong to her. Feeling the need to emphasize this to herself by speaking +of him, she whispered to Mary Macrimmon: + +“What think ye o’ the new tailor?” + +When Mary answered: “He’s unco chilpet[16] and hungry-like aboot the +jaw-bones,” she answered tartly: + +“He’s no’ hog-fat. For _mysel’_, I like a man on the thin side.” + +Indeed, Jean had even found herself thinking with satisfaction of the +twenty-four hand-made and feather-stitched night-gowns that lay at the +bottom of her kist.[17] Not that she was ready to jump down the throat of +the first man that asked her. Indeed not! She wouldn’t fash[18] herself +if she never married! But twenty-four night-gowns made a body feel +prepared for anything. + +When the organist began the prelude to the first hymn, Jean took a deep +breath, and set her head like a filly fighting the snaffle. + +Now he would see! Now he would take notice! She charged the first note +with a vociferation that made Mary Macrimmon drop her hymn-book. Never +had her voice been so loud. Never had she felt more exultant in its +power. He would be looking at her now! But wait! Wait until the end of +the verse when she could show him the length of her breath. _That_ would +make him take stock and wonder. _That_ was where breath could show to +advantage. + +As she reached the last phrase, she filled her lungs. Now he would see. +This would be the best that she had ever done. + +Her voice rose powerfully above the others. They were falling away. As +the last note was reached, Jean’s voice took hold of the ragged edges of +sound and knit them up. Soon she would be singing alone. + +But what was this? A voice full and strong was keeping pace with her. +_He_ was still singing. Was he trying to compete with her? It couldn’t +be! She glanced across at him, her face red with the strain of holding +the note. Yes! He was wilfully trying to outsing her. In his eyes was the +insolent look of a duelist who is sure of victory. Outraged, Jean lost +her hold upon the note, and James MacDonald MacGregor’s voice boomed out +in triumphant solo for two beats more. + +Affronted! Affronted she was and shamed before the whole congregation! +Shamed and affronted in her own kirk. And by _this_; this whippersnapper. +Made mock of and be-meaned by a half-starved bantam-cock, with a tile on +his brainless head. + +There was a sputtering and sizzling of suppressed mirth from the body +of the kirk. The new verse started, and staggered along in gusts like +a drunken man. The McKenzie lassie with the fat legs was giggling and +nudging her neighbor. The minister was hiding behind his prayer-book, but +the redness of his ears told that even _he_ was laughing. Mary Macrimmon +was making no pretense of singing but was frankly laughing under cover of +the organ. The new tailor was looking about him, smirkingly appreciative +of his victory, although he did not yet know its magnitude. + +Jean’s heart was fit to fly out of its cage, so angry was she. For little +more she would have thrown her hymn-book in his face. He would come here, +would he? Come here and set up opposition to her father. Horning his nose +in on a man that had worked in Drumorty all his life. But that wasn’t +enough. He must dare to outsing _her_, that had led the singing for +years. He must make a byword of _her_ that had defended him against her +own father. Oh, but she was well punished that she hadn’t hated him from +the first, the swaggering dandyprat, the fribble popinjay, all dressed up +like a tattie-doolie! In that moment she hated him as only a heart that +might have loved _can_ hate. + +It had been a bitter Sunday morning; and a bitter, bitter walk back +from the kirk with whisperings and laughter all about her, and handkies +held up to hide wide grins of amusement. It had been hard to bear with +Mistress MacKenty when she said with ill-disguised glee: “Weel, weel, +he’s goin’ t’ lead the singin’ as well as the tailorin’.” + +But there had been comfort in seeing the pleasure it gave old Perney +to hear her flay the new tailor. So delighted was he with her nickname +for his rival that he pressed her to take the neck of the boiled fowl, +a delicacy which he only relinquished in moments of great emotion. For +Perney was troubled in his heart, deeply troubled and anxious, and he +dare not speak of it. He had a secret which he believed was shared by no +one. It was this. He didn’t know how the collar of a coat should be cut! +For, although he had been fully thirty-five when his father had died and +left him the tailoring business, he had never up to that moment either +cut or fitted a collar. It had been the elder MacFarlane’s belief that +his son was a witless warlock[19] who was by nature bound to ruin any +piece of cloth into which he put a pair of shears. + +In time he begrudgingly and with loud-voiced distrust, allowed Perney to +cut and fit trousers, and at a pinch, when his eyes began to trouble him, +he would prayerfully let him work on a portion of a coat. But never to +his last day would he let him touch a collar. + +So Perney inherited the business with a perfect knowledge of trousers, +a partial knowledge of waistcoats, and a complete ignorance of collars. +For so jealous was old MacFarlane of this knowledge that he had always +retired behind a screen for the cutting and fitting of this mystic +portion of the garment. + +On the first day he was alone, Perney had embarked on a series of +experiments. From then on, every suit he cut was a hazard, an adventure. +This much he suspected about collars. Something had to be cut on the +crosswise, and something had to be stretched. But which had to be +stretched, which had to be cut crosswise, he never was able to find +out. Sometimes he did it one way, and sometimes the other, but little +satisfaction resulted. When, occasionally, the miracle happened, and +he would produce a collar that did neither stick out at the back like +a spout, nor shy away from the neck in a coy semicircle, he had always +forgotten how he had cut that particular collar, and try as he would he +couldn’t duplicate it. + +Perney had never told this to a soul, not even his wife; nay, _least_ of +all, his wife. But sometimes he wondered uneasily if she knew. There was +something too impassioned in the way she defended him when a customer +complained that the collar didn’t fit. It looked like something more than +chance that brought her hurrying down the stairs just in the nick of +time, and there was something more than affability in her voice when she +exclaimed to the customer upon her entrance: “My certies, but that jacket +brings out the breadth o’ yer shoulders.” If in the face of her evident +admiration, the customer still murmured that the collar didn’t set to his +neck, her voice became a shade scornful as she replied: “Think ye the +collar’s human? How would _it_ know where yer neck is? Hae patience and +wear it a while, and come time, it will grow to the set o’ yer body.” And +if he still complained, she would deride him playfully, crying: “Certies, +man, expect ye the collar to grip yer neck like yer lass’s arm?” If this +didn’t send him away with his face red and the suit under his arm, she +could go even further. + +It was not so easy with the young ones who had been to Aberdeen to take +the agricultural course at the university. _They_ were “very notional,” +and would bring a suit back again and again for alterations. But smart +though they were, they hated to encounter Mistress MacFarlane, and +would peep in at the window first to see that she was out of the way. +But in the end she would always vanquish them. And it is a tribute to +her eloquence that they sometimes came to agree with her that “a collar +couldna be expected to fit, until you had worn it six months.” + +In all the twenty-five years, Perney had never had a suit left on his +hands; but he knew well where the credit lay for that. + +He spent long hours turning it over in his mind. Did she truly believe +that his collars were perfect, and his customers sorely wanting in sense? +Or did she know all the time that he couldn’t cut a collar? But no—that +thought smarted too keenly. She would never be able to keep from telling +him if she knew. He knew women, with their tongues always wag-wagging. +She’d cast it in his face in one of her tempers. She’d never be able to +hold it back. No, she didn’t know. Of course she didn’t know. But why, +then, did she never mention collars when they were alone? Because she +thinks I can cut them. Because she knows I can’t. It was plausible either +way. She knows. She doesn’t. She knows. She doesn’t. For hours his needle +would flash out and in to this torturous refrain. Overhead he would hear +her, heavy-footed, going back and forth about her work. Many times he had +risen from his bench, determined to go up and have it out. Or sitting by +her in the evenings, he had often been tempted to break the long silence +by shouting the one word “Collars!” just to see what she would do. But he +never dared carry out his resolve, because he couldn’t bear to learn that +she knew. + +Most of the time he was comforted by the thought that she didn’t know, +and he loved her fiercely for her blind faith in him. But on occasions +when she would defend him too loudly, he was convinced that she knew. And +he tortured himself by the thought that she despised him in her heart. At +such times he almost hated her, not only for the knowledge she had, but +that she was strong enough never to give it voice. + +One thing made it bearable. He could laugh at her. She had a notion about +the making of broth. Nay, more than a notion, it was a belief as dear to +her heart as her religion. And he knew it to be founded on folly. + +Mistress MacFarlane was a Fraser, and the Frasers had always held the +reputation of making the best Sunday broth-with-dumplings in the parish. +It was their crown. How to make it was their secret. It necessitated the +constant attention, for the whole forenoon, of a member of the family. +This meant that some one must stay away from the kirk during the morning +service; and as this mortification seemed to be borne more cheerfully by +the male portion of the family, it came to be a tradition that the Fraser +men were a godless ilk that would rather tend broth than praise the Lord. +Indeed, one minister had even preached a sermon on setting up graven +images, and it was clear that he exhorted the Fraser family to choose +between their broth and the Kingdom of Heaven. But it was useless. + +So, the Sunday morning after his marriage, Perney learned the secret +of the Fraser broth. His wife told him every detail, as indeed she had +continued to tell him every detail every Sunday morning since, for +somehow she could never believe that he could retain all its intricacies; +and never once did she fail to come back from the door-step to repeat: +“Mind ye now, quarter of an hour apart.” + +_That_ was the secret! Other benighted Drumortians put everything into +the pot at once. But the Frasers first boiled a shin bone in the water +for half an hour, then added the turnips. A quarter of an hour later the +carrots went in, and so on, until finally the dumplings. + +Before leaving for the kirk, Mistress MacFarlane would arrange the +different vegetables in bowls and set them in a row leading away from the +fire. Just before tying her bonnet strings, she would drop the bone into +the water and remind him: “The bowl next the fire goes in first.” + +It was a ritual gone through with much gusto on her part and great +patience on the part of Perney. + +At first he had blundered, forgetting this or that, or he would go +down to the shop to play a solitary game of chess and forget the broth +altogether, and bowls of raw vegetables would betray him to his wrathful +wife upon her return. + +One Sunday, in a flush of rebellion, he had dumped the contents of +all the bowls into the pot the moment she was off the door-step, and +thumped defiantly down-stairs to play chess. But he had little peace +that morning, for in spite of himself, he believed in the superiority of +the Fraser broth. He was apprehensive about its flavor, and in two minds +whether to confess or not, until they sat down to the table and Mistress +MacFarlane, taking the first spoonful exclaimed just as she always did, +just as every Fraser always did: “My, that’s fine broth.” And he agreed, +just as the spouse of every Fraser always agreed. He never let a hint of +what he had done cross his lips; after that, his Sunday mornings were +tranquil. + +But now Perney was troubled. The arrival of the new tailor sharpened +his anxiety about the collars, for not only might his wife discover +the truth, but soon all Drumorty might know. He tortured himself by +attributing to his rival great skill in collar making, and by magnifying +his own lack of skill. Soon the sight of a new suit, with the collar +snugly fitting the neck, justified his fears. And with every day came +discouraging news of another customer gone over to the enemy. Fear +was added to fear, as orders came in more and more slowly. Even the +report that the “Tattie-Doolie” couldn’t hang trousers didn’t bring the +consolation it should have. He began to lean on Jean, seeking comfort in +the increasing scorn she expressed for the “Tattie-Doolie,” for Jean’s +emotion was growing more keen with each Sunday. She existed from week to +week in a fever of anticipation. She lived only for those moments when +they faced each other across the aisle in combat. One morning he was late +and she was beside herself for fear he would not come. At his sudden +appearance her heart raced in an intoxication of _something_, she called +it hatred. + +After the services, when she reached home, she would deride him with +a wit that delighted Perney, and a venom that surprised herself. But +sometimes, following these outbursts, she would go to her room and cry +helplessly, and she knew that she wasn’t crying because he had outsung +her. + +There is no knowing how it might have ended, had not the organist died +suddenly, making it necessary to send hurriedly to Aberdeen for another +to take her place. Five minutes after the train came in with the new one, +Mistress MacKenty was spreading the news that it was a man this time, +with most extraordinarily thin legs. By noon the next day she was able to +tell that he demanded no less than two eggs for his breakfast, and that +he was bound and determined to conduct the choir practise himself without +interference from the minister. So it was clear that he was a feckful man +in spite of his legs. + +And his hands on the organ proved this to be true. Jean was filled with +a new excitement as the organ woke clamorously and shook itself at his +commanding touch. This was playing! This was music worth singing to! The +“Tattie-Doolie” would never outsing her again. Here was music that would +give her strength to conquer him. The new organist would see who had the +longest breath. He would judge who was best fitted to lead the singing. + +Her voice rose with clarion strength. The tailor was doing his best +also. Jean was reluctantly obliged to admit that there were worse voices +than the tailor’s. They were nearing the end of the line. _Now_ for the +struggle! But something was amiss. The last note slipped away from her +like an eel, and the next line was in progress before she knew it. She +tried to hold on at the end of the next line; but again the organist +didn’t wait. + +Of course, he didn’t know any better. _That_ was it, Jean reasoned. She +would have to wait till the end of the verse to show him. _Then_ he would +be glad to hold the note for such a voice. An organist had to be trained +to a singer’s ways. Nearing the end she raised her voice so that he +couldn’t help but hear her. But with a loud blast from the quaking pipes +he drowned her out and briskly started the next verse. + +Dumfounded, she looked across the aisle to see what the “Tattie-Doolie” +thought of this. He was glaring furiously at the organist’s head. +Presently his glance met Jean’s, and they gazed at each other in a common +bond of indignation. He signaled to her not to sing, and closed his +hymn-book emphatically, to show that he meant to be silent. Jean did the +same, and he nodded his approval. Exchanging knowing smirks they waited +for the collapse of the singing. + +But it was not the hopeless failure they expected it to be. Their revenge +was _no_ revenge. Nobody missed their singing. The organ sped its +multisonous way with the abandon of a calliope at a circus. It cared not +a penny who sang or who didn’t. Its very abandon was inviting, and they +fain would have joined in the singing but pride forbade them. + +The tailor became more and more crestfallen as the service progressed. He +fingered his hymn-book longingly, but he could not bring himself to start +again. + +Seeing his dejection, Jean forgot her own disappointment and yearned over +him. She understood only too keenly how he was missing the exaltation of +singing to the full capacity of his lungs. She knew only too well the +sense of loss he felt, and the bitter hurt to his pride. His emotions +found a dual echo in her breast; she was heartsick for herself, but she +was doubly heartsick for him. Her one thought was to save his pride for +him at any cost. + +At the close of the service she eluded her mother, and caught up with him +as he walked with slackened step and drooping shoulders along the road. +It was a thing she could not have done for herself. But she was doing +this for _him_. Nothing else could have given her courage to make that +advance under the critical watching eyes of the congregation. She reached +his side gasping, and a little hesitant, but the sight of his despondent +face spurred her afresh, and she cried with well simulated derision: +“Heard ye ever such singin’! A lot o’ women squeakin’ like mice in a +trap, an’ no’ a man’s voice among the lot!” + +He braced up at her approach and the gloom lifted from his face at her +words, but settled back again as he answered doubtfully: “Skilly an’ the +minister were singin’.” + +“Singin’, were they!” Jean cried with a chuckle. “Man, yer over-generous +to call it _singin’_.” + +“They’re no’ so bad,” he said, inviting her to fresh protest. She laughed +shrilly. “Ye ken fine, we never had a proper man’s voice till ye came.” + +The swing was coming back to his shoulders again, and he was taking +bigger strides. + +“Think ye that?” he questioned anxiously. “I had a notion ye didna like +my singing.” + +He would never know what her next words cost her. For a moment the old +rivalry came to life and pride strove with love. In that swift space +she was a singer again, proud of her voice and contemptuous of his, but +_only_ for a moment. Then came her admission from quiet lips: “I was +jealous o’ yer voice; jealous o’ yer breath bein’ longer than mine.” With +those words she retired forever, leaving the stage to him. She would +never compete with him again. + +His step was jaunty now, and his face beamed with gratification. + +“Aye, my breath is a _lot_ longer than yours,” he replied. + +Jean’s heart faltered a little at his reply. It was true that his breath +was longer than hers; it was true that his voice was louder, but he might +have said something kind about her voice, even if he didn’t believe it. +_She_ could tell any lie to make him feel better, it hurt that he didn’t +care to lie for her. Now that his spirits were restored and he no longer +needed her, Jean lost her courage. A dull ache assailed her heart and +sharp tears forced their way into her eyes. She continued to walk beside +him only because she could not do otherwise with all Drumorty looking +on. Her brimming tears were about to fall in spite of her struggle to +keep them back, but the tailor saved her this humiliation. His momentary +exhilaration was passing away, and shadows were gathering over him again. + +“I missed the singin’,” he sighed dolefully. “I like to sing. It seems +like as if I had to sing something out o’ me on the Sabbath, to get a +fresh start for the next week.” + +“I ken what ye mean,” Jean cried with ready sympathy, blinking away her +unseen tears. “That’s the way _I_ feel—bottled up like.” + +“Aye,” he agreed. + +A daring thought came to Jean, a very daring thought. Quivering with +excitement at her own temerity, she said: “I hae a harmonium. Would ye +like to step in by wi’ me for an hour an’ sing the hymns?” + +He looked full at her for the first, and there was admiration in his +eyes. “Ye can _play_?” he questioned eagerly. “I’d like it fine, if—if—” + +Jean knew what he meant. + +“My father likes music,” she answered. + +She was fluttering inside like a nest of young birds, half with joy, and +half with fear of her father. But she would go through with it if the +heavens were to fall. + +As they reached the door, Mistress MacFarlane caught up with them. Being +a true woman, she had already decided that Jean’s wedding veil would be +at least half a yard longer than the veil of that high-handed lassie of +the druggist’s had been. + +“I’m goin’ to play the hymns for Mr. MacGregor,” Jean explained. + +“Aye, aye,” said Mistress MacFarlane, with a comfortable, round pink +smile, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Aye, aye, that +will be fine.” With an elaborate wink to Jean, she slipped in and up the +stairs. Understanding her maneuver, Jean lingered below until she heard +the kitchen door shut quickly, then, knowing that her father was safely +imprisoned, she followed, leading the tailor into the heavy-curtained, +musk-scented parlor. + +It was well that Mistress MacFarlane went first and pushed the enraged +Perney backward into the kitchen, for he had seen Jean approaching with +the “Tattie-Doolie” and was seething at her treachery. + +“What means this?” he demanded when he regained his balance after his +wife’s unexpected violence. + +“Whist!” she commanded. “Dinna make an uproar. It’s the new tailor come +to sing the hymns wi’ our lassie.” + +“In _my_ hoose?” + +“Why should he no’?” questioned his wife with irritating calmness, +pulling at the tips of her black kid gloves the while, but carefully +keeping between Perney and the door. + +“Nae in _my_ hoose! Step aside, woman.” + +“Sit doon, man, an’ stop yer haverin’,”[20] she answered with easy +contempt. “Do ye expect yer bairn to go to her grave a maiden?” + +“What’s that?” cried Perney with fresh fury. “He wants to _marry_ Jean. +He would _dare_!” + +Mistress MacFarlane snorted and elbowed him out of the way with a pitying +superiority. + +“No,” was her cryptic reply. “He has no’ dared _yet_, but he’ll dare come +time.” + +Perney was bewildered. It was hard to maintain his indignation in the +face of his wife’s dispassionate assurance. She was his rock of strength. +He followed in the course she steered, for her steering was always for +his betterment. But now she seemed to have turned traitor and he felt +lost. If she would only speak up and tell him her mind; he could always +bear her lectures better than her silences. She was stepping about the +room quietly, as if it were no concern of hers that his rival was here, +under his roof. + +The tailor’s voice rose lustily singing. “Oh, come all ye faithful.” + +It was more than Perney could bear in silence. + +“What mean ye, woman?” + +“Man, hae a little sense,” she urged, as if speaking to an unreasoning +but lovable child. “It’s high time that Jean was married—an’ there’s no +room for _twa_ tailors in Drumorty.” + +So _that_ was it! It was a staggering thought. He sat down in his chair +the better to support it. He might have known that she had _some_ bee in +her bonnet. She was not a woman to act without a purpose. And she was +right. She was quite right. It would be a blessing to have a partner +instead of a competitor. He would give him the collars to do! That would +be a great relief. The thought made him light-hearted, and he was just +about to show her that he saw some reason in her plans, when she said: +“Ye can give him the collars to do.” + +At that he straightened in his chair, on the defensive again. So she +knew! She had known all the time! She had lain beside him for thirty +years with that secret knowledge in her heart. Despising him, perhaps! +Yes, despising him. It wasn’t for Jean she wanted the new tailor; it was +because she knew that _he_ could make better collars. She put her trust +in the “Tattie-Doolie,” in a stranger, an enemy, and she had turned +against _him_, that had sheltered and loved her for thirty years. + +She despised him, did she? Laughed at him? Well, he’d let her know that +there were _others_ that could laugh. He would tell her about the Fraser +broth. He would lay _her_ pride in the dust. There would be more than +_one_ humble heart in the house this day! + +He turned toward her to launch his arrow of revenge. + +All innocent of her blunder, she was lifting the lid of the broth pot and +sniffing ecstatically: a Fraser worshiping at the shrine of the Fraser +broth. He couldn’t do it. Never, if she trod him in the dust, never could +he hurt her like that. He turned away, his heart sick and lonely, his +soul bereft and bitter. She was no longer his. No longer the woman who +believed in him. + +But there would be no more hiding behind a wall. He would speak to her +about the collars. He would have it out with her. He turned back and +asked in a voice sharp-edged, because it was so near to breaking: “Why +say ye I can give him the collars to do?” + +A flicker of alarm came into her eyes, but she finished the sip of broth +she had in the spoon before answering, and then her voice came with easy +assurance. + +“Weel, ye’ll never be able to trust him wi’ trousers; so ye can give him +the coats and waistcoats to do.” + +“An’ the _collars_,” he said bitingly. + +“Aye, an’ the collars, an’ other easy bits,” she answered with lazy ease. + +Collars and other easy bits! So she _didn’t_ know. The foolish woman +didn’t know! She thought a collar was an “easy bit.” She had always +believed in him. In face of everything, she still believed that he was +right. Oh, she was a foolish, feckless woman, with her blindness about +collars, and her folly about broth. But he loved her. The very pattern of +his soul was woven with the threads of hers, dear, blind, trusting woman +that she was. She didn’t know. And now she would _never_ know. + +Her feet as she stepped about setting the table made a happy homelike +music in his heart. How he loved her! + +She paused at the table with an extra plate and spoon, and looked toward +him questioningly. He had been so silent, she was not sure that she had +won him over yet, so her voice was timorous and a little pleading: “Could +I ask him, Perney?” + +“Aye, lass, ask him,” he agreed. Then, searching in his flowing heart for +words to tell her how he loved her, he said: “An’ I’m thinkin’, he has +never tasted the like o’ the broth he’ll taste this day.” + + + + +THE COURTIN’ OF SALLY ANN + + + + +_THE COURTIN’ OF SALLY ANN_ + + +Mistress MacIntosh was firmly upholstered back and front in black satin +of a thick dull quality. In front she was tightly encased and well pushed +up. On the resulting ledge, there rested a locket containing on one side +a picture of the deceased Sandy MacIntosh, “a saint on earth if there +ever was one,” and on the other, a portrait of “my poor blind girl when a +child.” + +Everything about Mistress MacIntosh seemed to be pressed backward by +determined though invisible fingers. It was as if she were forever +breasting a gale. Her shoulders were thrown back so far that there was an +indenture between her shoulder-blades. Even her thin gray hair seemed to +be striving to leave her face; the marks left by the comb divided it into +little railways that went hurrying to the back of her head, and the scalp +between was pink with the exertion. + +The small black lace cap on her head, coming to a point neatly on the +front parting, carried out the illusion. At either side of the point, +three baroque pearl beads were sewed into the lace half an inch apart. +For some reason they suggested hidden artillery. She resembled nothing so +much as a battle-ship steaming out to the field of action. + +Mistress MacIntosh had dealt fairly with life, as she was wont to point +out, but life had been far from dealing fairly with her. First there was +Sandy MacIntosh, a hard man to catch he had been, and no such great catch +at that, when all was done. But this she wouldn’t admit now, for it is +ill-done and unwise-like to belittle the dead. So she loudly proclaimed +his saintliness to the neighbors, but in her heart she admitted that he +had been a sore disappointment. + +When, after thirty years of constant persuasion, she had got him at +last convinced that it was his clay pipe that made his tongue sore and +bleeding, and got him to give up smoking, a saving of eighteen pence a +week, he had gone out one Sunday morning for a walk along the railway +tracks, “and him