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.