Jan of Ruffluck Croft never tired of telling about the day when his
little girl came into the world. In the early morning he had been
to fetch the midwife, and other helpers; all the forenoon and a
good part of the afternoon he had sat on the chopping-block, in the
woodshed, with nothing to do but to wait.
Outside it rained in torrents and he came in for his share of the
downpour, although he was said to be under cover. The rain reached
him in the guise of dampness through cracks in the walls and as
drops from a leaky roof, then all at once, through the doorless
opening of the shed, the wind swept a regular deluge in upon him.
"I just wonder if anybody thinks I'm glad to have that young one
coming?" he muttered, impatiently kicking at a small stick of wood
and sending it flying across the yard. "This is about the worst
luck that could come to me! When we got married, Katrina and I, it
was because we were tired of drudging as hired girl and farmhand
for Eric of Falla, and wanted to plant our feet under our own
table; but certainly not to raise children!"
He buried his face in his hands and sighed heavily. It was plain
that the chilly dampness and the long dreary wait had somewhat to
do with putting him in a bad humour, but they were by no means the
only cause. The real reason for his lament was something far more
serious.
"I've got to work every day," he reminded himself, "work from early
morning till late in the evening; but so far I've at least had some
peace nights. Now I suppose that young one will be squalling the
whole night long, and I'll get no rest then, either."
Whereupon an even worse fear seized him. Taking his hands from
before his face he wrung them so hard that the knuckles fairly
cracked. "Up to this we've managed to scratch along pretty well,
because Katrina, has been free to go out and work, the same as
myself, but now she'll have to sit at home and take care of that
young one."
He sat staring in front of him as hopelessly as if he had beheld
Famine itself stalking across the yard and making straight for
his hut.
"Well!" said he, bringing his two fists down on the chopping-block
by way of emphasis. "I just want to say that if I'd only known at
the time when Eric of Falla came to me and offered to let me build
on his ground, and gave me some old timber for a little shack, if I
had only known then that this would happen, I'd have said no to the
whole business, and gone on living in the stable-loft at Falla for
the rest of my days."
He knew these were strong words, but felt no inclination to take
them back.
"Supposing something were to happen--?" he began--for by that time
matters had reached such a pass with him he would not have minded
it if the child had met with some mishap before coming into the
world--but he never finished what he wished to say as he was
interrupted by a faint cry from the other side of the wall.
The woodshed was attached to the house itself. As he listened, he
heard one peep after the other from within, and knew, of course,
what that meant. Then, for a long while he sat very still, feeling
neither glad nor sorry. Finally he said, with a little shrug:
"So it's here at last! And now, for the love of God, they might let
me slip in to warm myself!"
But that comfort was not to be his so soon! There were more hours
of waiting ahead of him.
The rain still came down in sheets and the wind increased. Though
only the latter part of August, it was as disagreeable as a
November day. To cap the climax, he fell to brooding over something
that made him even more wretched. He felt that he was being
slighted and set aside.
"There are three womenfolk, beside the midwife, in there with
Katrina," he murmured. "One of them, at least, might have taken the
trouble to come and tell me whether it's a boy or a girl."
He could hear them bustling about, as they made up a fire, and saw
them run out to the well to fetch water, but of his existence no
one seemed to be aware.
Of a sudden he clapped his hands to his eyes and began to rock
himself backward and forward. "My dear Jan Anderson," he said in
his mind, "what's wrong with you? Why does everything go against
you? Why must you always have such a dull time of it? And why
couldn't you have married some good-looking young girl, instead of
that ugly old Katrina from Falla?"
He was so unspeakably wretched! Even a few tears trickled down
between his fingers. "Why are you made so little of in the parish,
my good Jan Anderson? Why should you always be pushed back for
others? You know there are those who are just as poor as yourself
and whose work is no better than yours; but no one gets put down
the way you do. What can be the matter with you, my dear Jan
Anderson?"
These were queries he had often put to himself, though in vain, and
he had no hope of finding the answer to them now, either. After
all, perhaps there was nothing wrong with him? Perhaps the only
explanation was that both God and his fellowmen were unfair to him?