as deaf as a door nail.” + +They gathered him up piecemeal and brought him back in a gunny-sack, +and there had been nothing to dress up and show the neighbors. All the +expense and work of a funeral and none of the pleasure. + +And then there was young Sandy, sure to be dead by spring with that +cough he had that was like to split him in two; but nothing would do but +he must get up and put on his braw new boots and walk with them in the +backyard, scratching the soles up so that the shoemaker would never take +them back in this world. And _this_, after she had watched him every day +for three months to prevent it, for what was the sense of letting him put +the boots on at all when he’d never live to wear them out? But he was +just as contrary as his father. He _would_ have the boots bought, and he +_would_ put them on. And now the best she would get for them would be +four or five shillings, if she would get _that_; for there were them that +thought that you could get consumption by barely touching something a +consumptive had worn. + +And the blind girl! A body might think there would come an end to trouble +_sometime_. But no! She was just as unreasonable as the father of her. +Without giving a thought to anybody’s comfort except her own, and with +no provocation whatsoever, she had died the week after they had laid her +father away, and _this_, mind you, at the very time that the elders had +finally consented to raise her salary for playing the organ, from ten +shillings a week to ten shillings and sixpence. + +It was just another instance of the perversity of life, that the daughter +who had the musical education should die, and Sally Ann, who had nothing, +not even enough get-up-and-go to catch a man, should be left. + +Goodness knows it wasn’t for the want of help that Sally Ann was single! +Fowl after fowl had been killed, even the speckled hen that laid the +brown eggs that were so tasty; and pot after pot of broth had been thrown +away on lads that never came to the scratch. Worse-looking lasses than +Sally Ann, with nobody to help them, had landed good husbands. It was +Sally Ann’s own fault, as she had told her time and time again, when some +lad that might just as well have married _her_, stepped up the aisle with +another. + +But it was useless to speak to her, useless to instruct her in the ways +to inveigle a man. If you left her alone with one purposely, instead of +edging him into a dark corner to give him courage to kiss her, she would +hand him the family album to look at, and flutter back and forth like a +hen before rain, until somebody came to keep them company. It seemed that +the more you threw a man at Sally Ann, the more she drew back and let her +chances slip by. + +She had no more sense than the father of her, and _he_ had little +enough. Many a time when a customer had called to take out an insurance +policy, she had waited just out of earshot till Sandy would call her +to witness the document, but when, after an hour had passed, she would +hear the front door shut on the customer’s departing heels, she would +find him carefully putting away his luster china, with never a thought +of insurance policy in his head, and his only excuse would be: “It’s +unpleasant-like, woman, t’ keep harpin’ on death when a man comes t’ see +ye.” + +She was a sorely tried woman, Mistress MacIntosh; sorely tried and +ill-done by. + +But after all, the way things had turned out now, it was a mercy that +no man would batter down the door to get Sally Ann. With nobody else to +bring in a penny, it was just as well that Sally Ann was free footed and +not tied to some man who might not so much as give her mother a pail of +skimmed milk on Saturday night. For you can never tell about a man; there +was Mistress MacKenty’s Nellie that married Bransbog’s laddie, you would +think that she’d get all the butter she needed, and him with a byre full +of Jersey cows, but no, she was down at the grocer’s every Saturday night +as usual buying her pound, just as if she had never had a daughter in +this world. + +It was a blessing too, although it had looked like a wilful waste of +siller at the time, that Sally Ann had spent her grandmother’s legacy of +three pounds ten shillings to go to Fraserburg and learn candy-making. +And it seemed like a special consideration from the Lord, that at the +very time Sally Ann started in business, Sweetie-Annie’s asthma took a +turn for the worse, and she was obliged to give up her shop and go to +live with her daughter, so that Sally Ann was able to buy her bottles and +pans for next to nothing, and get all her trade forby. + +Not that Sally Ann would ever make a success of the business if it were +left to her. Indeed no; it was a case of constant watching to see that +she didn’t give the candy away to any red-cheeked bairn that pushed his +nose against the window. Things had come to such a pass one day that +she had even caught her putting her thumb on the weight side of the +scales right under her very eyes, and she had barely prevented her from +giving the Fraser bairn three half-penny’s worth of butterscotch for his +half-penny. + +It was the like of _this_ which proved that Sally Ann was not fit to +serve the public, and that finally persuaded her to don her black satin +gown and serve the candy herself. It was a sorry down-come that the widow +of an insurance man, with a brass plate on his door, should be serving +candy to any wet-nosed bairn that had a half-penny to spend; but the +black satin gown made it bearable. And even the like of Skilly’s Gype, +that carried a high head and an impudent tongue in it, had been impressed +by the gold locket, and remarked that it “dootless had cost a bonnie +penny”; and when he ordered a pair of knitted gloves, he asked if she +would _mind_ knitting them in a heather mixture color; so it wasn’t as if +they didn’t _know_ that she was above such doings. + +It had been a bitter privation to give up the front parlor and turn +it into a shop where all and sundry could come to geek and glower; +and harder still to take the lace curtains off the window and fill it +with pans of candy. She didn’t want to do it, but Sally Ann had been +determined about this; she had even gone the length of saying: “It’s no +secret that we’re sellin’ candy, mither.” That wasn’t like Sally Ann, she +was unreasonable and feckless like the father of her, but it was seldom +that she was impudent. + +Sally Ann turned out to be very notional about the window. She thought +it was a tasty-like arrangement to have the woolen gloves knitted the +same color as the candy, and hang the pink gloves above the pink candy, +and the red above the red. But everybody kept crying for navy blue and +heather mixture gloves, and try as she would, Sally Ann couldn’t make +heather mixture candy, and when she did manage to make _something_ like +it, it was so queasy-looking that the bairns wouldn’t buy it. + +So there hung the pink gloves and the red, and the green and white ones +that matched the peppermint rock, and nobody would buy them. But Sally +Ann didn’t care. They charmed her eye, and she excused them to herself +and to her mother by saying: “We have t’ look on ’t as necessary oot-lay +t’ decorate the winda. It lets them ken we sell gloves as weel as candy.” + +She banked the back of the window up with pink and red geraniums, and +sometimes in the quiet of the morning, she would steal out to the middle +of the street and take a sly look at it, coming back to say guilelessly: +“It’s unco bonnie, mither, I hae the real knack o’ trimmin’ a winda.” + +But Mistress MacIntosh would only sigh, and her sigh would mean: “T’ +think that I hae come t’ _this_!” It made Sally Ann feel guilty, as if +somehow in selling candy, she were also selling her mother’s pride, bit +by bit in paper bags; and she would take tentie[21] steps on the edges +of her feet the rest of the morning, and speak to her mother only in +compassionate whispers. + +There was something gleyed[22] about Sally Ann. She had started to be a +perfect copy of her mother, and then lost heart. Her prominent brows were +made to be heavily marked with dark eyebrows, but instead, each hovered +naked as an unstroked T above a timid, vague blue eye. Her shoulders had +the challenging set of her mother’s, and her dominant cheek-bones were +molded by the same firm hand, but her hair was the yellow of a mavis’ +breast, and her ways were shy and tender, as if some essence of her +gentle father had crept by mistake into the wrong casket. + +In the shelter of her room as she braided her hair by the candle-light, +Sally Ann would dream rash and glowing dreams of flashing lovers who +would not be denied. Or walking alone in the bracken-scented gloaming, +she would thrill in sweet enchantment at the thought of some bold +gallant, riding down the lane to clasp her wildly to his breast. + +But it was only in her dreams that she was brave enough to lift eyes to +them; for the very approach of a man made her wits fly two ways at once +in a frenzy of embarrassment. Before her sister died, leaving her to +provide for the family, she had been steeped to the lips in mortification +at her mother’s constant angling after a man for her. She liked it better +the way it was now, with her mother on the watch to prevent her seeing +any man who might want to marry her. There was more room for self-respect +in that; although in truth, as she told herself ruefully, her mother had +no need to watch; the gallants of Drumorty took little heed of _her_, +they hankered after quick-eyed saucy lasses that were loud in their +laughing, and free at tossing gibe for gibe. + +Sally Ann also hated the “church socials” at which she would perch +nervously on the edge of a chair, with a strained smile to show that +she was enjoying herself. As she sat hour after hour watching the lads +petitioning smiles from other lasses, but with never an eye for _her_, +she would seem to herself to get smaller and smaller and quieter and more +gray with every passing hour, until she would think that she had become +invisible, and would relax her effort to smile; but then her mother would +nudge her, whispering impatiently: “Dinna sit there wi’ a face that would +sour milk; there’s nae lad likes a dour-faced lass.” And she would pick +up her smile again and wear it dutifully the rest of the evening. + +Each time she would plead to stay at home, saying that sitting so long +gave her a stiff neck, as indeed it did; but her mother insisted, and +somehow managed to prove that it was some unnatural ingratitude in Sally +Ann that made her not want to go. + +But all that was changed now. Far from urging her to go, Mistress +MacIntosh even contrived to have “a sinkin’ aboot her heart” every time +there were any social doings, so that Sally Ann had to stay at home and +tend her. She even kept her from going to serve the customers in the +front parlor, except on those rare occasions when the water on her knee +made her a cripple. And she believed that Sally Ann was content, and +would never give marrying a thought unless some man came troubling her +with his haverings. + +It was a Monday morning when Sally Ann made all the treacle candy for the +week. She always pulled it on a big hook in the front parlor, and because +customers might come in, she wore her sky-blue print gown fresh from the +ironing. + +“Here’s Skilly’s Gype ridin’ doon the brae, the dirt flyin’ o’er his head +as if auld Nick were at his heels,” commented Mistress MacIntosh. “He’ll +be after his gloves, an’ them barely cast on yet. Tak’ the candy ben the +hoose, Sally Ann; ye’ll no’ be wantin’ t’ hae speech wi’ the like o’ him.” + +“I canna, mither,” Sally Ann protested. “I hae t’ pull it when it’s at +_this_ heat, or I’ll hae t’ heat it o’er again.” + +“Weel then, turn yer back on him, and dinna let on ye ken he’s here.” + +“He’ll think I’m deaf,” said Sally Ann with a flustered giggle. Her heart +was capering queerly at the nearing clatter of hoofs. + +“Better think ye deaf than think ye wanton,” warned her mother, bracing +herself against the Gype’s arrival by feeling if her lace cap was +straight. + +He came in like a hurricane and was filling the parlor to the ceiling +before Sally Ann had time to catch up with her heart. Everything about +him, from his checked yellow waistcoat to his crinkling red hair bespoke +achievement and the poise and pride that comes of it. + +Ten years ago they had called him daft-like, and nicknamed him “Skilly’s +Gype,” and had cried down scorn upon him at market and meeting-place +because he had come back from Aberdeen University with new-fangled +notions about farming. And the worthies had held their sides when he put +a roller over his newly sprouted oats; and loud had been their clamor +over the “tiled bathrooms for his Jersey cows.” This was when he put a +tiled gutter and running water in byre. But the derision had died out +when his oats and Jerseys robbed them of the best county prizes; and +though they called him “the Gype” still, and cracked their jokes about +his waistcoats, there was not one of them above stepping up to Skilly +Farm on a dark evening to ask him for a little advice. And now that “Auld +Skilly” was dead, and the Gype owned the farm, the lassies were fairly on +tiptoe at his approach and angling to catch him with every wile, as much +for the fine figure of a man he was, as for the grand farmhouse and byre +full of Jerseys. + +But he had a high-handed way with them, and never went so far forward +that he couldn’t step back, for he was not minded to be married for his +Jersey cows, and indeed, he was not minded to be married at all while +there were willing red lips to be kissed and new waists to be circled in +Drumorty. + +He included Sally Ann in his hearty “Guid day t’ ye,” but minding her +mother’s warning, she didn’t turn round. Indeed, she _couldn’t_ have +turned round, in such a flurry was she. The sound of his horse’s hoofs +had made her heart float out of her, and for the moment he was strangely +mixed up with the lover of her dreams, whose horse’s hoofs also sprayed +the sod behind him in his haste to reach her side. + +“Yer gloves are no’ but just cast on yet,” Mistress MacIntosh was saying +discouragingly. + +But the Gype was leaning far over the counter to attract Sally Ann. + +“How long will I hae t’ wait t’ get some o’ the candy ye’re pullin’, Miss +MacIntosh?” + +Her mother made answer, cutting off his view of Sally Ann. “We hae lots +o’ treacle candy all ready in the winda. How much wad ye be wantin’?” + +“But I’m minded t’ hae some o’ the fresh,” he answered, stepping round +the short counter to Sally Ann’s side. Seeing him, she missed the hook, +and the candy would have fallen had he not deftly grabbed it and tossed +it upon the hook again. + +“It’s sticky stuff, that,” he laughed, taking out his handkerchief to +wipe his fingers. Sally Ann smiled shyly up at him. + +“It’s the verra color o’ yer hair,” he said, contemplating her. “Only +it’s no’ so bonnie as yer hair.” + +“Yer horse is scarin’ at something,” said Mistress MacIntosh with a +clinking chill in her voice. “Better tend t’ yer ain business and let +the lassie tend t’ hers. She wants none o’ yer haverin’, keep that for +Bransbog’s lassies that hae nothing better t’ do than listen t’ the like +o’ ye.” + +“Mither!” cried Sally Ann reproachfully. + +“Dinna ‘Mither’ me,” snapped Mistress MacIntosh. “Gae ben the hoose as I +tel’t ye in the first place.” + +“Mither—” began Sally again. + +“Na, noo,” remonstrated the Gype. “I’ll no’ tak’ a bite oot o’ the lass.” +He put out a hand to detain Sally Ann, but, obeying a commanding signal +from her mother, she had the candy from the hook and was through the door +like a frightened squirrel. + +“Be steppin’ yer way, ma mannie,” said Mistress MacIntosh with withering +patronage. + +The Gype loitered. “I’ll tak’ a pound o’ candy first.” He was not minded +to go at Mistress MacIntosh’s bidding; it pleased him to make her drop +her triumphant air and reach down groaningly to the shelf under the +counter for a bag of candy. + +“Noo,” he said, with the devil dancing in his face, “present it t’ Miss +MacIntosh wi’ my compliments an’ tell her frae me that I’d tak’ her +walkin’ if she didna hae such an ill-natured mither.” + +“Awa’, ye impudent bletherskate, an’ tak’ yer candy wi’ ye. I’ll break +her twa legs afore I let her tak’ a step wi’ the like o’ ye.” + +“We’ll see aboot that,” he mocked. “Tell her I’ll be in by on my way home +t’ kiss her guid night.” + +“Awa’!” Mistress MacIntosh was too angry for further speech. “Na, ye’ll +no leave it here,” she cried as he pushed the candy back at her, and +hurried laughing from the shop, banging the door so hard that the glass +bell that covered the wax flowers on the mantel, jarred loose and crashed +to the floor. She hurried round the counter as fast as her stiff knee +would let her, intending to throw his candy after him, but as she heard +the thud of departing hoofs, she stopped to consider it. After all, it +was a shilling’s worth of candy and it had been paid for; and she could +sell it again and never let on to Sally Ann; and forby that, she would +charge him for the broken bell the next time he came in. + +The Gype went thudding down the street, scattering the sod along the +gutter-side as he went, and laughing in appreciation of his own wit. Then +he bethought him of Sally Ann and his threat to kiss her good night. He +hadn’t meant it at the time. But why should he not? He was surprised +that he hadn’t noticed before how bonnie her hair was. And she had a +soft-like look in her eyes that was unco becoming in a young lass. He +recalled the rustling cleanness of her starched blue gown. He liked that +in a lass. His mother had always said it was an ill sign when a woman +could bear to be aught but spotless. She was wont to say: “Dirt on the +sark[23] is a sign o’ dirt on the soul.” And he believed her words to +be true, although he had often found her too clean for comfort when she +would follow him through the house with a besom[24] and a duster, crying +out upon him for a worthless clout that kept her cleaning from morning +to night. Nevertheless he felt it was a failing that brought her all the +nearer to the kingdom of Heaven; and somehow his heart could never center +for long on a lass who was not “persnickety” about dirt. There had been a +chorus-girl in Aberdeen who could keep him waiting by the hour, and who +had even made him miss a class or two to humor her; but a glimpse of her +grimy chemise showing at the neck of her dress had cured him of that. + +You could tell that Sally Ann was clean right to her skin; and how white +her skin was, almost blue-white, like milk that had been skimmed. It +would not be a very sore trial to have to kiss Sally Ann! He grinned at +that. How would she take it? She would like it, of course. She would +pretend that she didn’t, but she _would_. He knew his worth too well +to doubt that. Doubtless she would be proud and brag about it. He must +watch, though. No use letting a lass think fun was more than fun. Lasses +had a way of seeing wedding rings and the like—queer how the least thing +could set them thinking that way. It would be wise to make it clear to +begin with—that was the best way. + +Then he wondered who came courting Sally Ann. There was sure to be +somebody, for all her quietness. His mother had often said that the +quiet ones were the worst. She had been a wise woman, his mother. Maybe +Sally Ann knew a lot more than she was minded to let people see. She +had given him a look, shy-like up out of the corner of her eyes. There +had been encouragement in it, for all it was shy and soft-like. Oh, she +was no guileless lamb, blush though she may. It might well be that she +was as free with her kisses as Bransbog’s lasses, for all her mousey +ways. Doubtless she was expecting him this very minute, and thinking him +blate[25] that he hadn’t ridden round to the back of the house as soon +as he left the shop. And why hadn’t he? Dullard that he was, to keep a +lass waiting! He wheeled his horse about, his mouth widening roguishly. +“All right, Sally Ann. I’m no’ one t’ keep a lass waitin’ for a kiss. My +mither always tel’t me I must be obligin’ wi’ the women-folk.” + +Sally Ann dumped the candy back in the pan, and took her flushed cheeks +out to the back yard. Her heart needed more room to beat. She was +dismayed by the pother it was making, and looked round for some sane +thing to do with her hands. Something to steady her. + +A bag of oats for the chickens stood near. She noticed for the first +time that rust had made little holes in the tin basin, and she found +herself trying to push a kernel of oats through one of the holes. “Fine +nonsense,” she scolded, stopping herself. “Fine nonsense, this,” and with +reproving haste she filled the basin and took it down to the henhouse, +although it was unheard of and witless to give chickens their evening +meal at ten in the morning. She stood scattering the oats before the +lackadaisical hens and wondering at herself that she could be so mazed by +the Gype. + +“It’s no’ as if I thought he meant a word o’ ’t,” she reasoned. “And what +did he say, but that my hair is the color o’ the candy, which is nothing +but the bare truth. Fine nonsense, this, to fash mysel’ o’er a bare +civility.” + +She barely heard the Gype ride up to the hedge when he vaulted over +it, high-headed, thinking she was waiting there for him. He swaggered +approaching her, his cap far back upon his head, his lip lifted in +amusement over his glistening teeth. + +Expecting some coquettish resistance, he lunged toward her and circled +her tightly with his arms. The pan slipped from her hands and rolled away. + +Sally Ann, crushed against his breast, lay quiet. This was her dream as +she had dreamed it. This was love. This was her lover come to claim her. +A tide of sweetness welled up to her eyes. + +Her quietness surprised the Gype, who would have understood better if she +had given him a clout on the ear. + +He looked down at her quince-colored head lying bright against the rough +gray of his coat. + +“She’s a bonnie lass,” he jested to himself. “It would be ill-done to +disappoint her.” He felt for her chin and raised her scarcely resisting +face. She looked up at him timidly; tears darkened her yellow lashes. +In alarm the Gype relaxed his hold. “This is a bonnie business,” he +reflected irritably. “Devil take me for a witless lout to meddle wi’ her. +She’ll hae me walkin’ down the aisle to the altar afore I’ve time t’ draw +my breath.” + +He would have taken his arms away, but Sally Ann leaned helplessly +against him. He was thinking of escape when a smile flickered across her +tear-wet face. This reassured him. So she wasn’t blaming him. Maybe she +wasn’t taking him as seriously as he had feared. Some women cried for +nothing, and meant nothing by it. + +His arms closed about her again and his arrogant lips covered her warm +mouth. Its willingness bewildered and conquered him. His emotions took a +new color, his arms about her were more gentle and his lips sought her +kisses with greater tenderness. He thought how soft and small she was +against his breast, and how foolish she was to trust him so. He must warn +her of that. A man might well think her wanton to be so free. + +Sally Ann turned her face against his shoulder, a gentle sobbing +fluttered in her throat, her small round body drooping in his arms. +Seeing her so helpless, he thought he understood, and a bitter shame +smote his heart. He had frightened her! Frightened her so that she was +powerless to resist him. He had thought her free; had thought her willing +for his kisses, and all the time the poor lass had been too mazed to cry +out against him. Oh, prideful popinjay that he was, he had frightened the +lass out of her wits, and now she was crying as if the heart of her would +break in two. + +“Oh, Sally Ann,” he cried, “I didna mean t’ fright ye so. Dinna +greet,[26] dinna greet, my wee lamb. I’m a lout that’s no’ worth the +hangin’, but I’d bake on a griddle afore I’d do aught t’ harm ye, Sally +Ann.” + +She stopped sobbing, wondering at the trouble in his broad flushed face. + +“Yer no’ a lout,” she said, ignoring all his protestations save that one. +Eager to drive away the signs of weeping, he was daubing awkwardly at her +face with his red-spotted handkerchief. But more tears kept falling, for +Sally Ann was so full of happiness it _had_ to overflow. + +“Sally Ann,” came shrilly from the house. + +“My mither,” cried Sally Ann, and her eyes became alert. “She’ll flay me +alive.” + +“Wait,” begged the Gype, staying her as she started toward the house. +“Will ye meet me at gloamin’? Come along the Bracken Lane. I’ll be +waitin’, Sally Ann.” + +“I canna.” + +“Ye can. I’ll be waitin’,” he urged, releasing her struggling hand as the +cry from the house rang again more insistent. + +“I canna,” and she darted away. + +He watched her as she ran unsteadily along the cobble path between the +rows of boxwood, and when the last pale blue glimmer of her was lost in +the shadow of the doorway he went soberly out by the gate and found his +horse. + +It was a day of mazement past all telling. What pans of candy were left +to burn. What pails of water left to overflow. What questions left +without answer. Well might Mistress MacIntosh cry out upon her for a +heedless limmer. No warlock upon the moors at evening ever went its way +with less direction than did Sally Ann. At gloaming she sought her room +beneath the thatch, brushing her hair with hands that flew aimlessly and +got tangled. And when at last she was ready, dressed in her Sunday best +taken by stealth from the kist on the stair landing, she found that no +feet of hers could take her one step from the shelter of her room. + +Could _she_ go boldly down the lane to meet a lad at evening time? Could +_she_ walk up to him with lightsome words upon her lips as he stood +waiting there? Oh, no, she could not. Lasses there were that could go +with high heads and light laughing, and go, and go again. But _she_ could +not. Trysts in the gloaming were not for her. + +She sat down upon her chair again, contemplating herself in the blistered +glass between the candle-sticks. Oh, to be broad-hipped and glib-tongued +like Bransbog’s lasses; to toss a lightsome head when lads were havering; +to swing by in rustling petticoats, confident that they were admiring. +Oh, to be _anybody_ but Sally Ann MacIntosh, so that the Gype might love +her. Oh, to _know_ that he loved her, so that she might be bold enough to +go to him! + +And what had made her believe that the like of the Gype, proud footed as +he was, could love Sally Ann MacIntosh? What folly was it that made her +think that he was waiting for her now? Why would the Gype, sought as he +was by every lass in Drumorty, why would the Gype love her? + +Oh, it was well she had come to her senses! Fine food for laughter it +would be if she walked down the lane to meet the Gype; fine food for +laughter if she found him there with Bransbog’s lassie, waiting to see +her come; or with the MacKenty lass that had so sharp a tongue. Well was +it, that her feet were wiser than her head and kept her home where none +could see her folly. She began to undo the black ribbon at her neck, +which was clasped by the brooch of twisted gold. + +By sunset the Gype had reasoned with himself that no lass could cry over +a kiss of his. The little limmer had tricked him, had made him go further +than he meant. Oh, well, he was not unwilling to make her happy for a +time. She was a bonnie wee lass. He turned his horse into the Bracken +Lane with a sense that he was being very kind to Sally Ann. He had come +early, for he knew that in her eagerness to see him again she would think +gloaming had come when the sun had barely set and it would not be the +gallant thing to keep her waiting. He was pleased with himself. He liked +to make a lass happy. + +Dismounting, he found a place to tie his horse, not so near that every +passer-by could see it from the road, for he was not minded to be +explaining to Bransbog’s lass, nor to Janet MacKenty whose tongue was +keen, nor even to Mary MacIntyre, though _she_ would never reproach him; +but it was hard to bear with her when she sat with tight lips and looked +past him as if seeing warlocks. A lass had many ways of making a man +itch to slap her. He sat where he could see Sally Ann approaching, and +measured with his eye just where her head would come as she turned the +corner by the sweetbrier rose-bush. It got darker and he had to change +his seat in order to see the road. He had been wrong to think that she +would come early. Of course she would come late. They always did for the +first tryst. Lasses were so retiring to begin with, and so demanding at +the finish. He wished that they worked the other way, it would save him +many a weary hour. It was getting murky and thick and well past gloaming. +Sally Ann could come now without any blame of being hasty at a tryst. + +Doubtless she was on her way. Little limmer to keep him waiting so. But +clever little limmer! + +The moon was coming up. This was past a joke, past clever wiles. The lass +must be blate to think he’d wait for her till moonrise. She must set high +store by herself to think he’d cool his heels for two hours waiting for +a kiss of hers. Did she think that James Minty of Skillymarnoe was sore +put-to to get a lass to meet him at gloaming? Thought she that? What had +she to command her that she set such value on herself? Little that _he_ +could see. Nothing for looks, and never a penny to her name. Was he going +to sit till he took root waiting for such a lass? + +No, he was but waiting to let her see how little store he set on any +kiss of hers. He’d make her rue this high-handed work. He had set down +higher-headed wenches than Sally Ann MacIntosh. When she came, he would +kiss her light-like, and he’d talk a while cheerily, then he’d say +canty[27] and smiling at her, “Weel, my lass, it’s gettin’ late. I maun +be gaun’ back to Skilly.” And he would be forgetful to kiss her good +night, but very friendly with it all for fear she thought that he was +vexed. And when next he saw her he would call her “Miss MacIntosh” as if +naught had been between them. + +But she wasn’t coming, that was clear. How could he lower her pride for +her if she didn’t come near him? He’d go after her. Just at first it +would give her more reason for her pridefulness, but the higher he made +her think of herself, the greater would be her down-come when he passed +her by. + +Sally Ann was braiding her hair with troubled fingers when she heard +a light tap upon the small window that opened upon the roof of the +peat-shed. Her heart told her who it was, and she hurriedly snuffed +out the candles, fearing that he could see her as she sat there in her +nainsook night-gown with the frilled cuffs. + +But how could he come without a sound? How climb the roof without her +brother hearing? + +The tapping again! How dare he knock so loudly? How could he be so bold? +Her fingers danced about the dressing table in a frenzy. She was afraid, +but wildly happy. “Fairly batterin’ down the hoose t’ get me,” her heart +sang. Oh, that this should happen to _her_. And then she saw his face +against the window-pane, a white wedge in the moonlight. He was raising +the sash. Her heart broke into panic. What should she do? Should she call +her mother? + +The Gype was propping the sash with his shoulder. There was just room for +his arm and face in the narrow opening of the window. + +“Sally Ann,” he whispered, searching for her in the dark room. “Come +here.” + +“I canna,” she whispered back at him, but left the chair and came a +little way toward him. + +“Come here,” he said again as she paused timidly. + +“I canna,” she answered, coming nearer as she spoke. + +“Come and kneel by me,” he commanded. + +“I canna,” she said softly, but came and knelt by the window so that her +face was level with his. + +“Noo ye’ll gie me a kiss, Sally Ann MacIntosh,” he said, catching hold of +her. + +“I canna,” she gasped. How sweet was the tumult in her heart! + +“Ye _will_.” + +“No, I canna,” she faltered, praying that he would insist. + +“It would be a sore pity t’ wake yer puir sick brother,” he whispered +mockingly. “A sore pity, but there’s a loose slate by my foot, and down +it goes unless ye kiss me this minute.” + +“Oh!” + +“It would be ill done t’ wake him, puir lad,” sighed the Gype. + +“No, dinna,” she begged. + +“Weel, I’m waitin’.” He thrust his gleaming face through the opening. + +“Then I maun do it,” said Sally Ann, more to assure herself than him. + +“First put yer arms about my neck,” he ordered. + +“I canna.” But her arms trembled to obey. + +“Down goes the slate then,” he threatened. + +Her arms flew up in obedience. Oh, how bold she was. How bold, but how +happy. + +“Kiss me!” + +“I canna,” she said, and kissed him eagerly. + +“Again an’ longer,” he ordered. + +“I canna,” kissing him as she spoke. + +“Na, dinna stop,” he said, as she drew back. “Ye’ll hae t’ keep on wi’ +the kissin’, for I’m sorely tempted t’ kick down the slate.” + +“Oh!” Surely this was Paradise. + +“I’m sorry for ye, Sally Ann,” he commiserated. “It’s a sore trial t’ hae +t’ kiss me.” + +“It’s no’ a trial,” she whispered shyly. + +“Is it no’?” His voice was eager, and then he was vexed at his eagerness. +He was there to lay low her pride. This was the time that he should go +away and leave her. Leave her lightsomely, and then, when next they met, +greet her as if naught had ever been between them. + +But it would be well, and nothing more than just, to let her tell why she +had broken the tryst. So he’d sound her out on that. + +“I’m thinkin’ ye hate me for my impudence,” he ventured. + +“I dinna hate ye,” she said softly, a timid hand reaching up to his +crinkling hair. + +“Then why did ye no’ meet me?” + +“I couldna.” + +“Fine story, _that_,” he cried scornfully. “Nae lass ever missed a tryst +t’ please her mither.” + +Sally Ann could not answer. How could she say all that was in her breast? +How tell him that her feet were not brave enough to go to him? Go to him? +Oh, no, her heart was too faint with her unworthiness. Sally Ann had no +words to tell him this. + +The Gype brooded upon her silence. “She didna wish t’ cheapen hersel’ by +meeting me at the first askin’,” he told himself. Here was a lass who was +not minded to melt in his mouth like a ripe berry at the first tasting. +Here was a lass that would take some reaching for. And she was right. His +mother had always said: “A worthy bride’s no’ easy won.” She had been a +wise woman, his mother. + +But he was thinking of Sally Ann as a bride? Oh, no, but there was no +harm admiring a lass that held herself high. He wondered what she thought +of him, and longed for some reassurance, some word to show that she did +not quite despise him. + +“Ye dinna hate me, Sally Ann?” + +She shook her head. + +“Yer no’ angry that I made ye kiss me?” + +She shook her head again. + +“Will ye let me kiss ye, Sally Ann?” + +She nodded shyly and turned her face to his. And then he knew that there +was nothing sweeter than to lie there on the slated roof in the moonlight +with Sally Ann’s timorous arms about his neck, and her breath, fragrant +as the air from new milk, upon his face. He knew that there was nothing +dearer than the warmth of her lips upon his, and the gentle flutter of +her breast. + +And so throughout the months of sweetbrier roses, and well into +berry-picking time, he sought Sally Ann by stealth upon the roof or in +the gloaming along the Bracken Lane. And on market days, when Mistress +MacIntosh was well occupied, he would venture into the kitchen for a +hasty kiss. But he had never said a word of marriage to Sally Ann, and +though at times she saw herself riding to the kirk in Skillymarnoe’s +phæton behind the dappled grays, she would push the picture away from +her, not daring to look upon its brightness. Nor did she grieve at +the thought that it might never be, but rather she held her happiness +breathlessly, as one might hold a gleaming bubble with spread fingers. + +It was the evening of “Stookie Sunday” and the Gype had been to the kirk +to pray for drought to dry the grain, for this was the only occasion +when he put any faith in the Lord. He had hoped to overtake Sally Ann in +the Bracken Lane, but she was not at the kirk, and neither was Mistress +MacIntosh. This was more than unusual, it came nigh to being alarming, +and the Gype made sure that some mishap had come to young Sandy. So it +was with little caution that he sought Sally Ann in the kitchen. + +“Yer brother?” he asked as he entered the door. + +“Na,” said Sally Ann, understanding him. “It was the hens.” + +“The hens?” + +“Aye. They’re crop-bound. We fed them wi’ the oats left frae decoratin’ +the kirk. My mither thinks it’s a visitation frae the Lord for stintin’ +Him. We hae operated on sax o’ them wi’ Sandy’s razor. Five are doin’ +fine, but this ane’s like t’ pass awa’!” + +She put the basket with the drooping Black Minorca hen upon the table. +The Gype inspected it, fingering its faded comb soberly. + +“Tell yer mither t’ put a drop o’ oil t’ keep the feathers frae stickin’.” + +“Aye, she’s done that. Ye’d better awa’,” Sally Ann advised. “My mither’s +only at the hen hoose.” + +“Come down the lane, then.” + +“Na, I couldna an’ leave the hens.” + +“Hens or no hens, I’ll no’ leave without a kiss.” He pressed her close, +and held her all the closer as she struggled, begging him to mind her +mother. + +And then it was too late. Mistress MacIntosh stood in the doorway, a +wilting hen under either arm, her face as red as the combs upon their +heads. + +“Fine work this on a Sabbath day! Fine wanton’s work! Standin’ there +haverin’ wi’ the scum o’ the earth while a hen worth eighteen pence is +like t’ pass awa’. Lord pity me that I brought the like o’ ye into the +world, ye wanton limmer.” + +“Nae more o’ that!” cried the Gype. “Ye’ll no’ call wife o’ mine a wanton +limmer.” + +“Wife o’ _yours_,” screamed Mistress MacIntosh derisively. + +“Aye, just that,” said the Gype with furious calm. “Sally Ann, come wi’ +me.” + +“No’ a foot,” cried her mother. “Oot o’ my hoose, ye worthless prodigal, +afore I hae my sick laddie rise frae his bed t’ throw ye oot.” + +“Sally Ann,” said the Gype, “I maun go for Sandy’s sake. Meet me in the +lane.” + +“Niver!” cried Mistress MacIntosh. + +“The lass has a tongue o’ her ain,” the Gype reminded her scathingly as +he went. + +Sally Ann faced her mother, trembling, but there was something of new +strength in her blue eyes. + +“Dinna glower at me,” cried her mother. “Tak’ yer sinful face oot o’ my +sight. Up t’ yer room, ye worthless besom!” + +“I canna, mither, I maun meet him,” said Sally Ann in a voice so quiet +with certainty that Mistress MacIntosh floundered, incredulous. + +“Ye defy yer ain mither? Oh, that I should live t’ see this day!” She set +the hens down hurriedly, not caring how they flopped helplessly on the +floor, and clutched the front of her bodice, gasping as she did when her +sinking spells were upon her. + +Sally Ann regarded her with troubled eyes, but made no move toward her. + +“Dinna hae a sinkin’ spell, mither,” she advised, “for I maun leave ye.” + +“Devil tak’ my glib tongue,” thought the Gype as he went striding down +the lane. “What call had I t’ go proposin’ marriage? I’m no’ hankerin’ +t’ be tied faster than a ram at shearin’ time. Forby that the lass never +looked for it. Never so much as said, ‘It maun be lonesome for ye at +Skillymarnoe.’ Never so much as mentioned that a hoose is na a hame +without a woman in it. Never even tried t’ sew a button or mend a sock +for me.” + +No, he couldn’t blame the lass. She was not one to snare a lad with wiles +and glances. But it was not too late. He could pull in his horns again, +blame his hasty speech upon her mother, and keep away from Sally Ann. +Never see her again, that would be best. + +Never see Sally Ann again? What havering was this? How could he live +without seeing Sally Ann? What would he do without her kisses at +gloaming? What could he do without her gentle glances? It was for Sally +Ann he hurried through the day with lightsome singing. It was for Sally +Ann he had painted the barn. How could he live without Sally Ann? + +He looked yearningly along the lane. Why didn’t she come? He could not +bear this waiting. His heart was harried with the need to hold her. How +could she loiter so? + +And then he saw her coming, her feet falling daintily upon the +moss-dappled path. How could she take such care in coming? How dally so? +He could not bear the space between them any longer, and so he ran to +meet her, stumbling in his eagerness, his face strained with the pain of +his need. + +“Oh, Sally Ann,” he cried, sweeping her within his grasp. “I canna wait. +Say ye’ll have me. I ken I should hae asked ye afore. I ken I should hae +asked ye different—Sally Ann!” + +Sally Ann could not speak. She was full of shame that she had ever +doubted him. He had meant this from the first! He had been courting her +for marriage, and she had thought he held her lightly. She had given +him her kisses while she had doubted him. Oh, he must never know. He +must never know what a wanton heart was in her breast. She was so poor a +thing, how could he love her so? And from the full tide of her humility, +she cried, “How can ye want me for a wife, that none has ever sought +before?” + +And the Gype replied—for this answer had come to him many times as he +wondered at his love for her: “It takes a man o’ taste t’ appreciate ye, +Sally Ann.” + +And she was happy, not seeing that half the compliment was for himself. + + +THE END + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +[1] A close-frilled cap. + +[2] Without strength, worthless. + +[3] Ask, particularly ask in marriage; proposal. + +[4] One who rents a small portion of a farm from the farmer and gives his +services in exchange. The cotter’s wife also assists in the farm kitchen +and in the fields at harvest time, so a cotter’s wife must be strong. + +[5] Field daisy. + +[6] Very. + +[7] Worthless, impudent girl. + +[8] Every. + +[9] A built in box for holding peats. + +[10] Infant. + +[11] Man. + +[12] Scarecrow. + +[13] A corruption of Geck, a term of derision, applied especially to one +who puts on airs. + +[14] High hat. + +[15] Something requiring careful attention, like a newly hatched chicken +under which a board is placed to keep its feet off the damp ground. + +[16] Pinched, thin. + +[17] Trunk. + +[18] Worry. + +[19] Witch-body, applied to anything that doesn’t use human reasoning. + +[20] Nonsense, flattery. + +[21] Careful, cautious, quiet. + +[22] Off the straight, wrong, oblique. + +[23] Shirt, vest. + +[24] Broom made of heather. + +[25] Dull-witted. + +[26] Cry. + +[27] Cheery. + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79252 *** diff --git a/79252-h/79252-h.htm b/79252-h/79252-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b849205 --- /dev/null +++ b/79252-h/79252-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3976 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Doorways in Drumorty | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +a { + text-decoration: none; +} + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2,h3 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +h2.nobreak { + page-break-before: avoid; +} + +hr.chap { + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + clear: both; + width: 65%; + margin-left: 17.5%; + margin-right: 17.5%; +} + +img.w100 { + width: 100%; +} + +div.chapter { + page-break-before: always; +} + +p { + margin-top: 0.5em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; + text-indent: 1em; +} + +table { + margin: 1em auto 1em auto; + max-width: 40em; + border-collapse: collapse; +} + +td { + padding-left: 2.25em; + padding-right: 0.25em; + vertical-align: top; + text-indent: -2em; + text-align: justify; +} + +.tdpg { + vertical-align: bottom; + text-align: right; +} + +blockquote { + margin: 1.5em 10%; +} + +.center { + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; +} + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.footnotes { + margin-top: 1em; + border: dashed 1px; +} + +.footnote { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + font-size: 0.9em; +} + +.footnote .label { + position: absolute; + right: 84%; + text-align: right; +} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none; +} + +.larger { + font-size: 150%; +} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + right: 4%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; +} + +.smaller { + font-size: 80%; +} + +.smcap { + font-variant: small-caps; + font-style: normal; +} + +.titlepage { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 3em; + text-indent: 0; +} + +.x-ebookmaker img { + max-width: 100%; + width: auto; + height: auto; +} + +.x-ebookmaker blockquote { + margin: 1.5em 5%; +} + +.illowp100 {width: 100%;} + </style> + </head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79252 ***</div> + +<main> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span></p> + +<p class="center larger">DOORWAYS IN DRUMORTY</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span></p> + +<p class="titlepage larger">DOORWAYS<br> +IN DRUMORTY</p> + +</div> + +<p class="center"><i class="smaller">By</i><br> +LORNA MOON</p> + +<figure class="figcenter titlepage illowp100" id="book" style="max-width: 3.125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/book.jpg" alt=""> +</figure> + +<p class="titlepage">INDIANAPOLIS<br> +THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY<br> +PUBLISHERS</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span></p> + +<p class="titlepage smaller"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1921, 1922, 1924, 1925<br> +By The Bobbs-Merrill Company</span></p> + +<p class="titlepage smaller"><i>Printed in the United States of America</i></p> + +<p class="titlepage smaller">PRESS OF<br> +BRAUNWORTH & CO<br> +BOOK MANUFACTURERS<br> +BROOKLYN, N. Y.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span></p> + +<p class="center"><i>To My Dad</i><br> +<i>This, His Wee Nottie’s First Book</i></p> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2> + +</div> + +<nav> +<table> + <tr> + <td></td> + <td class="tdpg smaller">PAGE</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td><span class="smcap">The Corp’</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#THE_CORP">11</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td><span class="smcap">Silk Both Sides</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#SILK_BOTH_SIDES">27</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td><span class="smcap">The Sinning of Jessie MacLean</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#JESSIE">41</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td><span class="smcap">Wantin’ a Hand</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#WANTIN_A_HAND">65</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td><span class="smcap">The Tattie-Doolie</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#THE_TATTIE-DOOLIE">79</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td><span class="smcap">The Courtin’ of Sally Ann</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#SALLY_ANN">115</a></td> + </tr> +</table> +</nav> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span></p> + +<h1>DOORWAYS<br> +IN DRUMORTY</h1> + +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_CORP">THE CORP’</h2> + +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span></p> + +<h3><i>THE CORP’</i></h3> + +</div> + +<p>By shutting the door to within three inches of +the jamb, and moving her chair nearer the cat’s hassock +by the fire, old Kirsty could see Mistress MacNab’s +door and watch the mourners come and go.</p> + +<p>She had been sitting there for three days, secretly +watching, her dismay growing with every hour as +she realized that it was possible that Mistress MacNab +could carry her rage about the butter prize to +the extent of not bidding her to see the corpse.</p> + +<p>When Mistress MacKenty brought the startling +news on Sunday evening that “Sandy MacNab had +choked on a cold potato and hiccoughed himself to +death,” Kirsty had had a momentary qualm of +doubt. She wished she hadn’t openly scoffed at Mistress +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span>MacNab’s butter and flaunted her own first +prize on the way back from the show. It was “an +unwise-like thing to do with death so sure and life +so uncertain; but who would expect a braw man like +Sandy MacNab to choke to death on a potato?”</p> + +<p>“And besides,” she reflected, “Mistress MacNab, +be she as angry as she may, would never bury Sandy +without all the honor that was due him.” And who +in all Drumorty would think of being buried without +Kirsty Fraser to cry as the lid was screwed +down? Had she no’ cried at every funeral for forty-five +years? And was it no’ part and parcel of the +ceremony for her to have a fit when the body was +carried out? And was it no’ true that the laddies of +the village hung round the house of sorrow waiting +for the chance to run for the doctor to bring her +round?</p> + +<p>She recalled the first time. What a day that had +been! Never would she forget looking into the coffin +of Maggie Sclessor and seeing her lying there +so satisfied-like with the best-looking mutch⁠<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>Drumorty on her head. Never would she forget the +rage that had filled her at the sight. For who +would have expected Maggie Sclessor, poor as she +was, to have a hand-made lace mutch laid away to +be buried in and never to say a word about it? She +had cried with envy, but the neighbors thought it +was with grief, and they had turned their attention +from Maggie and her braw mutch to Kirsty as her +sobs grew louder; and when the doctor averred that +Kirsty had been “on the very verge o’ a fit,” they +screwed the lid down on Maggie without further +to-do.</p> + +<p>And as they carried the body out, Kirsty reflected +with satisfaction, “Weel, she had a fine +mutch, but wha will think o’ that noo?”</p> + +<p>And then, with each succeeding funeral, she had +added to her laurels; having once tasted the joy of +stealing the attention from the corpse, she could not +forego the excitement and the commiseration and +the secret gratitude of the mourners. Her “fits” +grew more and more masterly, until the neighbors +argued boastfully:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span></p> + +<p>“I’m tellin’ ye, when my man died, she had the +worst fit she ever had.” And the answer, as positive, +would be:</p> + +<p>“Mistress MacPherson, hae I no’ got the use o’ +my sight, praise be to God? Did I no’ see her eyes +roll up to heaven and her legs stiffen when my +Jeannie was carried oot?”</p> + +<p>Certainly, Mistress MacNab would never think +of burying her man without Kirsty’s being there, +butter prize or no butter prize. Thus reassured, +Kirsty had resolved to outdo all her past efforts at +the funeral of Sandy MacNab. Always in the back +of her head she had had a notion that by biting the +sides of her cheeks till they bled, and frothing the +blood upon her lips, she could give a more convincing +and gruesome fit than any she had ever given. +She had saved this for some great day. And this +was the day. The world would see that Kirsty +Fraser scorned to bear a grudge in the face of death. +She would treat Mistress MacNab better than if she +had been a friend.</p> + +<p>On Monday morning she felt so kindly toward +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>Mistress MacNab that she was minded to step over +and say a word of comfort to her. She even +thought of offering to do the “biddin’,” although +she knew full that her legs would never stand it.</p> + +<p>But Mistress MacKenty came in to say that Maggie +Tate was to do the “biddin’,” and that the +funeral was on Wednesday, adding meaningly, “But +there’s no need to tell ye that; ye’ll be the first to +be bidden, nae doot.”</p> + +<p>Her tone made Kirsty uneasy.</p> + +<p>At sundown, when Tammas, her son, came wearily +in, she watched him wash his face in the tin basin, +and as he spluttered and blew the water,—he never +thought he was clean unless he made a noise about +it,—she started to ask if he had heard anything, +but stopped, mistrusting her voice. It would no’ +do to let Tammas know that she was anxious. And +should it be that some were already bidden, Tammas +would know that she had been slighted, being +left to the last.</p> + +<p>On Tuesday the coffin was brought home. +Jimmy Tocher tripped on the step as they carried it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span>in, and it banged against the door. Kirsty could +hear Mistress MacNab raking them up-hill and +down-dale for their fecklessness, and she wanted to +join them and see for herself if they had dented +the mountings, but she couldn’t make the first +advance.</p> + +<p>At dusk she saw Maggie Tate on her rounds doing +the bidding. She cried in at Jessie MacLean’s and +then went on to Mistress MacKenty’s. “She’ll be +here inside ten minutes,” Kirsty reflected, and rose +to put the kettle on, so that she could make her a +cup of tea. “It’s unco thirsty work, biddin’ to +funerals.”</p> + +<p>It was getting too dark to see. The kettle boiled +dry, and she pulled it forward on the crane. “Mistress +MacKenty is talking her stone-blind. She’ll +never get here to-night,” she decided, but she +couldn’t give up watching.</p> + +<p>Tammas came home. He had heard something, +and was uneasy in his mind. Kirsty could tell, because +he was whistling <i>The Lass o’ Ballochmyle</i> +between his teeth, which was a sign. And forby +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>that, he said the <i>long</i> grace before supper, and he +said it slowly, as she always had begged him to. He +was trying to be kind to her; he even blew the smoke +from his pipe up the chimney instead of out across +the room. It was unnatural-like, and Kirsty knew +that his behavior meant that he was sure that she +would not be bidden to see the corpse. She resented +his giving up hope before she did. He had never +valued her fits. On occasions he had even advised +her to bide away if funerals made her take on so. +He was like his father, that he was. He was +reliable-like, but he was dull. All the Frasers were +dull. Why could he no’ speak up and say, “Ye’ll +no’ be bidden to see the corp’, and I’m glad o’ ’t,” +if that was what he was thinking? She’d give him +just a minute more; then she’d ask him outright.</p> + +<p>“Mither.” She looked at him as he spoke. To +avoid her eyes, he bent down, and used the heel of +his boot to press the tobacco into the bowl of his +pipe.</p> + +<p>“Weel?” she prompted, and there was an edge on +her voice.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span></p> + +<p>“I’m thinkin’ o’ drivin’ up to Skilly’s the morn ti +borrow their rake. Would ye like to go wi’ me?”</p> + +<p>So he believed she wouldn’t be bidden, and he was +trying to save her face. He little knew. <i>He</i> had +never set store by her fits, but others had. Mistress +MacNab might wait till the last to bid her, as was +natural; she’d do the same herself, but bid her she +would, as Kirsty knew well. So she answered +tartly:</p> + +<p>“I’m thinkin’ yer losing the wee bit o’ sense ye +were born wi’, Tammas. The morn’s Sandy MacNab’s +funeral.”</p> + +<p>Tammas reddened guiltily.</p> + +<p>“Oh, aye,” he murmured. “I had forgotten, +mither.”</p> + +<p>And now this was the day of the funeral. +Through the small space between the jamb and the +door Kirsty could see Mistress MacPherson knocking +for admission to the house of sorrow. She had +a small parcel in her hand, which she held gingerly +upright.</p> + +<p>“A jar o’ calf’s-foot jelly, nae doot,” Kirsty informed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>Tammas as she called his attention to it. +“That’s the tenth parcel since ten o’clock. Mistress +MacNab will no’ need ti buy a bite o’ food for a +fortnight.” She said this exultantly. Funerals +were Kirsty’s art, and she liked them to be successful. +“Tammas, keep out from between me an’ +the door. I can no’ see through ye.”</p> + +<p>Tammas had made another attempt to shut the +door in a yearning desire to spare her. Manlike, he +could not understand why she tortured herself by +looking on. He had seen her put on her black +mutch in readiness, and his heart was sick for her. +He wondered why she could not give up hope. He +paced the floor silently, stopping every now and +then to do some kindly useless thing; and she, knowing +what prompted him, would snap at him furiously.</p> + +<p>The minister came. Kirsty sat rigidly forward +in her chair as he was admitted and the door closed +after him. Tammas stopped pacing. He didn’t +know what to do with his hands. He tried them in +his pockets, and then took them out again, hanging +them limply by his sides.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span></p> + +<p>From over the street came the singing. Kirsty +picked nervously at the crochet edging on her +knitted wristlets. She half turned to look at Tammas, +and her voice quavered:</p> + +<p>“They’re no’ to bid me, Tammas.” But as Mistress +MacNab’s door opened and Skilly’s lad came +running out, Kirsty rose to her feet, eager and +joyous. “Aye, they’re sendin’ for me <i>noo</i>.” She +started toward the door. But the laddie ran past. +Tammas helped her back to her chair. Then, for a +Fraser, he rose to great heights.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry for them, mither,” he said. “It will +be feckless⁠<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a>⁠-like funeral without a fit at it.”</p> + +<p>She sat up at the thought, grasping at it eagerly.