When that thought came to him, he took his hands from before his
eyes and tried to put on a bold face.
"If you're ever again allowed inside your own house, my good Jan
Anderson, you mustn't so much as glance toward the young one, but
march yourself straight over to the fireplace and sit down, without
saying a word. Or, suppose you get right up and walk away! You
don't have to sit here any longer now that you know it's over with.
Suppose you show Katrina and the rest of the womenfolk that you're
not a man to be trifled with.... "
He was just on the point of rising, when the mistress of Falla
appeared in the doorway of the woodshed, and, with a charming
curtsy, bade him come inside to have a peep at the infant.
Had it been any one else than the mistress of Falla herself that
had invited him in, it is doubtful whether he would have gone at
all, angry as he was. Her he had to follow, of course, but he took
his own time about it. He tried to assume the air and bearing of
Eric of Falla, when the latter strode across the floor of the town
hall to deposit his vote in the ballot-box, and succeeded
remarkably well in looking quite as solemn and important.
"Please walk in," said the mistress of Falla, opening the door
for him, then stepping aside to let him go first.
One glance at the room told him that everything had been cleaned
and tidied up in there. The coffeepot, newly polished and full and
steaming, stood at the edge of the hearth, to cool; the table, over
by the window, was spread with a snow-white cover, on which were
arranged dainty flowered cups and saucers belonging to the mistress
of Falla. Katrina lay on the bed and two of the women, who had come
to lend a hand, stood pressed against the wall so that he should
have a free and unobstructed view of all the preparations. Directly
in front of the table stood the midwife, with a bundle on her arm.
Jan could not help thinking that for once in his life he appeared
to be the centre of attraction. Katrina glanced up at him
appealingly, as if wanting to ask whether he was pleased with her.
The other women, too, all turned their eyes toward him, expectantly
waiting for some word of praise from him for all the trouble they
had been to on his account.
However, it is not so easy to appear jubilant when one has been
half frozen and out of sorts all day! Jan could not clear his face
of that Eric-of-Falla expression, and stood there without saying a
word.
Then the midwife took a step forward. The hut was so tiny that that
one stride put her square in front of him, so that she could place
the child in his arms.
"Now Jan shall have a peek at the li'l' lassie She's what I'd call
a _real baby_!" said the midwife.
And there stood Jan, holding in his two hands something soft and
warm done up in a big shawl, a corner of which had been turned back
that he might see the little wrinkled face and the tiny wizzened
hands. He was wondering what the womenfolk expected him to do with
that which had been thrust upon him, when he felt a sudden shock
that shook both him and the child. It had not come from any of the
women and whether it had passed through the child to him or through
him to the child, he could not tell.
Immediately after, the heart of him began to beat in his breast as
it had never done before. Now he was no longer cold, or sad, or
worried. Nor did he feel angry. All was well with him. But he could
not comprehend why there was a thumping and a beating in his
breast, when he had not been dancing, or running, or climbing
hills.
"My good woman," he said to the midwife, "do lay your hand here and
feel of my heart! It seems to beat so queerly."
"Why, it's a regular attack of the heart!" the midwife declared.
"But perhaps you're subject to these spells?"
"No," he assured her. "I've never had one before--not just in this
way."
"Do you feel bad? Are you in pain?"
"Oh, no!"
Then the midwife could not make out what ailed him. "Anyhow," said
she, "I'll relieve you of the child."
But now Jan felt he did not want to give up the child. "Ah, let me
hold the little girl!" he pleaded.
The womenfolk must have read something in his eyes, or caught
something in his tone that pleased them: for the midwife's mouth
had a peculiar quirk and the other women all burst out laughing.
"Say Jan, have you never cared so much for somebody that your
heart has been set athrobbing because of her?" asked the midwife.
"No indeed!" said Jan.
But at that moment he knew what it was that had quickened the heart
in him. Moreover he was beginning to perceive what had been amiss
with him all his life, and that he whose heart does not respond to
either joy or sorrow can hardly be called human.