</p> + +<p>“Aye, will it no’, Tammas? Will it no’?” she +cried gratefully.</p> + +<p>Then, turning it over in her mind, she found it +sweet with comfort, and she chuckled while the tears +were still wet upon her face.</p> + +<p>“They’ll value my fits more than ever noo, Tammas. +Puir Sandy MacNab!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span></p> + +<p>She nursed the thought joyously. She was sorry +that it had happened to Sandy MacNab, for he had +been a good man, and deserving of honor; but she +was glad that Mistress MacNab must share the +humility.</p> + +<p>“She’s cuttin’ off her nose ti spite her face, puir +body! I could feel it in my heart ti pity her, +Tammas.”</p> + +<p>Fully recovered in spirit, she got up lightsomely, +and began to unfasten the strings of her mutch.</p> + +<p>“We’ll shut the door on the rest o’ ’t, Tammas,” +she said, and was moving toward it when Mistress +MacKenty came breathlessly in. She was burning +with news to tell, and greedy to see its effect.</p> + +<p>“Mistress MacNab is havin’ a fit, an’ Skilly’s +laddie has gone for the doctor,” she cried.</p> + +<p>“A fit!” Kirsty screamed the words in a hysteria +of unbelief. “What would <i>she</i> be knowing of a fit, +she that has never had one?”</p> + +<p>Gloating with the joy of telling it, for she had +always envied Kirsty her fits, Mistress MacKenty’s +voice swelled with gratification as she answered:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span></p> + +<p>“Such a fit as I have never seen. Her eyes are +rollin’ to heaven, and the blood is frothin’ on her +lips.”</p> + +<p>At that Kirsty’s knees began to tremble beneath +her. She put out a wavering hand and gripped +Tammas by the sleeve, striving to keep upright and +face Mistress MacKenty, who continued maliciously:</p> + +<p>“Drumorty will never forget this fit. I’ll mind +on ’t mysel’ if I ever hae a corp’.”</p> + +<p>And Kirsty Fraser knew that her glory was gone. +Another had stolen the chief jewel of her crown. +There would be none in all Drumorty who would do +her homage again.</p> + +<p>But not before Mistress MacKenty would she bow +her head. She took her hand from Tammas’ sleeve +and stood alone, and nothing in her voice as she +spoke told Mistress MacKenty that her pride lay +stricken.</p> + +<p>“Gie her the ammonia bottle to take over, Tammas. +I hae had slight fits mysel’, an’ I ken +ammonia’s good.”</p> + +<p>And Mistress MacKenty wondered at this heroic +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>thing that made Kirsty Fraser disclaim the glory +of her fits and hand her laurels to another. She +stood shamed before it, and she hung her head and +crept away, unable longer to look Kirsty Fraser in +the face.</p> + +<p>Kirsty stood till she had gone; then her hand +went feeling blindly for her chair. She cupped one +hand helplessly in the other as she sat. The string +of her black mutch hung down like a weary pendulum +that had wagged its hour. As Tammas knelt +by her, dumbly anxious to comfort, she whispered:</p> + +<p>“Think ye she knows I care, Tammas?”</p> + +<p>“Niver, mither. I would no’ have known it +mysel’.”</p> + +<p>Assured of that, she let the tears steal down her +wrinkled cheeks. Her hands trembled together helplessly +in her lap. Tammas reached out and held +them firmly in his, and they sat there silently +together.</p> + +<p>Her thoughts went seeking comfort everywhere, +but found none. With every funeral her pride +would die a little more; with every funeral Mistress +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span>MacNab would reap a greater triumph. None +would think of Kirsty’s fits except to say how poor +they were, and how great were the fits of Mistress +MacNab. And so until the end.</p> + +<p>“O Tammas,” she cried, “when I am dead and +lying helpless, ye’ll no’ let that Mistress MacNab +have fits at my funeral! Promise me that, +Tammas!”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="SILK_BOTH_SIDES">SILK BOTH SIDES</h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span></p> + +<h3><i>SILK BOTH SIDES</i></h3> + +</div> + +<p>“—And two and a half yards o’ four inch black +satin ribbon.”</p> + +<p>Jessie MacLean added this last fatal item with +an upward jerk of her head lest Mistress MacKenty, +at the other side of the counter, should think she +was ashamed of her purchase. But Mistress MacKenty +had a nose for news rather than an instinct +for tragedy, and by the suppressed eagerness in her +voice as she asked, “And ye’ll want it silk on both +sides I’ll warrant?” you could see that she was +already half-way down the road to the smithy to +spread the news that: “Jessie MacLean had lost +heart and would be out in a bonnet in the morn, so +help her Davey.”</p> + +<p>“Aye, silk both sides,” Jessie answered, letting her +eyes range the shelves carelessly to prove that there +was nothing momentous in her buying bonnet strings.</p> + +<p>Silk both sides proved it! A satin-faced ribbon +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span>might have many uses, but silk both sides was a +bonnet string by all the laws of millinery known to +Drumorty.</p> + +<p>Telling about it five minutes later, Mistress MacKenty +said, “I might hae been wrang when she +bought the silk geraniums, and I may hae been over-hasty +when she said ‘half a yard o’ black lace’—but +silk both sides is as good as swearing it on the +Bible.”</p> + +<p>In Drumorty, a bonnet with strings tied below the +chin means that youth is over. About the time the +second baby is born, the good wife abandons her +hat—forever—and appears in a bonnet with ties. +She may be any age from eighteen to twenty-five; +for matrimony, and motherhood, and age, come +early in Drumorty. The spinster clings longer to +her hat, for while she wears it, any bachelor may +take heart and “speer”⁠<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> her; and if she be “keeping +company” she may cling to her hat until she be +thirty “and a bittock”; but after that—if she +would hold the respect of her community, she must +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span>cease to “gallivant” about “wi’ a hat” and dress +like a decent woman, in a bonnet with ties.</p> + +<p>And Jessie MacLean was six and thirty as +Baldie Tocher could tell you, for did he no’ have +the pleasure of burying the exciseman the very +morning that Jessie first saw the light of day, and +was it no’ the very next year that Nancy MacFarland’s +cow got mired in the moss?</p> + +<p>Drumorty had been very lenient with her. Many +a good wife thought it was high time that Jessie laid +aside her hat, but always she held her peace, remembering +her bridal gown and the care with which +Jessie had made it, for Jessie was the village seamstress, +and it was a secret, whispered, that she +charged only half price for making wedding gowns, +because she liked to make them so much.</p> + +<p>Another reason for their lenience was Jock +Sclessor. For fifteen years Jock had “kept company” +with her; not one Sunday morning had he +missed “crying by” for Jessie to go to morning +service. He would come round the bend of the road +from Skilly’s farm just as the sexton gave the bell +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span>that first introductory ring which meant “bide a +wee till I get her goin’ full swing and then bide at +hame frae the kirk if ye dare”; and Jessie would +come out of her door and mince down the sanded +walk between the rows of boxwood to the gate, and +affect surprise at seeing Jock just as if she had not +been watching for him behind her window curtain +this past five minutes.</p> + +<p>Jock was the cotter⁠<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> on Skilly’s farm. Every year +he intended to “speer” Jessie when thrashing was +over. Tammas, his dog, will tell you how many +times he had been on the very point of asking her +the very next day, but—always the question of +adding another room came up and not for the life +of him could he decide whether to level the rowan +tree and build it on the east—or to move the peats +and build it on the west; and by the time he had +made up his mind to cart the peats down behind the +byre and build it on the west, lambing was round +again and he let it go by for another year.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span></p> + +<p>And every year Jessie was in a flutter as thrashing +was nearing the finish. One year she had been +so sure that he would “speer” her that she bought +a new scraper; for Jock could make your very heart +stand still, he was that careless about scraping the +mud off his boots. Often when she was alone, she +would practise ways of telling Jock that he must +clean his boots before he came in: “Good man, hae +ye forgotten the scraper?” was abandoned because +it wasn’t strictly honest, for Jessie knew full well +that he always forgot the scraper. “Gang back and +clean your feet,” was set aside also, because it was +too commanding and “Dinna forget the scraper” +was also discarded because it isn’t good to nag a +man before he has set foot in the door. But none of +the expressions had been tried out yet—for when +Jock dropped in with her, after service, Jessie hurried +him by the scraper as if it might shout at him, +“She expects you to speer her!” and so put her to +shame.</p> + +<p>But now thrashing had been over for weeks, and +every Sunday since then, she had looked for the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>white gowan⁠<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> in Jock’s coat, for what swain “worth +his ears full of cold water” ever asked the question +without that emblem of courage in his buttonhole? +It is a signal to the world that he means to propose, +that he is going in cold blood to do it—and forever +after his good wife can remind him of that, should +he suggest that he was inveigled into it by some +female wile.</p> + +<p>Last Sunday, on their way to church, Jessie +cleared her throat nervously and grasped her new +testament, bracing herself as she asked in a thin +voice that was much too offhand: “Would your +peats no’ be better sheltered in the lea o’ the byre?” +and Jock replied: “Na, they are better where they +are.”</p> + +<p>And so a hope, nourished fifteen years, died, and +through the service she sat gazing straight ahead, +with her eyes wide open, for the wider eyes are open, +the more tears they can hold without spilling over. +And next Saturday she bought black satin ribbon +“silk both sides” and the world, meaning Drumorty, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span>knew that Jessie’s tombstone would not read “Beloved +wife of ——”.</p> + +<p>In Jessie’s cottage the blinds were drawn on Saturday +evening, and you who have suffered will not +ask me to pull them aside and show you how a faded +spinster looks when she weeps; nor how her fingers +tremble when she sews upon bonnet strings; but let +me tell you how bravely she stepped out next morning +wearing her bonnet, with never a look through +the curtain to see if Jock was on his way, nor a +glance to see if the neighbors were watching. Her +step was just as firm upon the sanded path, and +her head just as high; perhaps she grasped her testament +more tightly than usual, but what soul on +the rack would not do that?</p> + +<p>Jock came round the bend as she reached the gate. +She clung to the latch to keep herself from tearing +the bonnet from her head. Oh, Fate, that sits high +and laughs, have you the heart to laugh now? Jock +was wearing a white gowan. It was just a dozen +steps or so back to the house, and a hat, and happiness; +but the world knew that she had bought +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span>bonnet strings and was that not Mistress MacKenty +watching from behind her curtain? Go forward, +Jessie—there is no turning back, and go proudly! +Open the latch and answer his “guid morning” and +smile—and don’t, don’t, let your hands tremble so, +or he will surely guess!</p> + +<p>Look your fill from behind the curtain, Mistress +MacKenty! You can not see a heartache when it +is hidden by a black alpaca gown and when the heart +belongs to Jessie MacLean!</p> + +<p>Jock Sclessor, your one chance of happiness is +now! Lead her back into the house and take the +bonnet from her head! No, laggard and fool that +you are, you are wondering if she has noticed the +gowan! Has she not! She has watched for it for +fifteen years! Speak, you fool! Don’t keep staring +at her bonnet! You dullard, Jessie must come to +your rescue, and she does, “Is the sexton no’ late +this morning?” Jessie turned out of the gate as +she spoke, snapping the latch with the right amount +of care.</p> + +<p>“Aye, later than usual,” Jock agreed. (The sexton +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span>was never late in his life, and at that moment +the bell rang out to give Jock the lie.) But Jock +was so dazed, he would have agreed if she had said, +“Let us choke the minister.”</p> + +<p>As they walked to the church, he meditated, “Evidently +she never expected me to speer her, and she’s +never so much as glimpsed the gowan. I’ll slip it +out when we kneel in the kirk. But maybe I better +sound her out first. It’s gey⁠<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> and lonesome for a +man biding by himself.”</p> + +<p>They were just turning round by the town hall +where the rowan trees are red, when he said, “I had +been thinkin’ o’ levelin’ my rowan tree.” Jessie’s +heart thumped. Here it came! (That was why he +wouldn’t move the peats.) But she wouldn’t help +him a foot of the road—she had waited too long—he +must come every step himself.</p> + +<p>“Oh, that would be a pity—it’s a bonnie tree,” +she answered.</p> + +<p>Not much help here, but he would try again. “I +was thinking o’ building.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span></p> + +<p>“Building? My certies! What could ye be +building so near the house?” this with some malice +for all the fifteen long years. But you have gone +too far, Jessie; he needs help.</p> + +<p>“I—oh—I thought I’d build a shed for peats.”</p> + +<p>Thud! That was Jessie’s heart you heard and +that queer thin voice is Jessie’s, saying, “I thought—ye +were minded to leave the peats the other side +o’ the house.”</p> + +<p>“Aye, I am minded to leave them there—but a +body canna hae too many peats.”</p> + +<p>And as they knelt in kirk, he slipped the gowan +out—and Jessie did not need to widen her eyes to +hold the tears this time. That sorrow was past, +she would never weep over it again.</p> + +<p>At home, she brewed her tea, looking round at +her rag rugs and white tidies with pleasure. The +tidy on the big chair was as white and smooth as +when she pinned it there in the morning, and there +was no mud to be carefully washed off the rug by +the door. There was a certain contentment in +knowing that it would never be; a certain exhilaration +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span>in knowing that next Sunday she could not be +disappointed, because next Sunday she would not +hope. She sipped her tea peacefully and smiled at +the bonnet sitting so restful-like on the dresser, and +at the tidy on the big chair so spotless and smooth, +and thought, “Jock Sclessor would have been a +mussy man to have about a house. I’m thinkin’ his +mother was over-lenient when she brought him up.”</p> + +<p>And Jock, at Skilly’s, was thinking, “I wouldna +had time to build it anyway. Lambing is here—and +that is too bonnie a tree to be cut down.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="JESSIE">THE SINNING OF JESSIE MACLEAN</h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span></p> + +<h3><i>THE SINNING OF JESSIE MACLEAN</i></h3> + +</div> + +<p>Jessie MacLean felt that their romance belonged +also to her, for she had seen their first meeting. It +was on a Sunday morning after service, and Jessie +was returning from her walk along by Skilly’s wood. +She was wondering as she stepped daintily, rustling +her Sunday-best alpaca gown, if the gold chain she +wore had marked her neck; and whether the gimlet-eyed +Mistress MacKenty had seen it as she sat behind +her in kirk. (Well, it wasn’t all gold, but, +as Jessie protested defensively to herself: “Pure +gold’s that soft ye have ti mix it.”)</p> + +<p>On hot Sundays it was always a race between the +sermon and the chain; about the time the minister +got to the “thirdlies” and “lastlies” Jessie was in a +fidget. She could wear the chain a bare hour and a +half without it marking if the weather was cool; +but this had been a very hot Sunday. Out of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span>sight of inquisitive eyes she stopped and spread her +handkie between the chain and her neck. Then she +turned along Skilly’s burnside intending to cross it +at the stepping-stones; and it was here she came +upon them. So flustered was she, that she forgot +the dangling handkie, but then she might have worn +ram’s horns and they would not have noticed it.</p> + +<p>Gawky and shy, they were exchanging their first +“It’s waurm the day” and “What’s yer hurry” +which in Drumorty may mean: “Who is this gallant +youth who stirs my bosom?” or, “Fair maid, eternity +were too brief, could I but spend it gazing in +your eyes.”</p> + +<p>Jessie understood, and seeing their embarrassment, +blushed in sympathy and tilted her parasol +between herself and them. She had meant to cross +the burn at the stepping-stones, but, her heart +pleasantly aflutter with a sense of being a sharer +in a secret, she kept on down the burnside until she +was out of sight; and there she sat down and removed +her shoes and stockings before hitching her +dress to her knees and wading the burn.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span></p> + +<p>Jessie’s own romance laid away in the lavender +of memory, stirred again at the thought of the two. +Walking home she pondered who the lad might be. +He was a stranger in Drumorty. The lass was +Bella Tocher, the kitchen wench at Skilly’s farm; a +well-favored lass, and hard working, rosy and full-bosomed +although barely sixteen.</p> + +<p>So engrossed was she, that she went all the way +home without remembering to remove the telltale +handkie from her neck; and never gave it a thought, +until, as she was turning in at her own door, Mistress +MacKenty leaned over the gate and sweetly +malicious, called, so that Jessie would know she had +seen: “Ye do weel ti guard agin’ blood-poisinin’, +Jessie lass.”</p> + +<p>Next Sunday Jessie did an unheard-of thing. She +stayed at home from the morning service and +watched the road to Skilly’s farm to see if the lad +would come back. She had fortified herself against +disappointment by boiling dumplings in the broth. +No matter how keen the edge of disappointment, +Jessie had proved that dumplings in the broth could +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>ease it a little. And after spending all morning at +the window watching, with a bandage bound about +her neck to advertise to the curious that a sore +throat had kept her at home from the kirk, she was +just about to turn to the dumplings for solace, +when he came by whistling and heading up the road +to Skilly’s.</p> + +<p>“My certies!” she cried, pretending to herself that +she was shocked at his ardor. “He’s back <i>again</i>, +doesna gie the lassie time to draw a lanely breath.”</p> + +<p>Feeling the need of some one to rejoice with her, +she gave the cat a dumpling. It sniffed it, and +showed its contempt for her frivolity by crossing to +the other side of the fireplace and seating itself with +its back to her. Jessie, taking this rebuff with unusual +spirit, retorted: “You’re a persnickety old +maid, there’s no’ a romantic hair on yer head.” +And to show that she wouldn’t be brow-beaten by +the cat on this joyful day, she opened the glass-door +of the what-not with a loud click; and later, ate her +dumplings off the best willow-pattern china.</p> + +<p>Through that winter Jessie didn’t need the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span>dumplings to fortify her. The lad was attentive +enough. She would see the two by the hayricks, or +wandering with fingers entwined by the burnside +every Sunday evening. But in the spring he +stopped coming. And Bella would stand for hours +watching the empty road; while Jessie in an anguish +of sympathy would watch both the girl and the road +from her corner window.</p> + +<p>Bella was listless and pale. There was something +pathetic in the way she made no pretense of doing +anything but watching. This was intolerable to +Jessie who wanted the girl to save her pride, so +when she would see a neighbor coming, she would +whisper fiercely: “Walk along as if ye were looking +for gowans, dinna let them see yer looking for the +lad,” but only the muslin curtains heard Jessie’s +advice. Bella, dazed with despair, was indifferent +to gossip.</p> + +<p>Then it was rumored that, “Bella Tocher’s lad +had gone to Edinburgh to the soldierin’.” And +after that Bella watched the road no more.</p> + +<p>It was Mistress MacKenty who said: “I’m +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span>thinkin’ Skilly’s will be needin’ a new kitchen wench +afore Whitsuntide; and there’s them that will learn +that nae guid ever came o’ gallivantin’ wi’ a strange +lad on the Sabbath day.” And having delivered this +darkly meaning speech she pursed withered lips with +vindictive relish and refused to say more, adding +only: “I hae lassies o’ my ain, it ill becomes me to +speak; but mark my words, there’ll be an elders’ +meeting in Drumorty afore many weeks.”</p> + +<p>Jessie understood now the pale watching face of +Bella; and understood, also, the despair that made +her watch for him without pretense. “Puir wee +lass,” she whispered. “Watching for her man, and +him awa’ to no’ come back.”</p> + +<p>When Mistress MacKenty came in that evening +to say, that: “Skilly was sendin’ the shameless +limmer packin’ the morn’s mornin’,” Jessie furtively +hid something white and small upon which she had +been sewing. She stood up while Mistress MacKenty +spoke, and no line of her figure, nor any tone +of her voice, could be taken to mean that she invited +Mistress MacKenty to take a chair.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span></p> + +<p>“It’s a sore disgrace to the whole parish, and +harder forby on Skilly himsel’ and him an elder o’ +the kirk.” Mistress MacKenty’s voice was dulcet +with sympathy for the poor elder. She was looking +around for a seat in which to sink and continue her +lamentations, when, in the chill silence of the +usually sympathetic Jessie, she sensed something +strange. Jessie was clasping and unclasping her +hands in front of her thin waist, and her eyes were +glinting. Could it be that the gentle Jessie MacLean +was fighting to keep her hands from flying in +the face of Mistress MacKenty? Mistress MacKenty +must have shared that wild thought also, for, +catching sight of Jessie, she paused and backed +away, suddenly remembering that she had “a pot +o’ kale on the fire,” and was gone without even +closing the door as she went.</p> + +<p>Jessie closed the door after her and bolted it, and +drew down the blinds. The little bit of white sewing +came out from its hiding-place. Mistress MacKenty +vowed next day that Jessie’s light had burned +all night but added that she didn’t know why, because; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span>“Jessie MacLean is <i>that</i> secretive her window-blinds +fit all the way round.”</p> + +<p>All next morning Jessie sat by the window watching +Skilly’s road, her head propped wearily on her +palms, a bright red spot on the wrinkled apple of +each cheek. All Drumorty was watching Skilly’s +road, but <i>not</i> with the tender purpose that was in +the heart of Jessie MacLean. Drumorty was +swollen with righteous wrath. The virtue of Drumorty +was outraged; and it was waiting to visit its +saintly indignation on the head of “the shameless +limmer.”⁠<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> Jessie shut up alone knew nothing of this.</p> + +<p>At noon she saw Bella coming along the road +toward the village street, a bundle with all her belongings +slung on her arm. She would proceed in +little tumbling runs, then stop and sway, gather +strength again, and run a little more. Sometimes +she would drop the bundle and have to get down +laboriously on one knee to pick it up.</p> + +<p>Then Jessie saw the thing that stilled her heart +for a moment. As Bella turned into the street, the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>blinds of Mistress MacPherson’s cottage snapped +down and remained, like eyelids in death. Then, +down with swift vindictiveness came the blinds of +the next cottage; Bella heard, and looked about her, +as blinds on either side of her hurried down to their +righteous window-sills. She stopped and tottered +feebly, then, as if blows were showering upon +her, she flung her arm across her face, and lowered +her head and ran.</p> + +<p>“Click” went the blind of Mistress MacKenty’s +window as she passed; this brought Jessie to her +feet with blazing eyes. Rushing out, she ran along +the street after the fleeing girl, calling: “Bella—Bella +Tocher.”</p> + +<p>Thinking she was being pursued only to be +taunted, Bella gathered her strength anew and ran +faster. Sobs rose in Jessie’s throat as she saw her +reel in her efforts to get away; and she called her +name again, trying to make her voice both loud and +coaxing. As Jessie caught up and touched her arm, +the girl stopped and faced her panting, a driven +thing, ready to fight if she must.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span></p> + +<p>“Come back to my house, Bella,” Jessie urged +breathlessly.</p> + +<p>“So ye can take yer ease while ye tell me I’ve disgraced +the parish o’ Drumorty?—So ye can tell me +I am justly punished for my sins?” Bella’s voice +rose in hysterical gasps, her white face twitched +piteously.</p> + +<p>“Na, na,” urged Jessie, speaking in soothing accents. +“Come so I can show ye the wee shirts I’ve +been makin’.”</p> + +<p>It was the tone of her voice and tears on Jessie’s +cheeks, not her words, that brought the answering +sob in Bella’s throat and softened the defensive lines +of her form.</p> + +<p>“Come back and stay wi’ me,” Jessie’s tone was +tender.</p> + +<p>Responding to it, the tears streamed down Bella’s +face, but she shook her head: “I winna stay an’ +face the elders. I’ll walk till I drop first.”</p> + +<p>“Ye’ll no’—I’ll face them for ye. Come awa’,” +Jessie coaxed, then in a warning whisper: “The +blinds are down; but they are peekin’ out below +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span>them.” She put an arm round the girl and, reaching +out a hand for the bundle, said tenderly: “Yer +nathing but a bairn yersel’—come.”</p> + +<p>Bella relinquished the bundle to Jessie’s urging +hand, and, faltering like a tired child, turned back +with her along the street of drawn blinds.</p> + +<h3>2</h3> + +<p>With what terror, or with what bravery, these +two met the turmoil of that night we may not tell. +Nor may we echo the brave words that a gentle +spinster used, to hearten an erring child in her hour +of sore trial. These things are written by the +angels, and only mothers may read them.</p> + +<p>But we may look in with dawn, and see the puckered +pink velvet son of Bella Tocher as he lies on +Jessie’s lap screaming, for he can not see yet how +near is Jessie’s lap to the tender heaven of her heart. +But we can see, and we are shamed to look unbidden +upon the glory of a spinster’s face, when mother-love +has wakened in her breast.</p> + +<h3>3</h3> + +<p>There was defiance in Jessie’s gait as she stepped +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>up to the entrance of Mistress MacPherson’s byre +at milking time that evening. She rattled the two +flagons she carried challengingly, and forestalled +any comment from Mistress MacPherson about the +extra flagon, by saying cheerily: “I’ll need a quart +extra ilka⁠<a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> day now.”</p> + +<p>Her boldness had the effect of completely winding +Mistress MacPherson, who had been waiting all day +for milking time so that she could “gie Jessie MacLean +a piece o’ her mind.” “Let her come creepin’ +up here askin’ for milk for that hussy—” Mistress +MacPherson had finished the implication with a +grim-faced nod, as she discussed the “goin’s on” with +Mistress MacKenty that morning.</p> + +<p>But Jessie hadn’t “come creepin’,” and Mistress +MacPherson, ready to attack, hesitated with that +confusion which comes also to a dog, when it has +got all ready to chase a cat that refuses to run. +Jessie, palpitating with victory, airily handed over +the two flagons; and Mistress MacPherson, unable +to rally for the moment, took them murmuring only, +“Oh, aye.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span></p> + +<p>But if it was a victory for Jessie, it only added +to the virtuous indignation Drumorty felt toward +Bella. Had Bella been found dying in a ditch that +morning, the good women of Drumorty would have +found pity for her in their hearts. But that Bella +should have faced her hour with a roof over her +head and a bed beneath her, and a kindly hand to +meet her needs; that, in the opinion of Drumorty +was nothing short of “lauding the evil-doer.”</p> + +<p>“Revelin’ in her sins,” “Made o’ and tended, as if +she were an honest woman,” these and other denunciations +flew rife at mart and meeting as the +weeks passed, and it was reported that “Jessie MacLean +was sleepin’ on a shake-down while that limmer +was lying like a queen in Jessie’s feather bed.” But +that was only hearsay, for not once did Jessie let +one of them pass the door, though many were the +pretexts devised by Mistress MacKenty to gain admission, +from the borrowing of an egg which she +returned the next day (the same egg, as Jessie +could prove, for did she not mark it on purpose; +for what use would Mistress MacKenty be having +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>for an egg three days before Sunday?) to the bringing +of a bottle of raspberry-vinegar to see if Jessie +had a corkscrew that could get the cork out.</p> + +<p>Bella sensed it all with sullen resentment which +would show in her eyes when the baby’s cries forced +its existence more sharply upon her. She hated her +motherhood. Motherhood, that was thrust cruelly +upon her while she was still a child; motherhood, +robbed of its honor and covered with shame; motherhood +and its pains, stripped of the love which makes +its agony a glory. This was the motherhood Bella +knew, and her heart was bitter against it. She felt +trapped. Perhaps the child, helpless in her arms, +crying to her for food, might have saved her from +this, and have roused in her girl-heart that compassion +for the helpless which is mother-love. But +Jessie, all eagerness to surround Bella with comfort, +took the care of the baby upon herself; and as love +for it fastened upon her heart, Jessie could not bear +to let any hand touch it but her own. Its morning +bath was a rite to be lingered over with exclamations +of wonder and delight. If Jessie noticed at +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>all that Bella did not share her ecstasy she didn’t +think it strange; for Jessie had quickly ceased to +think of Bella as the baby’s mother. Her feeling +for Bella was in a smaller measure the same feeling +she had for the baby. She felt herself mother to +both of them. So while Jessie’s heart was greatened +and stirred by her care of these two, Bella, robbed +of the saving outlet of service, became daily more +morose. The memory of the drawn blinds seared +her; and she knew that the day would come soon +when she must face Drumorty again. She felt +little gratitude toward Jessie, and just a cool wonder +that a good woman could also be kind.</p> + +<p>The baby was about six weeks old, when Jessie +came in one day with heightened color, and her step +brisk with excitement. She opened her hand to disclose +three gold sovereigns and a half-sovereign.</p> + +<p>“Three pounds ten, Bella; the gentry at the big +hoose hae paid their sewing bill.” Then turning +swiftly to the baby she cried crooningly: “Jessie’s +wee lamb will no’ need ti sleep in the clothes-basket +noo; it’s a pram an’ a cradle he’ll be havin’.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span></p> + +<p>Jessie dropped the money into the toby-mug on the +mantel and was preparing to gather the baby up +from the clothes-basket when she heard a step on +the path outside. She glanced through the window, +then dodged back with the warning whisper: “It’s +Skilly!”</p> + +<p>Like a flash she clapped on her bonnet, and seized +a basket and was stepping sedately out at the door +just as Skilly raised his hand to knock upon it.</p> + +<p>“My certies, Skilly,” exclaimed Jessie, shutting +the door carefully behind her as she stopped facing +him on the step. “Wha wid expect <i>you</i> to be visitin’ +this time o’ day?”</p> + +<p>“I hae come ti see Bella Tocher,” said Skilly, +looking suggestively at the closed door before which +Jessie stood like a sentinel.</p> + +<p>“Weel, I’m vexed for ye;” cooed Jessie. “Bella’s +oot bye somewhere, an’ I’m on my way ti the +flesher’s.”</p> + +<p>Skilly was not deceived, and indeed Jessie didn’t +expect him to be. She smiled grimly as she caught +his eye glancing searchingly at the window as the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>muslin curtains moved under Bella’s touch; but she +continued to stand barring his way to the door, her +arms folded militantly through the empty basket +which posed like a shield upon her breast.</p> + +<p>Skilly lengthened out his gangling inches to a +greater assumption of dignity, and, ignoring Jessie’s +hostility with a lofty tolerance, said in the tone he +usually kept for reading the first lesson:</p> + +<p>“As an elder o’ the kirk it is my duty to speak +wi’ Bella Tocher aboot her misbegotten bairn; and +wha we may name as the father o’ ’t.”</p> + +<p>“An’ it was yer godly duty as an elder, nae doot, +that made ye turn her oot to die by the roadside?” +Jessie’s tone was the essence of sweetened venom.</p> + +<p>But Skilly, not meaning to lose his unimpeachable +superiority by bandying words with a woman, +answered calmly:</p> + +<p>“I hae no call to shelter a wanton and unrepentant +woman; if Bella Tocher is minded to face the +elders and make admission o’ her sins——”</p> + +<p>“Her sins!” Jessie broke in. “It’s no’ her sins +Drumorty is punishin’ her for; it’s the evidence, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>Skilly. It’s the bairn. There’s them that sit on the +elders’ bench and gie judgment, that ken more o’ sin +than Bella Tocher, but they dinna get found out: +their siller in the collection plate blinds the minister.”</p> + +<p>This was a home thrust, and Skilly reddened under +it, but he clambered back to his official dignity +by booming pontifically:</p> + +<p>“It behooves us to deal kindly wi’ the repentant. +If Bella Tocher is humble of spirit and contrite of +heart, I will see mysel’ that her bairn is housed in +the alms-house; an’ I’ll take her back—” Then, seeing +the chance to make a bargain, Skilly dropped +his oratorical tone, and added hastily: “But mind +ye, no’ at the old price; I’ll gie her half o’ ’t.”</p> + +<p>At that Jessie laughed grayly, and two red lights +flashed battle from her eyes.</p> + +<p>“Yer a sainted and godlike man, Skilly, wi’ a +heart sweet wi’ charity. Now that the lass is able +to work again, ye’ll put her bairn in the alms-house +at nae cost to yersel’; and ye’ll let her carry swill +to yer pigs at half the siller ye’d have to pay +anither; it’s a forgivin’ an’ tender heart ye have—”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span></p> + +<p>Skilly bridled impatiently and turned away; the +woman would try the patience of a saint!</p> + +<p>“Aye! Run, run, Skilly,” urged Jessie tauntingly. +“If ye bide, I may let ye see yersel’; and the sight +will make ye sick.”</p> + +<p>It was too much! An elder of the kirk couldn’t +be expected to stand it any longer. Skilly left her +and stalked down the path, his back stiff as +buckram.</p> + +<p>Jessie turned back into the house all aflutter. +Nature had not made her a fighter; she could not +have lifted a whisper to defend herself; but accident +had made her play mother and so she could fight +like a tiger, although her knees might tremble for +hours afterward.</p> + +<p>“Did ye hear, Bella?” she asked the girl who sat +stolidly on the bench by the window, ignoring the +whimperings from the clothes-basket.</p> + +<p>“Aye.” There was nothing in the girl’s tone to +indicate her thoughts. After a moment her eyes +wandered up to the toby-jug on the mantel, and she +said:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span></p> + +<p>“How much will the pram an’ the cradle cost?”</p> + +<p>Jessie, with most of her attention centered on the +commotion in the basket, answered:</p> + +<p>“I can get the pram for thirty shillings; an’ I’ve +been promised the use o’ Maggie Duncan’s cradle +for naething—but she kens fine I’ll make her next +gown on account o’ ’t.”</p> + +<h3>4</h3> + +<p>In the straggling light next morning, Jessie +slipped a long thin leg out of bed, and her toes went +searching with cat-like caution for a crocheted +slipper; finding it, they wriggled into its woolly +depth.</p> + +<p>Jessie was making one of her countless trips to +the clothes-basket by the fireside in the next room +to see if all was well. She clutched her long pink +flannelette night-gown to keep it from touching the +floor; and was moving carefully past Bella’s bed, +when its unusual flatness made her look at it again.</p> + +<p>It was empty! Jessie hastened into the next +room with fussy concern, sure that whatever Bella +was doing for the baby was wrong.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span></p> + +<p>But Bella wasn’t there! Her hat wasn’t hanging +on the back of the door where it had hung for six +weeks. Her shoes weren’t on the peat-backet⁠<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> where +she had put them last night.</p> + +<p>The baby! Jessie gave a cry that ended in a +strangled sound, half laugh, half sob, as she sprang +to the clothes-basket and dropped down beside it. +The baby was there. Jessie’s heart resumed action +again, she bent over the basket and tenderly touched +the baby’s warm sleeping face; then her thoughts +returned to Bella. She looked about for fresh proof +that she had really gone.</p> + +<p>Against the toby-jug a sheet of writing-paper +was propped. Jessie reached for it and carried it +to the window. In the graying light she peered at +the words written upon it until they formed into +things of meaning. And she read:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“I am going to Edinburgh. I have taken two +pounds from the toby-jug; that leaves enough for +the pram. It is ill done of me, but I will no stay +in Drumorty. If I get a place I’ll send back the +siller, and if Geordie will wed me I’ll come back for +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>the bairn. You have been kinder to me than I am +deserving, and I will no forget. You can send the +bairn to the alms-house; it will be better there than +with me if Geordie will no have me.”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Jessie trembled as she read. Bella had gone! +And the baby was here,—was hers to keep! Joy +sent her heart racing heavenward. She turned and +sank to her knees beside the clothes-basket, stretching +greedy arms about it and whispering passionately +to the sleeping child:</p> + +<p>“She’ll no’ come back. She’ll no’ come back;—and +ye’ll be my ain, my ain wee lamb.”</p> + +<p>Then in the flush of her riches, kneeling there in +the still gray morning, she thought of Bella and +her poverty. Bella, stealing out loveless in the +night. Bella who had borne the suffering and +shame. Bella with empty arms. And a great remorse +for the greed of her own rejoicing tore at her +breast, and she clasped her hands and cried in +anguish:</p> + +<p>“God be merciful to her!—And forgie me, a +covetous sinner.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="WANTIN_A_HAND">WANTIN’ A HAND</h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span></p> + +<h3><i>WANTIN’ A HAND</i></h3> + +</div> + +<p>The moisture from the tub curled her hair into +babyish ringlets that hung about her flushed face. +Despite her form made broad with the daily travail +of washing clothes, and her face pouchy with drink, +suggestions of beauty still lingered about her as +perfume might cling to a garment after it was soiled +and torn.</p> + +<p>There was no hint of age or decay in the square +tower of her body, no thought of handicap in her +actions as she squeezed and rubbed the clothes upon +the board with her one powerful hand. The small +stump of her missing arm jerked vigorously from +the shoulder in time to the hand upon the board. +She would stop at times to pin the empty sleeve more +snugly to her side and then resume the crawling, +gripping motion of her one hand in the tub. It was +a great-jointed hand, corded along the back, and +broad, and when it had squeezed the water from a +garment she could defy any woman with two hands +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>to wring one drop more from it. The clothes +washed by Jean Sclessor were truly washed, and +clear and fragrant when she took them from the line.</p> + +<p>And so, although she tried them sorely by her +frequent drinking spells, the good wives of Drumorty +would rather wait for Jean than have some +feckless two-handed woman wash in her stead. And +the greatest church-goers among them would ignore +the smell of whisky on her breath and would even +comment sympathetically upon her bunions when +her steps began to waver.</p> + +<p>But Jean was long past caring what Drumorty +thought about her drinking, long past the time when +she turned her head away so that they wouldn’t +catch her breath. She cared only for evening to +come, and she worked through the day with a driving +force which became a frenzy of haste as night-fall +drew near, for she was going home to the kist +under the stairs, home to dreams, home to love and +revenge and despair, home to forgetfulness, home to +the flat-sided bottle of whisky wrapped in a gray +petticoat.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span></p> + +<p>And when at evening she groped her way toward +the kist in the musty hole beneath the stairs filled +with the odor of sprouting potatoes, she was already +tearful with welling memories, melting with the +vision of the lass that once was Jean Sclessor and +the lad that had been Sandy Morrison. They came +to her as always, bright with the sunlight of a harvest +day and fragrant with the breath of reaping +time. <i>He</i> stood by the reaper bareheaded in the +high noon sun. Lesser lads had sought the shade +panting and weary, but he, foreman of them all and +master of them all by height and strength, stood +stretching in the glare. And <i>she</i> came laden with +the scones fresh from the griddle and the mulled ale +cool in its great earthen bottle. There was a power +in him that brought her eyes to his, and whether she +would or no’ she looked at him, and he looked back +at her.</p> + +<p>And then at milking time he came. She knew it +was his shadow in the door as she sat milking there. +But never a move made she, and never a turn of her +head, although her heart was singing louder than +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>the milk that struck the pail. And never a word +she said about the singing of her heart, and never a +word said he. But every night he came and +watched, and every night he waited while she strained +the milk.</p> + +<p>Lightsome days they were, and work was easy in +the doing. And she would sing and scrub the yard +for Mary Tate the second lass, and often she would +do the work for both when Mary’s cough confined +her to her bed. Nor did she care about the extra +tasks, but rather she welcomed them, knowing that +Sandy loved her all the more that she was strong. +And though at times he looked on Mary with admiring +eyes, seeing her hair that lay like silken wheat +against her head, Jean did not care; she knew the +kindling of his heart was but for her, and the +strength that lay in her round arms. And nearing +thrashing time he said:</p> + +<p>“Come, Martinmas, I’ll go a cotterin’.”</p> + +<p>And Jean replied with hurrying heart, tossing her +head to give the words a careless lilt:</p> + +<p>“’Deed? An’ wha will cotter wi’ ye?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span></p> + +<p>“Yersel’, I’m thinkin’,” he made answer. And lingering +by the stooked grain that stood like little +tents beneath the moon, he told her of the fine bay +mare he had his mind upon; and of the farm, come +time, they’d rent together; and of the butter she +would make for marketing, and of the long, long +hours that they would work, he, with his back that +had the strength of two, and she, with arms that +had the strength of any man’s. And by and by +they’d own a farm, and <i>she</i> would go to kirk in taffetas, +and <i>he</i> would wear a tall gray hat on market +days.</p> + +<p>Down on her knees she fumbled for the bottle, +pulling it with avid hand from its wrapper in the +kist. Seizing the cork with yellowed teeth, she spat +it out, and drank, gulping dryly in her haste. She +settled back upon the piled potatoes in the fusty +murk, her heavy throat racked with bitter sobbing. +The thrashing machine sounded in her ears again. +She stood in its sucking wind, feeding the yellow +sheaves to its hungry mouth. Sandy swung by +calling her above the roar, love glimmering in his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>face. She stopped to wave at him—to watch his +glinting head go by—the crunching mouth reached +for her fingers—drew them onward with the wheat—seized +them, pulled them in,—the hand, the arm, +up, up the arm:—Oh, God, stop it!—stop—</p> + +<p>She jerked from side to side with the pain of +sharp remembering, thumping the potatoes with the +splashing bottle. And then she licked the whisky +from her hand, and drank, whimpering as the glow +stole round her heart.</p> + +<p>Sandy came to the hospital, silent and down-looking, +and every time he came his stay was shorter. +The smell of medicine made him fit to spew, or the +second man was away gallivanting with a lass, and +he must hurry back to do his work. And then he +got to bringing Mary Tate along, and she would sit +and look at him and giggle when he looked at her as +if they had a joke between the two of them. And +Jean could never speak to him alone or ask a word +about the cottering.</p> + +<p>Long after thrashing she came back from hospital, +and Martinmas was drawing near. Lads were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>speaking of feeing time and whether they would +stay, or seek a better place. But Sandy never spoke +a word, but had some business in the byre, or other +work to do when she would question him. And Mary +Tate would make his brose with extra butter, and +mealy-mouth about him in the evening, and make as +if she knew what she would never tell. When Jean +could bear no more of that she asked:</p> + +<p>“Is Sandy biding here or goin’ cotterin’?”</p> + +<p>And Mary laughed and said:</p> + +<p>“If he’s yer man ye’ve little need to ask.”</p> + +<p>And Jean could barely keep from riving her. +“What mean ye by that taunt?” she cried.</p> + +<p>But Mary laughed, smirked and simpered while +she stepped about as if the kitchen were a dancing +hall, and all the lads had come to look at her.</p> + +<p>So she cornered Sandy in the stubble field at +loosing-time. He bore the harness on his arms and +round his neck, for he would sooner break his back +than tire a horse for no good end. He saw her, and +he tried to pass, making as if the horses needed him, +but Jean put out her hand.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span></p> + +<p>“A word wi’ ye. What’s come o’ a’ yer talk o’ +cotterin’?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, nathin’,” he replied. And cried: “Whoa, +Bess, whoa!” as if the horses were astray.</p> + +<p>“Nathin’?”</p> + +<p>“No.” And looked ahead, straining as if to see +the horses reach the watering trough.</p> + +<p>“Look at me, Sandy Morrison: Why will ye no’ +go cotterin’?” she cried, shaking his harness-laden +arm with her one hand.</p> + +<p>“I’ll cotter come time, nae doot,” he said, with +more ease in his voice than in his face.</p> + +<p>“Wi’ <i>me</i>?” Her voice was shrill and cut him like +a lash. The red rose up his throat. “Wi’ me? +Will ye go cotterin’ wi’ me. Answer me <i>that</i>, Sandy +Morrison.”</p> + +<p>He could not look at her, and tried to turn away.</p> + +<p>“Answer me!” She screamed and beat his breast, +and as she struck her dangling stump jerked to the +motion of the beating. Sandy’s eyes were on it.</p> + +<p>“I canna, Jean,” he said. “I’ve nae use for a +wife wantin’ a hand.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span></p> + +<p>And so he married Mary Tate and took her cottering, +her that could never wet her feet, her with +arms like matches, and legs like clay-pipe stems. +He took her cottering for a year, and then the baby +came, and Mary couldn’t leave her bed for many a +month, and when she <i>did</i> they said she’d creep about +more like a ghost than anything that drew the breath +of life.</p> + +<p>Sandy left the cottering and hired out again. +Soon there was another wean⁠<a id="FNanchor_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> to feed and tend; and +every year or two another wean, another mouth for +Sandy Morrison to feed, and Mary always lying in +the bed. And he that had so proud a head left the +farming to do what work he could about the town +by nights, and tend the weans and make their porridge +by day. He that spoke of fine bay mares, and +cottering, and rented farms, and tall gray hats, was +doing work that none would do,—emptying garbage +in the night. She lived again that first night of +his shame, when he crept up the lane at dawn, his +head hung low, hoping none would see. But <i>she</i> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span>was there and screamed her scorn, as many a dawn +since then she’d screamed her scorn:</p> + +<p>“Nae use for a wife wantin’ a hand, eh? Fine +for ye emptying garbage, fine for ye.” He never +looked toward her, crying in the window there, nor +raised his head. And all the years he never looked +nor spoke, but moved about as if her jeering fell on +ears that could not hear.</p> + +<p>Why did he not cry back at her or lift his head? +Oh, to make him give a sign, to get her hand upon +his shrunken flesh and rive it with her nails. To +tear him open that her eyes could see his bleeding. +To make him scream his pain as <i>she</i> must scream—to +make him cry her name—to <i>know</i> that he was +suffering. She rocked tortured on the shifting pile +of potatoes, breaking their white sprouts as her +hand grabbed anguished for the bottle.</p> + +<p>Oh, what was he to her? He was a dour down-looking +chiel⁠<a id="FNanchor_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a>⁠, thin he was, thin and withered, withered +like a turnip at the winter’s end. And his hair, +his bonnie hair that shone like a Michaelmas penny, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>was grizzled and sparse and dry like dusty moss. +And the shoulders of him that had filled the door +from side to side as he stood watching her at the +milking, were shrunk and bent, and bent and +shrunken was his neck that had been straight and +pink and moist with the sweat of the fields. And the +eyes of him were bleared and wavering, and his gait +was like a weary dog’s.</p> + +<p>Oh, what cared she? Why wait to shame a +bleary dog—a bleary dog—a weary dog? Why sit +and rock, and wait, and cry at dawn? She’d stop +her rocking and her crying. She’d stop her drinking +and her wailing. She’d buy a dolman trimmed with +bugle beads and go to kirk on Sunday. She’d cry +in by to her that lay a coughing in the bed, and +him that pottered about wiping noses. She’d stop +a while and sweep the floor, and wash the faces of +the glowering weans. And all the time that image +in the bed would hate her for her strength. And +Sandy would be shamed and he would see what he +had cast aside. She’d stop and bake and throw her +dolman on the chair so that its beads would shine. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>She’d feed the weans and tend the image in the bed, +and it would choke with rage and cough, and cough, +and cough.</p> + +<p>She’d stop her drinking, this would be the last. +She’d be looked up to and respected, she’d go to +kirk, she’d make red petticoats for naked heathens, +she’d stop her drinking. The higher she was held +the more would be his shame. She’d stop her drinking, +break the bottle—break it on the wall—but first +she’d drink—no use to waste good whisky—this +would be the last—the very last—the last.</p> + +<p>She started to sway pendulum-wise, settling deeper +in the pile, rolling her head as if in time to some +well-remembered chant. Her vacant eyes were +bleared with tears that fell on this shoulder, and on +that, with the rolling of her head. Her purple lips +forming the silent words twisted in a half-forgotten +pain, and then her voice meaningless as a wind in a +hollow place took up the dirge: “Nae use for a +wife wantin’ a hand, wantin’ a hand....”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_TATTIE-DOOLIE">THE TATTIE-DOOLIE</h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span></p> + +<h3><i>THE TATTIE-DOOLIE</i>⁠<a id="FNanchor_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a></h3> + +</div> + +<p>His name was James MacDonald MacGregor, as +you could prove by reading the newly painted sign +over his door, which told Drumorty in yellow and +black that he was: “A high-class tailor; pressing +and mending also done.” But Jean MacFarlane +had nicknamed him the “Tattie-Doolie” on the very +first Sunday. But this was not until after the service, +not until after he had outsung her, outsung her +in time and outsung her in volume. Even in the final +hymn, when she had held the last note until her +ears buzzed and her face was like a harvest moon, <i>he</i> +had held it just a second longer.</p> + +<p>Jean had always been proud of her breath. It +lasted longer than any breath in the parish of Drumorty. +She was proud, too, that no voice in the +parish could be heard above her own. Many had +tried it, both man and woman!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span></p> + +<p>Skilly’s “Gype,”⁠<a id="FNanchor_13" href="#Footnote_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> called that because he was daft-like +and wore fancy waistcoats on week-days, had a +roaring fine voice; and Mary Macrimmon, who had +a wooden leg, “could make a braw noise when she +put her mind to ’t.” But even they had lost heart +at last and had left Jean to lead the singing. The +Gype stayed away from the service altogether +and spent his Sunday mornings “sellin’ his soul to +the devil on a dambrod.” But Mary Macrimmon +was a God-fearing woman, so she made up for her +loss by coming late every Sunday, and the ring of +the brass ferrule on her wooden leg announced her +passage up the flagged aisle to her seat in the front +pew. Each entrance was a dramatic triumph, for +she changed the trimming on her hat every week, so +that the congregation “wouldna crane their necks +for naught.” Jean MacFarlane was well content to +let her have this triumph: there <i>should</i> be compensations +for a wooden leg.</p> + +<p>In four years none had ventured to dispute Jean’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>right to sing the last note of each line as a solo. +The members of the congregation accepted it with +the same placidity that they accepted the fact that +the varnish had never really hardened on the pews; +and if you sat too long or too solidly on one place, +you left the nap of your suit embedded on the seat.</p> + +<p>In time they came to be proud of Jean, and they +waited for her to finish with their mouths agape, +as much out of admiration as out of a desire to be +ready to start the next line when her breath finally +gave out.</p> + +<p>The organist, who was blind, knew better, and +longed for the courage to terminate Jean’s stentorian +solos. But she dared not, for the congregation +believed that she couldn’t be so good as an +organist that could see, and this made her timid; so +she would humbly hold the last note until Jean’s +final gasp signaled that she could start a new measure. +But in return for this, Jean defended her +when some young snip would suggest that she +wasn’t much of an organist. “No,” Jean would +admit. “She’s no’ a great musician, but she’s a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>gran’ accompanist, an’ that’s what’s needed in a +kirk like ours.”</p> + +<p>Until that first Sunday Jean had held no grudge +against James MacDonald MacGregor, although it +would have been natural, and even dutiful, for her +to have sniffed a little in affected disdain when she +heard his name mentioned, for his arrival was a +source of much distress to her father, Perney MacFarlane, +who had been the only tailor in Drumorty +for twenty-five years, as had been his father +before him. Indeed, old Perney had given Jean the +rough side of his tongue for her undaughterly lack +of resentment over the new tailor. But Jean, while +realizing that his advent would end her father’s sartorial +monarchy, was none the less conscious of a +pleased flutter when Mistress MacKenty stepped in +by to say: “The puir man’s single dootless, for I +hae seen neither hide nor hair o’ a wife, nor her belongings.”</p> + +<p>“That’s a consideration,” Jean had answered; +and, giving her father an accusing look, added: “to +them that never sees a man frae one day’s end to +the other.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span></p> + +<p>Jean was a little irritated with her father on this +score, and blamed him that she hadn’t been married +long since. For, although his trade should have +supplied her with more suitors than any other lass +in Drumorty, it was a fact that, while the grocer’s +daughter by making smirking pretense of helping, +could meet young men on Saturday evenings in her +father’s shop; and even the druggist’s boarding-school +daughter could “happen” to come in to kiss +her father good night when a prosperous young +farmer was in, Jean could never meet a man that +way, because Perney insisted that it wasn’t seemly +for a single woman to come in, when a man <i>might</i> be +having his trousers fitted. To Jean’s protest: +“Father, ye canna always be fittin’ the crotch,” he +merely answered, “I <i>might</i> be.”</p> + +<p>On the way to kirk that first Sunday, Jean was +in a twitter. She had even gone the length of putting +Jockey Club on the front of her bodice as well +as on her handkerchief. This made her feel akin to +Jezebel, and for a moment she liked the feeling. She +wished that a woman could be “wanton in her ways” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span>and yet seem respectable. Then, appalled at her +own wickedness, she made a hasty prayer for her +soul’s salvation, and decided that scent was a hand-maiden +of the devil and that she would never use it +again. But the next moment she was glad that she +<i>had</i> used it, and sorry that she hadn’t used more, +as the new tailor passed her on the road and remarked +to his neighbor something about “a fine +smell.”</p> + +<p>He was grand beyond Jean’s expectations. He +wore a frock coat and a “tile,”⁠<a id="FNanchor_14" href="#Footnote_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> and she gasped +in admiration of his “venturesomeness” in wearing +them when there was neither a marriage nor a +funeral in the neighborhood to justify such splendor.</p> + +<p>For in Drumorty the laird is the only man entitled +by common opinion to wear such grandeur on +ordinary Sundays. Many a tattie-doolie in the +fields around Drumorty flapped in solitary dignity +with the scarcely worn frock coat and “tile” of +some deceased farmer, who had been too modest to +wear them.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span></p> + +<p>Jean had even been pleased when he came boldly +up to the choir and took a seat in the front row of +the men’s pew directly facing her. It was a bit forward +of him to sit in the choir without a public +invitation from the minister, but Jean thrilled. “It’s +all of a piece wi’ his wearin’ a tile, he’s a man that +kens his mind and does it.” She was glad also that +he was where he could see her, and know at once +who it was that sang so long and so loud.</p> + +<p>She settled herself in her seat with the dignity +that a duck acquires upon water. Debating the relative +effectiveness of a lace handkerchief emerging +from her sleeve or thrust daintily into the front of +her bodice, she decided in favor of the former, because +if she wore it on her breast the book would +hide it when she stood up to sing.</p> + +<p>Satisfied that she was at her best, she glanced +across the aisle. She was disappointed to find that +he was not watching her. He was reading the hymn +numbers on the announcement slate and looking +them up in his hymn-book.</p> + +<p>“A singer himsel’, nae doot,” she reflected. “All +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>the better; it takes a singer t’ appreciate a singer.” +She looked him over carefully and decided that he +was “over thin for good looks, and over white in the +face. But he had a grand mustache! A manly-like +an’ full-growin’ mustache. A careful wife that +tended him like a chicken on a brod,⁠<a id="FNanchor_15" href="#Footnote_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> could make a +fine strappin’ chiel out o’ him.”</p> + +<p>A yearning tenderness toward him, the passion of +a brood hen, stirred in her breast. She wanted to +envelop him in her care; already he seemed to belong +to her. Feeling the need to emphasize this to herself +by speaking of him, she whispered to Mary +Macrimmon:</p> + +<p>“What think ye o’ the new tailor?”</p> + +<p>When Mary answered: “He’s unco chilpet⁠<a id="FNanchor_16" href="#Footnote_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> and +hungry-like aboot the jaw-bones,” she answered +tartly:</p> + +<p>“He’s no’ hog-fat. For <i>mysel’</i>, I like a man on +the thin side.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span></p> + +<p>Indeed, Jean had even found herself thinking with +satisfaction of the twenty-four hand-made and +feather-stitched night-gowns that lay at the bottom +of her kist.⁠<a id="FNanchor_17" href="#Footnote_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a> Not that she was ready to jump down +the throat of the first man that asked her. Indeed +not! She wouldn’t fash⁠<a id="FNanchor_18" href="#Footnote_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a> herself if she never married! +But twenty-four night-gowns made a body +feel prepared for anything.</p> + +<p>When the organist began the prelude to the first +hymn, Jean took a deep breath, and set her head +like a filly fighting the snaffle.</p> + +<p>Now he would see! Now he would take notice! +She charged the first note with a vociferation that +made Mary Macrimmon drop her hymn-book. Never +had her voice been so loud. Never had she felt more +exultant in its power. He would be looking at her +now! But wait! Wait until the end of the verse +when she could show him the length of her breath. +<i>That</i> would make him take stock and wonder. <i>That</i> +was where breath could show to advantage.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span></p> + +<p>As she reached the last phrase, she filled her +lungs. Now he would see. This would be the best +that she had ever done.</p> + +<p>Her voice rose powerfully above the others. They +were falling away. As the last note was reached, +Jean’s voice took hold of the ragged edges of sound +and knit them up. Soon she would be singing alone.</p> + +<p>But what was this? A voice full and strong was +keeping pace with her. <i>He</i> was still singing. Was +he trying to compete with her? It couldn’t be! +She glanced across at him, her face red with the +strain of holding the note. Yes! He was wilfully +trying to outsing her. In his eyes was the insolent +look of a duelist who is sure of victory. Outraged, +Jean lost her hold upon the note, and James MacDonald +MacGregor’s voice boomed out in triumphant +solo for two beats more.</p> + +<p>Affronted! Affronted she was and shamed before +the whole congregation! Shamed and affronted in +her own kirk. And by <i>this</i>; this whippersnapper. +Made mock of and be-meaned by a half-starved +bantam-cock, with a tile on his brainless head.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span></p> + +<p>There was a sputtering and sizzling of suppressed +mirth from the body of the kirk. The new +verse started, and staggered along in gusts like a +drunken man. The McKenzie lassie with the fat +legs was giggling and nudging her neighbor. The +minister was hiding behind his prayer-book, but the +redness of his ears told that even <i>he</i> was laughing. +Mary Macrimmon was making no pretense of singing +but was frankly laughing under cover of the +organ. The new tailor was looking about him, +smirkingly appreciative of his victory, although he +did not yet know its magnitude.</p> + +<p>Jean’s heart was fit to fly out of its cage, so +angry was she. For little more she would have +thrown her hymn-book in his face. He would come +here, would he? Come here and set up opposition +to her father. Horning his nose in on a man that +had worked in Drumorty all his life. But that +wasn’t enough. He must dare to outsing <i>her</i>, that +had led the singing for years. He must make a +byword of <i>her</i> that had defended him against her +own father. Oh, but she was well punished that she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>hadn’t hated him from the first, the swaggering +dandyprat, the fribble popinjay, all dressed up like +a tattie-doolie! In that moment she hated him as +only a heart that might have loved <i>can</i> hate.</p> + +<p>It had been a bitter Sunday morning; and a bitter, +bitter walk back from the kirk with whisperings +and laughter all about her, and handkies held up to +hide wide grins of amusement. It had been hard +to bear with Mistress MacKenty when she said with +ill-disguised glee: “Weel, weel, he’s goin’ t’ lead the +singin’ as well as the tailorin’.”</p> + +<p>But there had been comfort in seeing the pleasure +it gave old Perney to hear her flay the new tailor. +So delighted was he with her nickname for his rival +that he pressed her to take the neck of the boiled +fowl, a delicacy which he only relinquished in moments +of great emotion. For Perney was troubled +in his heart, deeply troubled and anxious, and he +dare not speak of it. He had a secret which he +believed was shared by no one. It was this. He +didn’t know how the collar of a coat should be cut! +For, although he had been fully thirty-five when his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>father had died and left him the tailoring business, +he had never up to that moment either cut or fitted +a collar. It had been the elder MacFarlane’s belief +that his son was a witless warlock⁠<a id="FNanchor_19" href="#Footnote_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a> who was by +nature bound to ruin any piece of cloth into which +he put a pair of shears.</p> + +<p>In time he begrudgingly and with loud-voiced distrust, +allowed Perney to cut and fit trousers, and +at a pinch, when his eyes began to trouble him, he +would prayerfully let him work on a portion of a +coat. But never to his last day would he let him +touch a collar.</p> + +<p>So Perney inherited the business with a perfect +knowledge of trousers, a partial knowledge of waistcoats, +and a complete ignorance of collars. For so +jealous was old MacFarlane of this knowledge that +he had always retired behind a screen for the cutting +and fitting of this mystic portion of the +garment.</p> + +<p>On the first day he was alone, Perney had embarked +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>on a series of experiments. From then on, +every suit he cut was a hazard, an adventure. This +much he suspected about collars. Something had to +be cut on the crosswise, and something had to be +stretched. But which had to be stretched, which +had to be cut crosswise, he never was able to find +out. Sometimes he did it one way, and sometimes +the other, but little satisfaction resulted. When, +occasionally, the miracle happened, and he would +produce a collar that did neither stick out at the +back like a spout, nor shy away from the neck in a +coy semicircle, he had always forgotten how he had +cut that particular collar, and try as he would he +couldn’t duplicate it.</p> + +<p>Perney had never told this to a soul, not even his +wife; nay, <i>least</i> of all, his wife. But sometimes he +wondered uneasily if she knew. There was something +too impassioned in the way she defended him +when a customer complained that the collar didn’t +fit. It looked like something more than chance that +brought her hurrying down the stairs just in the +nick of time, and there was something more than +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span>affability in her voice when she exclaimed to the +customer upon her entrance: “My certies, but that +jacket brings out the breadth o’ yer shoulders.” If +in the face of her evident admiration, the customer +still murmured that the collar didn’t set to his neck, +her voice became a shade scornful as she replied: +“Think ye the collar’s human? How would <i>it</i> know +where yer neck is? Hae patience and wear it a +while, and come time, it will grow to the set o’ yer +body.” And if he still complained, she would deride +him playfully, crying: “Certies, man, expect ye the +collar to grip yer neck like yer lass’s arm?” If this +didn’t send him away with his face red and the suit +under his arm, she could go even further.</p> + +<p>It was not so easy with the young ones who had +been to Aberdeen to take the agricultural course +at the university. <i>They</i> were “very notional,” and +would bring a suit back again and again for alterations. +But smart though they were, they hated to +encounter Mistress MacFarlane, and would peep in +at the window first to see that she was out of the +way. But in the end she would always vanquish +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span>them. And it is a tribute to her eloquence that they +sometimes came to agree with her that “a collar +couldna be expected to fit, until you had worn it +six months.”</p> + +<p>In all the twenty-five years, Perney had never had +a suit left on his hands; but he knew well where the +credit lay for that.</p> + +<p>He spent long hours turning it over in his mind. +Did she truly believe that his collars were perfect, +and his customers sorely wanting in sense? Or did +she know all the time that he couldn’t cut a collar? +But no—that thought smarted too keenly. She +would never be able to keep from telling him if she +knew. He knew women, with their tongues always +wag-wagging. She’d cast it in his face in one of +her tempers. She’d never be able to hold it back. +No, she didn’t know. Of course she didn’t know. +But why, then, did she never mention collars when +they were alone? Because she thinks I can cut them. +Because she knows I can’t. It was plausible either +way. She knows. She doesn’t. She knows. She +doesn’t. For hours his needle would flash out and +in to this torturous refrain. Overhead he would +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span>hear her, heavy-footed, going back and forth about +her work. Many times he had risen from his bench, +determined to go up and have it out. Or sitting by +her in the evenings, he had often been tempted to +break the long silence by shouting the one word +“Collars!” just to see what she would do. But +he never dared carry out his resolve, because he +couldn’t bear to learn that she knew.</p> + +<p>Most of the time he was comforted by the thought +that she didn’t know, and he loved her fiercely for +her blind faith in him. But on occasions when she +would defend him too loudly, he was convinced that +she knew. And he tortured himself by the thought +that she despised him in her heart. At such times +he almost hated her, not only for the knowledge she +had, but that she was strong enough never to give +it voice.</p> + +<p>One thing made it bearable. He could laugh at +her. She had a notion about the making of broth. +Nay, more than a notion, it was a belief as dear to +her heart as her religion. And he knew it to be +founded on folly.</p> + +<p>Mistress MacFarlane was a Fraser, and the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span>Frasers had always held the reputation of making +the best Sunday broth-with-dumplings in the parish. +It was their crown. How to make it was their +secret. It necessitated the constant attention, for +the whole forenoon, of a member of the family. +This meant that some one must stay away from +the kirk during the morning service; and as this +mortification seemed to be borne more cheerfully by +the male portion of the family, it came to be a tradition +that the Fraser men were a godless ilk that +would rather tend broth than praise the Lord. Indeed, +one minister had even preached a sermon on +setting up graven images, and it was clear that he +exhorted the Fraser family to choose between their +broth and the Kingdom of Heaven. But it was +useless.</p> + +<p>So, the Sunday morning after his marriage, Perney +learned the secret of the Fraser broth. His +wife told him every detail, as indeed she had continued +to tell him every detail every Sunday +morning since, for somehow she could never believe +that he could retain all its intricacies; and never +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>once did she fail to come back from the door-step +to repeat: “Mind ye now, quarter of an hour +apart.”</p> + +<p><i>That</i> was the secret! Other benighted Drumortians +put everything into the pot at once. But +the Frasers first boiled a shin bone in the water for +half an hour, then added the turnips. A quarter of +an hour later the carrots went in, and so on, until +finally the dumplings.</p> + +<p>Before leaving for the kirk, Mistress MacFarlane +would arrange the different vegetables in bowls and +set them in a row leading away from the fire. Just +before tying her bonnet strings, she would drop the +bone into the water and remind him: “The bowl +next the fire goes in first.”</p> + +<p>It was a ritual gone through with much gusto on +her part and great patience on the part of Perney.</p> + +<p>At first he had blundered, forgetting this or that, +or he would go down to the shop to play a solitary +game of chess and forget the broth altogether, and +bowls of raw vegetables would betray him to his +wrathful wife upon her return.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span></p> + +<p>One Sunday, in a flush of rebellion, he had +dumped the contents of all the bowls into the pot +the moment she was off the door-step, and thumped +defiantly down-stairs to play chess. But he had +little peace that morning, for in spite of himself, +he believed in the superiority of the Fraser broth. +He was apprehensive about its flavor, and in two +minds whether to confess or not, until they sat down +to the table and Mistress MacFarlane, taking the +first spoonful exclaimed just as she always did, just +as every Fraser always did: “My, that’s fine +broth.” And he agreed, just as the spouse of every +Fraser always agreed. He never let a hint of what +he had done cross his lips; after that, his Sunday +mornings were tranquil.</p> + +<p>But now Perney was troubled. The arrival of +the new tailor sharpened his anxiety about the collars, +for not only might his wife discover the truth, +but soon all Drumorty might know. He tortured +himself by attributing to his rival great skill in +collar making, and by magnifying his own lack of +skill. Soon the sight of a new suit, with the collar +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span>snugly fitting the neck, justified his fears. And +with every day came discouraging news of another +customer gone over to the enemy. Fear was added +to fear, as orders came in more and more slowly. +Even the report that the “Tattie-Doolie” couldn’t +hang trousers didn’t bring the consolation it should +have. He began to lean on Jean, seeking comfort +in the increasing scorn she expressed for the “Tattie-Doolie,” +for Jean’s emotion was growing more keen +with each Sunday. She existed from week to week +in a fever of anticipation. She lived only for those +moments when they faced each other across the +aisle in combat. One morning he was late and she +was beside herself for fear he would not come. At +his sudden appearance her heart raced in an intoxication +of <i>something</i>, she called it hatred.</p> + +<p>After the services, when she reached home, she +would deride him with a wit that delighted Perney, +and a venom that surprised herself. But sometimes, +following these outbursts, she would go to her room +and cry helplessly, and she knew that she wasn’t +crying because he had outsung her.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span></p> + +<p>There is no knowing how it might have ended, had +not the organist died suddenly, making it necessary +to send hurriedly to Aberdeen for another to take +her place. Five minutes after the train came in +with the new one, Mistress MacKenty was spreading +the news that it was a man this time, with most +extraordinarily thin legs. By noon the next day she +was able to tell that he demanded no less than two +eggs for his breakfast, and that he was bound and +determined to conduct the choir practise himself +without interference from the minister. So it was +clear that he was a feckful man in spite of his legs.</p> + +<p>And his hands on the organ proved this to be true. +Jean was filled with a new excitement as the organ +woke clamorously and shook itself at his commanding +touch. This was playing! This was music +worth singing to! The “Tattie-Doolie” would +never outsing her again. Here was music that +would give her strength to conquer him. The new +organist would see who had the longest breath. He +would judge who was best fitted to lead the singing.</p> + +<p>Her voice rose with clarion strength. The tailor +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span>was doing his best also. Jean was reluctantly +obliged to admit that there were worse voices than +the tailor’s. They were nearing the end of the line. +<i>Now</i> for the struggle! But something was amiss. +The last note slipped away from her like an eel, and +the next line was in progress before she knew it. +She tried to hold on at the end of the next line; but +again the organist didn’t wait.</p> + +<p>Of course, he didn’t know any better. <i>That</i> was +it, Jean reasoned. She would have to wait till the +end of the verse to show him. <i>Then</i> he would be +glad to hold the note for such a voice. An organist +had to be trained to a singer’s ways. Nearing the +end she raised her voice so that he couldn’t help but +hear her. But with a loud blast from the quaking +pipes he drowned her out and briskly started the +next verse.</p> + +<p>Dumfounded, she looked across the aisle to see +what the “Tattie-Doolie” thought of this. He was +glaring furiously at the organist’s head. Presently +his glance met Jean’s, and they gazed at each other +in a common bond of indignation. He signaled to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>her not to sing, and closed his hymn-book emphatically, +to show that he meant to be silent. Jean +did the same, and he nodded his approval. Exchanging +knowing smirks they waited for the collapse of +the singing.</p> + +<p>But it was not the hopeless failure they expected +it to be. Their revenge was <i>no</i> revenge. Nobody +missed their singing. The organ sped its multisonous +way with the abandon of a calliope at a +circus. It cared not a penny who sang or who +didn’t. Its very abandon was inviting, and they fain +would have joined in the singing but pride forbade +them.</p> + +<p>The tailor became more and more crestfallen as +the service progressed. He fingered his hymn-book +longingly, but he could not bring himself to start +again.</p> + +<p>Seeing his dejection, Jean forgot her own disappointment +and yearned over him. She understood +only too keenly how he was missing the exaltation +of singing to the full capacity of his lungs. She +knew only too well the sense of loss he felt, and the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span>bitter hurt to his pride. His emotions found a dual +echo in her breast; she was heartsick for herself, +but she was doubly heartsick for him. Her one +thought was to save his pride for him at any cost.</p> + +<p>At the close of the service she eluded her mother, +and caught up with him as he walked with slackened +step and drooping shoulders along the road. It was +a thing she could not have done for herself. But +she was doing this for <i>him</i>. Nothing else could have +given her courage to make that advance under the +critical watching eyes of the congregation. She +reached his side gasping, and a little hesitant, but +the sight of his despondent face spurred her afresh, +and she cried with well simulated derision: “Heard +ye ever such singin’! A lot o’ women squeakin’ like +mice in a trap, an’ no’ a man’s voice among the lot!”</p> + +<p>He braced up at her approach and the gloom +lifted from his face at her words, but settled back +again as he answered doubtfully: “Skilly an’ the +minister were singin’.”</p> + +<p>“Singin’, were they!” Jean cried with a chuckle. +“Man, yer over-generous to call it <i>singin’</i>.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span></p> + +<p>“They’re no’ so bad,” he said, inviting her to fresh +protest. She laughed shrilly. “Ye ken fine, we +never had a proper man’s voice till ye came.”</p> + +<p>The swing was coming back to his shoulders again, +and he was taking bigger strides.</p> + +<p>“Think ye that?” he questioned anxiously. “I had +a notion ye didna like my singing.”</p> + +<p>He would never know what her next words cost +her. For a moment the old rivalry came to life and +pride strove with love. In that swift space she was +a singer again, proud of her voice and contemptuous +of his, but <i>only</i> for a moment. Then came her +admission from quiet lips: “I was jealous o’ yer +voice; jealous o’ yer breath bein’ longer than mine.” +With those words she retired forever, leaving the +stage to him. She would never compete with him +again.</p> + +<p>His step was jaunty now, and his face beamed +with gratification.</p> + +<p>“Aye, my breath is a <i>lot</i> longer than yours,” he +replied.</p> + +<p>Jean’s heart faltered a little at his reply. It was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span>true that his breath was longer than hers; it was +true that his voice was louder, but he might have +said something kind about her voice, even if he +didn’t believe it. <i>She</i> could tell any lie to make him +feel better, it hurt that he didn’t care to lie for her. +Now that his spirits were restored and he no longer +needed her, Jean lost her courage. A dull ache +assailed her heart and sharp tears forced their way +into her eyes. She continued to walk beside him +only because she could not do otherwise with all +Drumorty looking on. Her brimming tears were +about to fall in spite of her struggle to keep them +back, but the tailor saved her this humiliation. His +momentary exhilaration was passing away, and +shadows were gathering over him again.</p> + +<p>“I missed the singin’,” he sighed dolefully. “I like +to sing. It seems like as if I had to sing something +out o’ me on the Sabbath, to get a fresh start for +the next week.”</p> + +<p>“I ken what ye mean,” Jean cried with ready +sympathy, blinking away her unseen tears. “That’s +the way <i>I</i> feel—bottled up like.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span></p> + +<p>“Aye,” he agreed.</p> + +<p>A daring thought came to Jean, a very daring +thought. Quivering with excitement at her own +temerity, she said: “I hae a harmonium. Would +ye like to step in by wi’ me for an hour an’ sing the +hymns?”</p> + +<p>He looked full at her for the first, and there was +admiration in his eyes. “Ye can <i>play</i>?” he questioned +eagerly. “I’d like it fine, if—if—”</p> + +<p>Jean knew what he meant.</p> + +<p>“My father likes music,” she answered.</p> + +<p>She was fluttering inside like a nest of young +birds, half with joy, and half with fear of her +father. But she would go through with it if the +heavens were to fall.</p> + +<p>As they reached the door, Mistress MacFarlane +caught up with them. Being a true woman, she had +already decided that Jean’s wedding veil would be +at least half a yard longer than the veil of that high-handed +lassie of the druggist’s had been.</p> + +<p>“I’m goin’ to play the hymns for Mr. MacGregor,” +Jean explained.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span></p> + +<p>“Aye, aye,” said Mistress MacFarlane, with a +comfortable, round pink smile, as if it were the most +natural thing in the world. “Aye, aye, that will be +fine.” With an elaborate wink to Jean, she slipped +in and up the stairs. Understanding her maneuver, +Jean lingered below until she heard the kitchen door +shut quickly, then, knowing that her father was +safely imprisoned, she followed, leading the tailor +into the heavy-curtained, musk-scented parlor.</p> + +<p>It was well that Mistress MacFarlane went first +and pushed the enraged Perney backward into the +kitchen, for he had seen Jean approaching with the +“Tattie-Doolie” and was seething at her treachery.</p> + +<p>“What means this?” he demanded when he regained +his balance after his wife’s unexpected +violence.</p> + +<p>“Whist!” she commanded. “Dinna make an +uproar. It’s the new tailor come to sing the hymns +wi’ our lassie.”</p> + +<p>“In <i>my</i> hoose?”</p> + +<p>“Why should he no’?” questioned his wife with +irritating calmness, pulling at the tips of her black +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span>kid gloves the while, but carefully keeping between +Perney and the door.</p> + +<p>“Nae in <i>my</i> hoose! Step aside, woman.”</p> + +<p>“Sit doon, man, an’ stop yer haverin’,”⁠<a id="FNanchor_20" href="#Footnote_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a> she +answered with easy contempt. “Do ye expect yer +bairn to go to her grave a maiden?”</p> + +<p>“What’s that?” cried Perney with fresh fury. +“He wants to <i>marry</i> Jean. He would <i>dare</i>!”</p> + +<p>Mistress MacFarlane snorted and elbowed him out +of the way with a pitying superiority.</p> + +<p>“No,” was her cryptic reply. “He has no’ dared +<i>yet</i>, but he’ll dare come time.”</p> + +<p>Perney was bewildered. It was hard to maintain +his indignation in the face of his wife’s dispassionate +assurance. She was his rock of strength. He followed +in the course she steered, for her steering was +always for his betterment. But now she seemed to +have turned traitor and he felt lost. If she would +only speak up and tell him her mind; he could +always bear her lectures better than her silences. +She was stepping about the room quietly, as if it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span>were no concern of hers that his rival was here, +under his roof.</p> + +<p>The tailor’s voice rose lustily singing. “Oh, come +all ye faithful.”</p> + +<p>It was more than Perney could bear in silence.</p> + +<p>“What mean ye, woman?”</p> + +<p>“Man, hae a little sense,” she urged, as if speaking +to an unreasoning but lovable child. “It’s high +time that Jean was married—an’ there’s no room +for <i>twa</i> tailors in Drumorty.”</p> + +<p>So <i>that</i> was it! It was a staggering thought. He +sat down in his chair the better to support it. He +might have known that she had <i>some</i> bee in her bonnet. +She was not a woman to act without a purpose. +And she was right. She was quite right. It would +be a blessing to have a partner instead of a competitor. +He would give him the collars to do! That +would be a great relief. The thought made him +light-hearted, and he was just about to show her +that he saw some reason in her plans, when she said: +“Ye can give him the collars to do.”</p> + +<p>At that he straightened in his chair, on the defensive +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span>again. So she knew! She had known all the +time! She had lain beside him for thirty years with +that secret knowledge in her heart. Despising him, +perhaps! Yes, despising him. It wasn’t for Jean +she wanted the new tailor; it was because she knew +that <i>he</i> could make better collars. She put her +trust in the “Tattie-Doolie,” in a stranger, an +enemy, and she had turned against <i>him</i>, that had +sheltered and loved her for thirty years.</p> + +<p>She despised him, did she? Laughed at him? +Well, he’d let her know that there were <i>others</i> that +could laugh. He would tell her about the Fraser +broth. He would lay <i>her</i> pride in the dust. There +would be more than <i>one</i> humble heart in the house +this day!</p> + +<p>He turned toward her to launch his arrow of +revenge.</p> + +<p>All innocent of her blunder, she was lifting the lid +of the broth pot and sniffing ecstatically: a Fraser +worshiping at the shrine of the Fraser broth. He +couldn’t do it. Never, if she trod him in the dust, +never could he hurt her like that. He turned away, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span>his heart sick and lonely, his soul bereft and bitter. +She was no longer his. No longer the woman who +believed in him.</p> + +<p>But there would be no more hiding behind a wall. +He would speak to her about the collars. He would +have it out with her. He turned back and asked in +a voice sharp-edged, because it was so near to breaking: +“Why say ye I can give him the collars to +do?”</p> + +<p>A flicker of alarm came into her eyes, but she +finished the sip of broth she had in the spoon before +answering, and then her voice came with easy +assurance.</p> + +<p>“Weel, ye’ll never be able to trust him wi’ +trousers; so ye can give him the coats and waistcoats +to do.”</p> + +<p>“An’ the <i>collars</i>,” he said bitingly.</p> + +<p>“Aye, an’ the collars, an’ other easy bits,” she +answered with lazy ease.</p> + +<p>Collars and other easy bits! So she <i>didn’t</i> know. +The foolish woman didn’t know! She thought a collar +was an “easy bit.” She had always believed in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span>him. In face of everything, she still believed that +he was right. Oh, she was a foolish, feckless +woman, with her blindness about collars, and her +folly about broth. But he loved her. The very +pattern of his soul was woven with the threads of +hers, dear, blind, trusting woman that she was. She +didn’t know. And now she would <i>never</i> know.</p> + +<p>Her feet as she stepped about setting the table +made a happy homelike music in his heart. How he +loved her!</p> + +<p>She paused at the table with an extra plate and +spoon, and looked toward him questioningly. He +had been so silent, she was not sure that she had +won him over yet, so her voice was timorous and a +little pleading: “Could I ask him, Perney?”</p> + +<p>“Aye, lass, ask him,” he agreed. Then, searching +in his flowing heart for words to tell her how he +loved her, he said: “An’ I’m thinkin’, he has never +tasted the like o’ the broth he’ll taste this day.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="SALLY_ANN">THE COURTIN’ OF SALLY ANN</h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span></p> + +<h3><i>THE COURTIN’ OF SALLY ANN</i></h3> + +</div> + +<p>Mistress MacIntosh was firmly upholstered back +and front in black satin of a thick dull quality. In +front she was tightly encased and well pushed up. +On the resulting ledge, there rested a locket containing +on one side a picture of the deceased Sandy +MacIntosh, “a saint on earth if there ever was one,” +and on the other, a portrait of “my poor blind girl +when a child.”</p> + +<p>Everything about Mistress MacIntosh seemed to +be pressed backward by determined though invisible +fingers. It was as if she were forever breasting a +gale. Her shoulders were thrown back so far that +there was an indenture between her shoulder-blades. +Even her thin gray hair seemed to be striving to +leave her face; the marks left by the comb divided +it into little railways that went hurrying to the +back of her head, and the scalp between was pink +with the exertion.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span></p> + +<p>The small black lace cap on her head, coming to +a point neatly on the front parting, carried out the +illusion. At either side of the point, three baroque +pearl beads were sewed into the lace half an inch +apart. For some reason they suggested hidden +artillery. She resembled nothing so much as a battle-ship +steaming out to the field of action.</p> + +<p>Mistress MacIntosh had dealt fairly with life, as +she was wont to point out, but life had been far from +dealing fairly with her. First there was Sandy MacIntosh, +a hard man to catch he had been, and no +such great catch at that, when all was done. But +this she wouldn’t admit now, for it is ill-done and +unwise-like to belittle the dead. So she loudly proclaimed +his saintliness to the neighbors, but in her +heart she admitted that he had been a sore disappointment.</p> + +<p>When, after thirty years of constant persuasion, +she had got him at last convinced that it was his +clay pipe that made his tongue sore and bleeding, +and got him to give up smoking, a saving of +eighteen pence a week, he had gone out one Sunday +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span>morning for a walk along the railway tracks, “and +him as deaf as a door nail.”</p> + +<p>They gathered him up piecemeal and brought him +back in a gunny-sack, and there had been nothing +to dress up and show the neighbors. All the expense +and work of a funeral and none of the pleasure.</p> + +<p>And then there was young Sandy, sure to be dead +by spring with that cough he had that was like to +split him in two; but nothing would do but he must +get up and put on his braw new boots and walk with +them in the backyard, scratching the soles up so +that the shoemaker would never take them back in +this world. And <i>this</i>, after she had watched him +every day for three months to prevent it, for what +was the sense of letting him put the boots on at all +when he’d never live to wear them out? But he was +just as contrary as his father. He <i>would</i> have the +boots bought, and he <i>would</i> put them on. And now +the best she would get for them would be four or five +shillings, if she would get <i>that</i>; for there were them +that thought that you could get consumption by +barely touching something a consumptive had worn.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span></p> + +<p>And the blind girl! A body might think there +would come an end to trouble <i>sometime</i>. But no! +She was just as unreasonable as the father of her. +Without giving a thought to anybody’s comfort +except her own, and with no provocation whatsoever, +she had died the week after they had laid her +father away, and <i>this</i>, mind you, at the very time +that the elders had finally consented to raise her +salary for playing the organ, from ten shillings a +week to ten shillings and sixpence.</p> + +<p>It was just another instance of the perversity of +life, that the daughter who had the musical education +should die, and Sally Ann, who had nothing, +not even enough get-up-and-go to catch a man, +should be left.</p> + +<p>Goodness knows it wasn’t for the want of help +that Sally Ann was single! Fowl after fowl had +been killed, even the speckled hen that laid the +brown eggs that were so tasty; and pot after pot +of broth had been thrown away on lads that never +came to the scratch. Worse-looking lasses than +Sally Ann, with nobody to help them, had landed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span>good husbands. It was Sally Ann’s own fault, as +she had told her time and time again, when some +lad that might just as well have married <i>her</i>, +stepped up the aisle with another.</p> + +<p>But it was useless to speak to her, useless to +instruct her in the ways to inveigle a man. If you +left her alone with one purposely, instead of edging +him into a dark corner to give him courage to kiss +her, she would hand him the family album to look +at, and flutter back and forth like a hen before rain, +until somebody came to keep them company. It +seemed that the more you threw a man at Sally Ann, +the more she drew back and let her chances slip by.</p> + +<p>She had no more sense than the father of her, and +<i>he</i> had little enough. Many a time when a customer +had called to take out an insurance policy, +she had waited just out of earshot till Sandy would +call her to witness the document, but when, after an +hour had passed, she would hear the front door +shut on the customer’s departing heels, she would +find him carefully putting away his luster china, +with never a thought of insurance policy in his head, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>and his only excuse would be: “It’s unpleasant-like, +woman, t’ keep harpin’ on death when a man comes +t’ see ye.”</p> + +<p>She was a sorely tried woman, Mistress MacIntosh; +sorely tried and ill-done by.</p> + +<p>But after all, the way things had turned out now, +it was a mercy that no man would batter down the +door to get Sally Ann. With nobody else to bring +in a penny, it was just as well that Sally Ann was +free footed and not tied to some man who might +not so much as give her mother a pail of skimmed +milk on Saturday night. For you can never tell +about a man; there was Mistress MacKenty’s Nellie +that married Bransbog’s laddie, you would think +that she’d get all the butter she needed, and him +with a byre full of Jersey cows, but no, she was +down at the grocer’s every Saturday night as usual +buying her pound, just as if she had never had a +daughter in this world.</p> + +<p>It was a blessing too, although it had looked like +a wilful waste of siller at the time, that Sally Ann +had spent her grandmother’s legacy of three pounds +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>ten shillings to go to Fraserburg and learn candy-making. +And it seemed like a special consideration +from the Lord, that at the very time Sally Ann +started in business, Sweetie-Annie’s asthma took a +turn for the worse, and she was obliged to give up +her shop and go to live with her daughter, so that +Sally Ann was able to buy her bottles and pans for +next to nothing, and get all her trade forby.</p> + +<p>Not that Sally Ann would ever make a success +of the business if it were left to her. Indeed no; +it was a case of constant watching to see that she +didn’t give the candy away to any red-cheeked bairn +that pushed his nose against the window. Things +had come to such a pass one day that she had even +caught her putting her thumb on the weight side of +the scales right under her very eyes, and she had +barely prevented her from giving the Fraser bairn +three half-penny’s worth of butterscotch for his +half-penny.</p> + +<p>It was the like of <i>this</i> which proved that Sally +Ann was not fit to serve the public, and that finally +persuaded her to don her black satin gown and serve +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span>the candy herself. It was a sorry down-come that +the widow of an insurance man, with a brass plate +on his door, should be serving candy to any wet-nosed +bairn that had a half-penny to spend; but +the black satin gown made it bearable. And even +the like of Skilly’s Gype, that carried a high head +and an impudent tongue in it, had been impressed +by the gold locket, and remarked that it “dootless +had cost a bonnie penny”; and when he ordered a +pair of knitted gloves, he asked if she would <i>mind</i> +knitting them in a heather mixture color; so it +wasn’t as if they didn’t <i>know</i> that she was above +such doings.</p> + +<p>It had been a bitter privation to give up the front +parlor and turn it into a shop where all and sundry +could come to geek and glower; and harder still to +take the lace curtains off the window and fill it with +pans of candy. She didn’t want to do it, but Sally +Ann had been determined about this; she had even +gone the length of saying: “It’s no secret that +we’re sellin’ candy, mither.” That wasn’t like Sally +Ann, she was unreasonable and feckless like the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span>father of her, but it was seldom that she was +impudent.</p> + +<p>Sally Ann turned out to be very notional about +the window. She thought it was a tasty-like arrangement +to have the woolen gloves knitted the same +color as the candy, and hang the pink gloves above +the pink candy, and the red above the red. But +everybody kept crying for navy blue and heather +mixture gloves, and try as she would, Sally Ann +couldn’t make heather mixture candy, and when she +did manage to make <i>something</i> like it, it was so +queasy-looking that the bairns wouldn’t buy it.</p> + +<p>So there hung the pink gloves and the red, and +the green and white ones that matched the peppermint +rock, and nobody would buy them. But Sally +Ann didn’t care. They charmed her eye, and she +excused them to herself and to her mother by saying: +“We have t’ look on ’t as necessary oot-lay t’ decorate +the winda. It lets them ken we sell gloves as +weel as candy.”</p> + +<p>She banked the back of the window up with pink +and red geraniums, and sometimes in the quiet of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span>the morning, she would steal out to the middle of +the street and take a sly look at it, coming back to +say guilelessly: “It’s unco bonnie, mither, I hae the +real knack o’ trimmin’ a winda.”</p> + +<p>But Mistress MacIntosh would only sigh, and her +sigh would mean: “T’ think that I hae come t’ +<i>this</i>!” It made Sally Ann feel guilty, as if somehow +in selling candy, she were also selling her mother’s +pride, bit by bit in paper bags; and she would take +tentie⁠<a id="FNanchor_21" href="#Footnote_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a> steps on the edges of her feet the rest of the +morning, and speak to her mother only in compassionate +whispers.</p> + +<p>There was something gleyed⁠<a id="FNanchor_22" href="#Footnote_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a> about Sally Ann. +She had started to be a perfect copy of her mother, +and then lost heart. Her prominent brows were +made to be heavily marked with dark eyebrows, but +instead, each hovered naked as an unstroked T +above a timid, vague blue eye. Her shoulders had +the challenging set of her mother’s, and her dominant +cheek-bones were molded by the same firm +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>hand, but her hair was the yellow of a mavis’ breast, +and her ways were shy and tender, as if some +essence of her gentle father had crept by mistake +into the wrong casket.</p> + +<p>In the shelter of her room as she braided her hair +by the candle-light, Sally Ann would dream rash +and glowing dreams of flashing lovers who would +not be denied. Or walking alone in the bracken-scented +gloaming, she would thrill in sweet enchantment +at the thought of some bold gallant, riding +down the lane to clasp her wildly to his breast.</p> + +<p>But it was only in her dreams that she was brave +enough to lift eyes to them; for the very approach +of a man made her wits fly two ways at once in a +frenzy of embarrassment. Before her sister died, +leaving her to provide for the family, she had been +steeped to the lips in mortification at her mother’s +constant angling after a man for her. She liked it +better the way it was now, with her mother on the +watch to prevent her seeing any man who might +want to marry her. There was more room for self-respect +in that; although in truth, as she told herself +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>ruefully, her mother had no need to watch; the +gallants of Drumorty took little heed of <i>her</i>, they +hankered after quick-eyed saucy lasses that were +loud in their laughing, and free at tossing gibe for +gibe.</p> + +<p>Sally Ann also hated the “church socials” at +which she would perch nervously on the edge of a +chair, with a strained smile to show that she was +enjoying herself. As she sat hour after hour watching +the lads petitioning smiles from other lasses, but +with never an eye for <i>her</i>, she would seem to herself +to get smaller and smaller and quieter and more +gray with every passing hour, until she would think +that she had become invisible, and would relax her +effort to smile; but then her mother would nudge +her, whispering impatiently: “Dinna sit there wi’ +a face that would sour milk; there’s nae lad likes a +dour-faced lass.” And she would pick up her smile +again and wear it dutifully the rest of the evening.</p> + +<p>Each time she would plead to stay at home, saying +that sitting so long gave her a stiff neck, as +indeed it did; but her mother insisted, and somehow +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span>managed to prove that it was some unnatural ingratitude +in Sally Ann that made her not want to +go.</p> + +<p>But all that was changed now. Far from urging +her to go, Mistress MacIntosh even contrived to +have “a sinkin’ aboot her heart” every time there +were any social doings, so that Sally Ann had to stay +at home and tend her. She even kept her from going +to serve the customers in the front parlor, except on +those rare occasions when the water on her knee +made her a cripple. And she believed that Sally +Ann was content, and would never give marrying a +thought unless some man came troubling her with +his haverings.</p> + +<p>It was a Monday morning when Sally Ann made +all the treacle candy for the week. She always +pulled it on a big hook in the front parlor, and because +customers might come in, she wore her sky-blue +print gown fresh from the ironing.</p> + +<p>“Here’s Skilly’s Gype ridin’ doon the brae, the +dirt flyin’ o’er his head as if auld Nick were at his +heels,” commented Mistress MacIntosh. “He’ll be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span>after his gloves, an’ them barely cast on yet. Tak’ +the candy ben the hoose, Sally Ann; ye’ll no’ be +wantin’ t’ hae speech wi’ the like o’ him.”</p> + +<p>“I canna, mither,” Sally Ann protested. “I hae +t’ pull it when it’s at <i>this</i> heat, or I’ll hae t’ heat it +o’er again.”</p> + +<p>“Weel then, turn yer back on him, and dinna let +on ye ken he’s here.”</p> + +<p>“He’ll think I’m deaf,” said Sally Ann with a +flustered giggle. Her heart was capering queerly +at the nearing clatter of hoofs.</p> + +<p>“Better think ye deaf than think ye wanton,” +warned her mother, bracing herself against the +Gype’s arrival by feeling if her lace cap was +straight.</p> + +<p>He came in like a hurricane and was filling the +parlor to the ceiling before Sally Ann had time to +catch up with her heart. Everything about him, +from his checked yellow waistcoat to his crinkling +red hair bespoke achievement and the poise and +pride that comes of it.</p> + +<p>Ten years ago they had called him daft-like, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>nicknamed him “Skilly’s Gype,” and had cried down +scorn upon him at market and meeting-place because +he had come back from Aberdeen University with +new-fangled notions about farming. And the +worthies had held their sides when he put a roller +over his newly sprouted oats; and loud had been +their clamor over the “tiled bathrooms for his Jersey +cows.” This was when he put a tiled gutter and +running water in byre. But the derision had died +out when his oats and Jerseys robbed them of the +best county prizes; and though they called him “the +Gype” still, and cracked their jokes about his waistcoats, +there was not one of them above stepping up +to Skilly Farm on a dark evening to ask him for +a little advice. And now that “Auld Skilly” was +dead, and the Gype owned the farm, the lassies were +fairly on tiptoe at his approach and angling to +catch him with every wile, as much for the fine +figure of a man he was, as for the grand farmhouse +and byre full of Jerseys.</p> + +<p>But he had a high-handed way with them, and +never went so far forward that he couldn’t step +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span>back, for he was not minded to be married for his +Jersey cows, and indeed, he was not minded to be +married at all while there were willing red lips to be +kissed and new waists to be circled in Drumorty.</p> + +<p>He included Sally Ann in his hearty “Guid day t’ +ye,” but minding her mother’s warning, she didn’t +turn round. Indeed, she <i>couldn’t</i> have turned +round, in such a flurry was she. The sound of his +horse’s hoofs had made her heart float out of her, +and for the moment he was strangely mixed up with +the lover of her dreams, whose horse’s hoofs also +sprayed the sod behind him in his haste to reach +her side.</p> + +<p>“Yer gloves are no’ but just cast on yet,” Mistress +MacIntosh was saying discouragingly.</p> + +<p>But the Gype was leaning far over the counter +to attract Sally Ann.</p> + +<p>“How long will I hae t’ wait t’ get some o’ the +candy ye’re pullin’, Miss MacIntosh?”</p> + +<p>Her mother made answer, cutting off his view of +Sally Ann. “We hae lots o’ treacle candy all ready +in the winda. How much wad ye be wantin’?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span></p> + +<p>“But I’m minded t’ hae some o’ the fresh,” he +answered, stepping round the short counter to Sally +Ann’s side. Seeing him, she missed the hook, and the +candy would have fallen had he not deftly grabbed +it and tossed it upon the hook again.</p> + +<p>“It’s sticky stuff, that,” he laughed, taking out +his handkerchief to wipe his fingers. Sally Ann +smiled shyly up at him.</p> + +<p>“It’s the verra color o’ yer hair,” he said, contemplating +her. “Only it’s no’ so bonnie as yer +hair.”</p> + +<p>“Yer horse is scarin’ at something,” said Mistress +MacIntosh with a clinking chill in her voice. +“Better tend t’ yer ain business and let the lassie +tend t’ hers. She wants none o’ yer haverin’, keep +that for Bransbog’s lassies that hae nothing better +t’ do than listen t’ the like o’ ye.”</p> + +<p>“Mither!” cried Sally Ann reproachfully.</p> + +<p>“Dinna ‘Mither’ me,” snapped Mistress MacIntosh. +“Gae ben the hoose as I tel’t ye in the first +place.”</p> + +<p>“Mither—” began Sally again.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span></p> + +<p>“Na, noo,” remonstrated the Gype. “I’ll no’ tak’ +a bite oot o’ the lass.” He put out a hand to detain +Sally Ann, but, obeying a commanding signal +from her mother, she had the candy from the hook +and was through the door like a frightened +squirrel.</p> + +<p>“Be steppin’ yer way, ma mannie,” said Mistress +MacIntosh with withering patronage.</p> + +<p>The Gype loitered. “I’ll tak’ a pound o’ candy +first.” He was not minded to go at Mistress MacIntosh’s +bidding; it pleased him to make her drop +her triumphant air and reach down groaningly to +the shelf under the counter for a bag of candy.</p> + +<p>“Noo,” he said, with the devil dancing in his face, +“present it t’ Miss MacIntosh wi’ my compliments +an’ tell her frae me that I’d tak’ her walkin’ if she +didna hae such an ill-natured mither.”</p> + +<p>“Awa’, ye impudent bletherskate, an’ tak’ yer +candy wi’ ye. I’ll break her twa legs afore I let her +tak’ a step wi’ the like o’ ye.”</p> + +<p>“We’ll see aboot that,” he mocked. “Tell her I’ll +be in by on my way home t’ kiss her guid night.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span></p> + +<p>“Awa’!” Mistress MacIntosh was too angry for +further speech. “Na, ye’ll no leave it here,” she +cried as he pushed the candy back at her, and hurried +laughing from the shop, banging the door so +hard that the glass bell that covered the wax +flowers on the mantel, jarred loose and crashed to +the floor. She hurried round the counter as fast as +her stiff knee would let her, intending to throw his +candy after him, but as she heard the thud of departing +hoofs, she stopped to consider it. After all, it +was a shilling’s worth of candy and it had been paid +for; and she could sell it again and never let on to +Sally Ann; and forby that, she would charge him +for the broken bell the next time he came in.</p> + +<p>The Gype went thudding down the street, scattering +the sod along the gutter-side as he went, and +laughing in appreciation of his own wit. Then he +bethought him of Sally Ann and his threat to kiss +her good night. He hadn’t meant it at the time. +But why should he not? He was surprised that he +hadn’t noticed before how bonnie her hair was. And +she had a soft-like look in her eyes that was unco +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span>becoming in a young lass. He recalled the rustling +cleanness of her starched blue gown. He liked that +in a lass. His mother had always said it was an ill +sign when a woman could bear to be aught but spotless. +She was wont to say: “Dirt on the sark⁠<a id="FNanchor_23" href="#Footnote_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a> is a +sign o’ dirt on the soul.” And he believed her words +to be true, although he had often found her too clean +for comfort when she would follow him through the +house with a besom⁠<a id="FNanchor_24" href="#Footnote_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a> and a duster, crying out upon +him for a worthless clout that kept her cleaning +from morning to night. Nevertheless he felt it was +a failing that brought her all the nearer to the +kingdom of Heaven; and somehow his heart could +never center for long on a lass who was not “persnickety” +about dirt. There had been a chorus-girl +in Aberdeen who could keep him waiting by the hour, +and who had even made him miss a class or two to +humor her; but a glimpse of her grimy chemise +showing at the neck of her dress had cured him of +that.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span></p> + +<p>You could tell that Sally Ann was clean right to +her skin; and how white her skin was, almost blue-white, +like milk that had been skimmed. It would +not be a very sore trial to have to kiss Sally Ann! +He grinned at that. How would she take it? She +would like it, of course. She would pretend that +she didn’t, but she <i>would</i>. He knew his worth too +well to doubt that. Doubtless she would be proud +and brag about it. He must watch, though. No +use letting a lass think fun was more than fun. +Lasses had a way of seeing wedding rings and the +like—queer how the least thing could set them thinking +that way. It would be wise to make it clear to +begin with—that was the best way.</p> + +<p>Then he wondered who came courting Sally Ann. +There was sure to be somebody, for all her quietness. +His mother had often said that the quiet ones +were the worst. She had been a wise woman, his +mother. Maybe Sally Ann knew a lot more than she +was minded to let people see. She had given him a +look, shy-like up out of the corner of her eyes. +There had been encouragement in it, for all it was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span>shy and soft-like. Oh, she was no guileless lamb, +blush though she may. It might well be that she +was as free with her kisses as Bransbog’s lasses, for +all her mousey ways. Doubtless she was expecting +him this very minute, and thinking him blate⁠<a id="FNanchor_25" href="#Footnote_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a> that +he hadn’t ridden round to the back of the house as +soon as he left the shop. And why hadn’t he? Dullard +that he was, to keep a lass waiting! He +wheeled his horse about, his mouth widening roguishly. +“All right, Sally Ann. I’m no’ one t’ keep +a lass waitin’ for a kiss. My mither always tel’t me +I must be obligin’ wi’ the women-folk.”</p> + +<p>Sally Ann dumped the candy back in the pan, and +took her flushed cheeks out to the back yard. Her +heart needed more room to beat. She was dismayed +by the pother it was making, and looked +round for some sane thing to do with her hands. +Something to steady her.</p> + +<p>A bag of oats for the chickens stood near. She +noticed for the first time that rust had made little +holes in the tin basin, and she found herself trying +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>to push a kernel of oats through one of the holes. +“Fine nonsense,” she scolded, stopping herself. “Fine +nonsense, this,” and with reproving haste she +filled the basin and took it down to the henhouse, +although it was unheard of and witless to give +chickens their evening meal at ten in the morning. +She stood scattering the oats before the lackadaisical +hens and wondering at herself that she +could be so mazed by the Gype.</p> + +<p>“It’s no’ as if I thought he meant a word o’ ’t,” +she reasoned. “And what did he say, but that my +hair is the color o’ the candy, which is nothing but +the bare truth. Fine nonsense, this, to fash mysel’ +o’er a bare civility.”</p> + +<p>She barely heard the Gype ride up to the hedge +when he vaulted over it, high-headed, thinking she +was waiting there for him. He swaggered approaching +her, his cap far back upon his head, his lip lifted +in amusement over his glistening teeth.</p> + +<p>Expecting some coquettish resistance, he lunged +toward her and circled her tightly with his arms. +The pan slipped from her hands and rolled away.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span></p> + +<p>Sally Ann, crushed against his breast, lay quiet. +This was her dream as she had dreamed it. This +was love. This was her lover come to claim her. +A tide of sweetness welled up to her eyes.</p> + +<p>Her quietness surprised the Gype, who would +have understood better if she had given him a clout +on the ear.</p> + +<p>He looked down at her quince-colored head lying +bright against the rough gray of his coat.</p> + +<p>“She’s a bonnie lass,” he jested to himself. “It +would be ill-done to disappoint her.” He felt for +her chin and raised her scarcely resisting face. She +looked up at him timidly; tears darkened her yellow +lashes. In alarm the Gype relaxed his hold. “This +is a bonnie business,” he reflected irritably. “Devil +take me for a witless lout to meddle wi’ her. She’ll +hae me walkin’ down the aisle to the altar afore I’ve +time t’ draw my breath.”</p> + +<p>He would have taken his arms away, but Sally +Ann leaned helplessly against him. He was thinking +of escape when a smile flickered across her tear-wet +face. This reassured him. So she wasn’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>blaming him. Maybe she wasn’t taking him as seriously +as he had feared. Some women cried for +nothing, and meant nothing by it.</p> + +<p>His arms closed about her again and his arrogant +lips covered her warm mouth. Its willingness bewildered +and conquered him. His emotions took a +new color, his arms about her were more gentle and +his lips sought her kisses with greater tenderness. +He thought how soft and small she was against his +breast, and how foolish she was to trust him so. +He must warn her of that. A man might well think +her wanton to be so free.</p> + +<p>Sally Ann turned her face against his shoulder, a +gentle sobbing fluttered in her throat, her small +round body drooping in his arms. Seeing her so +helpless, he thought he understood, and a bitter +shame smote his heart. He had frightened her! +Frightened her so that she was powerless to resist +him. He had thought her free; had thought her +willing for his kisses, and all the time the poor lass +had been too mazed to cry out against him. Oh, +prideful popinjay that he was, he had frightened +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>the lass out of her wits, and now she was crying as +if the heart of her would break in two.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Sally Ann,” he cried, “I didna mean t’ +fright ye so. Dinna greet,⁠<a id="FNanchor_26" href="#Footnote_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a> dinna greet, my wee +lamb. I’m a lout that’s no’ worth the hangin’, but +I’d bake on a griddle afore I’d do aught t’ harm ye, +Sally Ann.”</p> + +<p>She stopped sobbing, wondering at the trouble +in his broad flushed face.</p> + +<p>“Yer no’ a lout,” she said, ignoring all his protestations +save that one. Eager to drive away the +signs of weeping, he was daubing awkwardly at her +face with his red-spotted handkerchief. But more +tears kept falling, for Sally Ann was so full of happiness +it <i>had</i> to overflow.</p> + +<p>“Sally Ann,” came shrilly from the house.</p> + +<p>“My mither,” cried Sally Ann, and her eyes became +alert. “She’ll flay me alive.”</p> + +<p>“Wait,” begged the Gype, staying her as she +started toward the house. “Will ye meet me at +gloamin’? Come along the Bracken Lane. I’ll be +waitin’, Sally Ann.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span></p> + +<p>“I canna.”</p> + +<p>“Ye can. I’ll be waitin’,” he urged, releasing her +struggling hand as the cry from the house rang +again more insistent.</p> + +<p>“I canna,” and she darted away.</p> + +<p>He watched her as she ran unsteadily along the +cobble path between the rows of boxwood, and when +the last pale blue glimmer of her was lost in the +shadow of the doorway he went soberly out by the +gate and found his horse.</p> + +<p>It was a day of mazement past all telling. What +pans of candy were left to burn. What pails of +water left to overflow. What questions left without +answer. Well might Mistress MacIntosh cry out +upon her for a heedless limmer. No warlock upon +the moors at evening ever went its way with less +direction than did Sally Ann. At gloaming she +sought her room beneath the thatch, brushing her +hair with hands that flew aimlessly and got tangled. +And when at last she was ready, dressed in her Sunday +best taken by stealth from the kist on the stair +landing, she found that no feet of hers could take +her one step from the shelter of her room.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span></p> + +<p>Could <i>she</i> go boldly down the lane to meet a lad +at evening time? Could <i>she</i> walk up to him with +lightsome words upon her lips as he stood waiting +there? Oh, no, she could not. Lasses there were +that could go with high heads and light laughing, +and go, and go again. But <i>she</i> could not. Trysts +in the gloaming were not for her.</p> + +<p>She sat down upon her chair again, contemplating +herself in the blistered glass between the candle-sticks. +Oh, to be broad-hipped and glib-tongued +like Bransbog’s lasses; to toss a lightsome head +when lads were havering; to swing by in rustling +petticoats, confident that they were admiring. Oh, +to be <i>anybody</i> but Sally Ann MacIntosh, so that the +Gype might love her. Oh, to <i>know</i> that he loved +her, so that she might be bold enough to go to him!</p> + +<p>And what had made her believe that the like of +the Gype, proud footed as he was, could love Sally +Ann MacIntosh? What folly was it that made her +think that he was waiting for her now? Why would +the Gype, sought as he was by every lass in Drumorty, +why would the Gype love her?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span></p> + +<p>Oh, it was well she had come to her senses! Fine +food for laughter it would be if she walked down +the lane to meet the Gype; fine food for laughter if +she found him there with Bransbog’s lassie, waiting +to see her come; or with the MacKenty lass that +had so sharp a tongue. Well was it, that her feet +were wiser than her head and kept her home where +none could see her folly. She began to undo the +black ribbon at her neck, which was clasped by the +brooch of twisted gold.</p> + +<p>By sunset the Gype had reasoned with himself that +no lass could cry over a kiss of his. The little limmer +had tricked him, had made him go further than +he meant. Oh, well, he was not unwilling to make +her happy for a time. She was a bonnie wee lass. +He turned his horse into the Bracken Lane with a +sense that he was being very kind to Sally Ann. He +had come early, for he knew that in her eagerness +to see him again she would think gloaming had come +when the sun had barely set and it would not be the +gallant thing to keep her waiting. He was pleased +with himself. He liked to make a lass happy.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span></p> + +<p>Dismounting, he found a place to tie his horse, +not so near that every passer-by could see it from +the road, for he was not minded to be explaining to +Bransbog’s lass, nor to Janet MacKenty whose +tongue was keen, nor even to Mary MacIntyre, +though <i>she</i> would never reproach him; but it was +hard to bear with her when she sat with tight lips +and looked past him as if seeing warlocks. A lass +had many ways of making a man itch to slap her. +He sat where he could see Sally Ann approaching, +and measured with his eye just where her head would +come as she turned the corner by the sweetbrier +rose-bush. It got darker and he had to change his +seat in order to see the road. He had been wrong +to think that she would come early. Of course she +would come late. They always did for the first +tryst. Lasses were so retiring to begin with, and so +demanding at the finish. He wished that they +worked the other way, it would save him many a +weary hour. It was getting murky and thick and +well past gloaming. Sally Ann could come now +without any blame of being hasty at a tryst.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span></p> + +<p>Doubtless she was on her way. Little limmer to +keep him waiting so. But clever little limmer!</p> + +<p>The moon was coming up. This was past a joke, +past clever wiles. The lass must be blate to think +he’d wait for her till moonrise. She must set high +store by herself to think he’d cool his heels for two +hours waiting for a kiss of hers. Did she think that +James Minty of Skillymarnoe was sore put-to to get +a lass to meet him at gloaming? Thought she that? +What had she to command her that she set such +value on herself? Little that <i>he</i> could see. Nothing +for looks, and never a penny to her name. Was +he going to sit till he took root waiting for such a +lass?</p> + +<p>No, he was but waiting to let her see how little +store he set on any kiss of hers. He’d make her rue +this high-handed work. He had set down higher-headed +wenches than Sally Ann MacIntosh. When +she came, he would kiss her light-like, and he’d talk +a while cheerily, then he’d say canty⁠<a id="FNanchor_27" href="#Footnote_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a> and smiling at +her, “Weel, my lass, it’s gettin’ late. I maun be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>gaun’ back to Skilly.” And he would be forgetful +to kiss her good night, but very friendly with it all +for fear she thought that he was vexed. And when +next he saw her he would call her “Miss MacIntosh” +as if naught had been between them.</p> + +<p>But she wasn’t coming, that was clear. How +could he lower her pride for her if she didn’t come +near him? He’d go after her. Just at first it +would give her more reason for her pridefulness, but +the higher he made her think of herself, the greater +would be her down-come when he passed her by.</p> + +<p>Sally Ann was braiding her hair with troubled +fingers when she heard a light tap upon the small +window that opened upon the roof of the peat-shed. +Her heart told her who it was, and she hurriedly +snuffed out the candles, fearing that he could see +her as she sat there in her nainsook night-gown with +the frilled cuffs.</p> + +<p>But how could he come without a sound? How +climb the roof without her brother hearing?</p> + +<p>The tapping again! How dare he knock so +loudly? How could he be so bold? Her fingers +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span>danced about the dressing table in a frenzy. She +was afraid, but wildly happy. “Fairly batterin’ +down the hoose t’ get me,” her heart sang. Oh, that +this should happen to <i>her</i>. And then she saw his +face against the window-pane, a white wedge in the +moonlight. He was raising the sash. Her heart +broke into panic. What should she do? Should +she call her mother?</p> + +<p>The Gype was propping the sash with his shoulder. +There was just room for his arm and face +in the narrow opening of the window.</p> + +<p>“Sally Ann,” he whispered, searching for her in +the dark room. “Come here.”</p> + +<p>“I canna,” she whispered back at him, but left the +chair and came a little way toward him.</p> + +<p>“Come here,” he said again as she paused +timidly.</p> + +<p>“I canna,” she answered, coming nearer as she +spoke.</p> + +<p>“Come and kneel by me,” he commanded.</p> + +<p>“I canna,” she said softly, but came and knelt +by the window so that her face was level with his.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span></p> + +<p>“Noo ye’ll gie me a kiss, Sally Ann MacIntosh,” +he said, catching hold of her.</p> + +<p>“I canna,” she gasped. How sweet was the +tumult in her heart!</p> + +<p>“Ye <i>will</i>.”</p> + +<p>“No, I canna,” she faltered, praying that he +would insist.</p> + +<p>“It would be a sore pity t’ wake yer puir sick +brother,” he whispered mockingly. “A sore pity, +but there’s a loose slate by my foot, and down it +goes unless ye kiss me this minute.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“It would be ill done t’ wake him, puir lad,” +sighed the Gype.</p> + +<p>“No, dinna,” she begged.</p> + +<p>“Weel, I’m waitin’.” He thrust his gleaming +face through the opening.</p> + +<p>“Then I maun do it,” said Sally Ann, more to +assure herself than him.</p> + +<p>“First put yer arms about my neck,” he ordered.</p> + +<p>“I canna.” But her arms trembled to obey.</p> + +<p>“Down goes the slate then,” he threatened.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span></p> + +<p>Her arms flew up in obedience. Oh, how bold she +was. How bold, but how happy.</p> + +<p>“Kiss me!”</p> + +<p>“I canna,” she said, and kissed him eagerly.</p> + +<p>“Again an’ longer,” he ordered.</p> + +<p>“I canna,” kissing him as she spoke.</p> + +<p>“Na, dinna stop,” he said, as she drew back. +“Ye’ll hae t’ keep on wi’ the kissin’, for I’m sorely +tempted t’ kick down the slate.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” Surely this was Paradise.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry for ye, Sally Ann,” he commiserated. +“It’s a sore trial t’ hae t’ kiss me.”</p> + +<p>“It’s no’ a trial,” she whispered shyly.</p> + +<p>“Is it no’?” His voice was eager, and then he +was vexed at his eagerness. He was there to lay +low her pride. This was the time that he should go +away and leave her. Leave her lightsomely, and +then, when next they met, greet her as if naught had +ever been between them.</p> + +<p>But it would be well, and nothing more than just, +to let her tell why she had broken the tryst. So +he’d sound her out on that.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span></p> + +<p>“I’m thinkin’ ye hate me for my impudence,” he +ventured.</p> + +<p>“I dinna hate ye,” she said softly, a timid hand +reaching up to his crinkling hair.</p> + +<p>“Then why did ye no’ meet me?”</p> + +<p>“I couldna.”</p> + +<p>“Fine story, <i>that</i>,” he cried scornfully. “Nae lass +ever missed a tryst t’ please her mither.”</p> + +<p>Sally Ann could not answer. How could she say +all that was in her breast? How tell him that her +feet were not brave enough to go to him? Go to +him? Oh, no, her heart was too faint with her +unworthiness. Sally Ann had no words to tell him +this.</p> + +<p>The Gype brooded upon her silence. “She didna +wish t’ cheapen hersel’ by meeting me at the first +askin’,” he told himself. Here was a lass who was +not minded to melt in his mouth like a ripe berry at +the first tasting. Here was a lass that would take +some reaching for. And she was right. His mother +had always said: “A worthy bride’s no’ easy won.” +She had been a wise woman, his mother.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span></p> + +<p>But he was thinking of Sally Ann as a bride? +Oh, no, but there was no harm admiring a lass that +held herself high. He wondered what she thought +of him, and longed for some reassurance, some word +to show that she did not quite despise him.</p> + +<p>“Ye dinna hate me, Sally Ann?”</p> + +<p>She shook her head.</p> + +<p>“Yer no’ angry that I made ye kiss me?”</p> + +<p>She shook her head again.</p> + +<p>“Will ye let me kiss ye, Sally Ann?”</p> + +<p>She nodded shyly and turned her face to his. And +then he knew that there was nothing sweeter than to +lie there on the slated roof in the moonlight with +Sally Ann’s timorous arms about his neck, and her +breath, fragrant as the air from new milk, upon his +face. He knew that there was nothing dearer than +the warmth of her lips upon his, and the gentle +flutter of her breast.</p> + +<p>And so throughout the months of sweetbrier roses, +and well into berry-picking time, he sought Sally +Ann by stealth upon the roof or in the gloaming +along the Bracken Lane. And on market days, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span>when Mistress MacIntosh was well occupied, he +would venture into the kitchen for a hasty kiss. +But he had never said a word of marriage to Sally +Ann, and though at times she saw herself riding +to the kirk in Skillymarnoe’s phæton behind the dappled +grays, she would push the picture away from +her, not daring to look upon its brightness. Nor +did she grieve at the thought that it might never be, +but rather she held her happiness breathlessly, as +one might hold a gleaming bubble with spread +fingers.</p> + +<p>It was the evening of “Stookie Sunday” and the +Gype had been to the kirk to pray for drought to +dry the grain, for this was the only occasion when +he put any faith in the Lord. He had hoped to overtake +Sally Ann in the Bracken Lane, but she was +not at the kirk, and neither was Mistress MacIntosh. +This was more than unusual, it came nigh +to being alarming, and the Gype made sure that +some mishap had come to young Sandy. So it was +with little caution that he sought Sally Ann in the +kitchen.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span></p> + +<p>“Yer brother?” he asked as he entered the door.</p> + +<p>“Na,” said Sally Ann, understanding him. “It +was the hens.”</p> + +<p>“The hens?”</p> + +<p>“Aye. They’re crop-bound. We fed them wi’ the +oats left frae decoratin’ the kirk. My mither thinks +it’s a visitation frae the Lord for stintin’ Him. We +hae operated on sax o’ them wi’ Sandy’s razor. Five +are doin’ fine, but this ane’s like t’ pass awa’!”</p> + +<p>She put the basket with the drooping Black +Minorca hen upon the table. The Gype inspected +it, fingering its faded comb soberly.</p> + +<p>“Tell yer mither t’ put a drop o’ oil t’ keep the +feathers frae stickin’.”</p> + +<p>“Aye, she’s done that. Ye’d better awa’,” Sally +Ann advised. “My mither’s only at the hen +hoose.”</p> + +<p>“Come down the lane, then.”</p> + +<p>“Na, I couldna an’ leave the hens.”</p> + +<p>“Hens or no hens, I’ll no’ leave without a kiss.” +He pressed her close, and held her all the closer as +she struggled, begging him to mind her mother.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span></p> + +<p>And then it was too late. Mistress MacIntosh +stood in the doorway, a wilting hen under either +arm, her face as red as the combs upon their heads.</p> + +<p>“Fine work this on a Sabbath day! Fine wanton’s +work! Standin’ there haverin’ wi’ the scum +o’ the earth while a hen worth eighteen pence is like +t’ pass awa’. Lord pity me that I brought the +like o’ ye into the world, ye wanton limmer.”</p> + +<p>“Nae more o’ that!” cried the Gype. “Ye’ll no’ +call wife o’ mine a wanton limmer.”</p> + +<p>“Wife o’ <i>yours</i>,” screamed Mistress MacIntosh +derisively.</p> + +<p>“Aye, just that,” said the Gype with furious calm. +“Sally Ann, come wi’ me.”</p> + +<p>“No’ a foot,” cried her mother. “Oot o’ my +hoose, ye worthless prodigal, afore I hae my sick +laddie rise frae his bed t’ throw ye oot.”</p> + +<p>“Sally Ann,” said the Gype, “I maun go for +Sandy’s sake. Meet me in the lane.”</p> + +<p>“Niver!” cried Mistress MacIntosh.</p> + +<p>“The lass has a tongue o’ her ain,” the Gype reminded +her scathingly as he went.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span></p> + +<p>Sally Ann faced her mother, trembling, but there +was something of new strength in her blue eyes.</p> + +<p>“Dinna glower at me,” cried her mother. “Tak’ +yer sinful face oot o’ my sight. Up t’ yer room, ye +worthless besom!”</p> + +<p>“I canna, mither, I maun meet him,” said Sally +Ann in a voice so quiet with certainty that Mistress +MacIntosh floundered, incredulous.</p> + +<p>“Ye defy yer ain mither? Oh, that I should live +t’ see this day!” She set the hens down hurriedly, +not caring how they flopped helplessly on the floor, +and clutched the front of her bodice, gasping as she +did when her sinking spells were upon her.</p> + +<p>Sally Ann regarded her with troubled eyes, but +made no move toward her.</p> + +<p>“Dinna hae a sinkin’ spell, mither,” she advised, +“for I maun leave ye.”</p> + +<p>“Devil tak’ my glib tongue,” thought the Gype as +he went striding down the lane. “What call had I t’ +go proposin’ marriage? I’m no’ hankerin’ t’ be tied +faster than a ram at shearin’ time. Forby that the +lass never looked for it. Never so much as said, ‘It +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span>maun be lonesome for ye at Skillymarnoe.’ Never +so much as mentioned that a hoose is na a hame +without a woman in it. Never even tried t’ sew a +button or mend a sock for me.”</p> + +<p>No, he couldn’t blame the lass. She was not one +to snare a lad with wiles and glances. But it was +not too late. He could pull in his horns again, +blame his hasty speech upon her mother, and keep +away from Sally Ann. Never see her again, that +would be best.</p> + +<p>Never see Sally Ann again? What havering was +this? How could he live without seeing Sally Ann? +What would he do without her kisses at gloaming? +What could he do without her gentle glances? It +was for Sally Ann he hurried through the day with +lightsome singing. It was for Sally Ann he had +painted the barn. How could he live without Sally +Ann?</p> + +<p>He looked yearningly along the lane. Why didn’t +she come? He could not bear this waiting. His +heart was harried with the need to hold her. How +could she loiter so?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span></p> + +<p>And then he saw her coming, her feet falling +daintily upon the moss-dappled path. How could +she take such care in coming? How dally so? He +could not bear the space between them any longer, +and so he ran to meet her, stumbling in his eagerness, +his face strained with the pain of his need.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Sally Ann,” he cried, sweeping her within his +grasp. “I canna wait. Say ye’ll have me. I ken +I should hae asked ye afore. I ken I should hae +asked ye different—Sally Ann!”</p> + +<p>Sally Ann could not speak. She was full of +shame that she had ever doubted him. He had meant +this from the first! He had been courting her for +marriage, and she had thought he held her lightly. +She had given him her kisses while she had doubted +him. Oh, he must never know. He must never +know what a wanton heart was in her breast. She +was so poor a thing, how could he love her so? And +from the full tide of her humility, she cried, “How +can ye want me for a wife, that none has ever sought +before?”</p> + +<p>And the Gype replied—for this answer had come +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>to him many times as he wondered at his love for +her: “It takes a man o’ taste t’ appreciate ye, +Sally Ann.”</p> + +<p>And she was happy, not seeing that half the compliment +was for himself.</p> + +<p class="titlepage"><span class="smcap">The End</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" aria-hidden="true"> + +<div class="footnotes"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="FOOTNOTES">FOOTNOTES</h2> + +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> A close-frilled cap.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> Without strength, worthless.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> Ask, particularly ask in marriage; proposal.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> One who rents a small portion of a farm from the +farmer and gives his services in exchange. The cotter’s wife +also assists in the farm kitchen and in the fields at harvest +time, so a cotter’s wife must be strong.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> Field daisy.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> Very.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> Worthless, impudent girl.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> Every.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> A built in box for holding peats.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_10" href="#FNanchor_10" class="label">[10]</a> Infant.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_11" href="#FNanchor_11" class="label">[11]</a> Man.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_12" href="#FNanchor_12" class="label">[12]</a> Scarecrow.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_13" href="#FNanchor_13" class="label">[13]</a> A corruption of Geck, a term of derision, applied especially +to one who puts on airs.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_14" href="#FNanchor_14" class="label">[14]</a> High hat.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_15" href="#FNanchor_15" class="label">[15]</a> Something requiring careful attention, like a newly +hatched chicken under which a board is placed to keep its +feet off the damp ground.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_16" href="#FNanchor_16" class="label">[16]</a> Pinched, thin.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_17" href="#FNanchor_17" class="label">[17]</a> Trunk.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_18" href="#FNanchor_18" class="label">[18]</a> Worry.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_19" href="#FNanchor_19" class="label">[19]</a> Witch-body, applied to anything that doesn’t use human +reasoning.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_20" href="#FNanchor_20" class="label">[20]</a> Nonsense, flattery.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_21" href="#FNanchor_21" class="label">[21]</a> Careful, cautious, quiet.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_22" href="#FNanchor_22" class="label">[22]</a> Off the straight, wrong, oblique.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_23" href="#FNanchor_23" class="label">[23]</a> Shirt, vest.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_24" href="#FNanchor_24" class="label">[24]</a> Broom made of heather.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_25" href="#FNanchor_25" class="label">[25]</a> Dull-witted.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_26" href="#FNanchor_26" class="label">[26]</a> Cry.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_27" href="#FNanchor_27" class="label">[27]</a> Cheery.</p></div> + +</div> + +</main> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79252 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/79252-h/images/book.jpg b/79252-h/images/book.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb13d36 --- /dev/null +++ b/79252-h/images/book.jpg diff --git a/79252-h/images/cover.jpg b/79252-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..54f99fe --- /dev/null +++ b/79252-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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