After his dinner with his mother, Stewart went to the library-den, his own
room, the habitat consecrated to the males of the Morrison menage. He was
in formal garb for the reception at Senator Corson's. He removed and hung
up his dress-coat and pulled on his house-jacket; he was prompted to make
this precautionary change by a woolen man's innate respect for honest
goods as much as he was by his desire for homely comfort when he smoked.
He lighted a jimmy-pipe and marched up and down the room. He was
determined to give the situation a good going-over in his mind.
He had settled many a problem in that old room!
He was always helped by Grandfather Angus and Father David.
When he walked in one direction he was looking at the portrait of Angus on
the end wall of the long narrow room; Angus bored him with eyes as hard as
steel buttons and out from the close-set lips seemed to issue many an
aphorism to put the grit into a man.
From the opposite wall, when Morrison whirled on his heels, David looked
down. David's eyes had little, softening scrolls at the corners of them;
the artist had painted from life, in the case of David, and had caught the
glint of humor in the eyes. The picture of Angus had been enlarged from a
daguerreotype and seemed to lack some of the truly human qualities of
expression. But it was a strong face, the face of a pioneer who had come
into a strange land to make his way and to smooth that way for the
children who were to have life made easier for them. "Tak' it! Wi' all the
strength o' ye, reach oot and tak' it for yer ainsel' else ithers will
gr-rasp ahead and snigger at ye!" So said Angus from the wall, whenever
Stewart pondered on problems.
But David, though the pictured countenance was resolute enough, always put
in a shrewd and cautionary amendment, whenever Stewart came down the room,
stiffened by the counsel of Angus, "Mind ye, laddie, when ye tak', that
the mon wha tak's slidd'ry serpents to tussle wi' 'em, he haes nae hand to
use for his ainsel' whilst the slickit beasties are alive; and a deid
snake serves nae guid."
That evening Stewart was distinctly getting no help from either Angus or
David. They did not appear to understand his new and peculiar mood. He had
been in the habit of fusing their clashing arbitraments by a humor of his
own which he knew was fantastic, yet helpful according to his whimsical
custom, welding their judgments twain into one dominant counsel of
determination, softened by the spirit of fairness.
But after he had plucked a certain slip of paper from his waistcoat
pocket, squinting at it through the pipe smoke, as he walked to and fro,
mumbling as if he were engaged in the task of memorizing, he ceased to
look up to Angus and David for assistance. He was sure they would not
know! Here were warp and woof of a fabric beyond their ken. He would not
admit to himself that he understood in full measure this emotion that had
come surging up in him, overwhelming and burying all the ordinarily
steadfast landmarks by which he regulated his daily thoughts and actions.
"I had built a dam," he muttered, using the metaphor that was natural,
"and I've been thinking it was safe and sure. Whether it wasn't strong
enough--whether it was undermined, I don't know. It has given way."
There was a tap on the door and he hastily tucked the paper back into his
pocket. He knew it was his mother, trained in the way of the Morrisons to
respect the sanctuary of the family lairds when they were paying their
devotions at the shrine of business.
"I'm saying my gude nicht to ye, bairnie, for ye're telling me ye'll no'
be hame till late," she said when he flung open the door.
He copied affectionately her Scotch "braidness" of dialect when they were
alone together. "No, wee mither, not till late."
He stepped out into the corridor and kissed her. She patted his cheek and
walked on.
More of that whimsy into which he had been allowing his troubled emotions
to lead him! He realized it fully! His brow wrinkled, he shook his head,
but he called to her. He went to meet her when she returned.
"It's like it is at the office, these days! I'm Morrison of St. Ronan's on
one side o' the rail; I'm the mayor of Marion on t'other! Here in the
corridor, ye're wee mither!" He put his arm about her and lifted her into
the library. "Coom awa' wi' ye, noo!" he cried. He threw himself into a
big chair and pulled her upon his knee. "Ye're Jeanie Mac Dougal--only a
woman. I need to talk wi' a woman. I canna talk wi' Mac Tavish or sic as
he. He thinks I'm daft. He said so. I canna get counsel frae grands'r or
sire yon on the walls. They don't understand, Jeanie Mac Dougal. I'm in
love!"
"Aye! Wi' the lass o' the Corsons!"
"But ye shouldna sigh when ye say it, Jeanie Mac Dougal."
"A gashing guidwife sat wi' me to-day in the ben, bairnie, and said the
lass brings her ain laddie wi' her frae the great town."
"I tak' no gossip for my guide!" he protested. "In business I tak' my
facts only frae the lips o' the one I ask. I'll do the same in love."
She did not speak.
"I know, Jeanie Mac Dougal! Ye canna forget ye are wee mither and it's
hard for ye to be only woman richt noo. I know the kind of wife ye hae in
mind for me. The patient wife, the housewife, the meek wife wi' only her
een for back-and-ben, for kitchen and parlor. But I love Lana."
"She promised and she took her promise back! Again she promised, and again
she took it back!" The proud resentment of a mother flamed. "And I'm no'
content wi' the lass who once may win my laddie's word and doesna treasure
it and be thankfu' and proud for all the years to come."
"Oh, I know, mither! But she was young. She must needs wonder what there
was in the world outside Marion. I loved her just the same."
"But noo that she is hame they tell me that her heid 'tis held perkit and
her speech is high and the polished shell is o'er all."
Stewart looked away from his mother's frank eyes. He was too honest to
argue or dispute. "I love her just the same!"
"She ca'd wi' her father at the mill this day, eh? The guidwife said as
much."
"Aye, in the way o' politeness!" He remembered that the politeness seemed
too elaborate, too florid, altiloquent to the extent of insincerity. "To
see her again is to love her the more," he insisted. "I have never been to
Washington. Probably I'd be able to understand better the manners one is
obliged to put on there, if I had been to Washington. I ought to have gone
there on my vacation, instead of into the woods. I'm afraid I have been
keeping in the woods too much!"
"But did she talk high and flighty to you, bairnie?"
"It meant nowt except it's the way one must talk when great folks stand
near to hear. The Governor was there!" he said, lamely.
"That was unco trouble to mak' for hersel' in the hearing o' that auld
tyke whose tongue is as rough as his gruntle!"
"Still, he's the Governor in spite of his phiz, and that shows her tact in
getting on well with the dignitaries, Jeanie Mac Dougal, and you're a
woman and must praise the wit of the sex. She has seen much. She has been
obliged to do as the others do. But good wool is ne'er the waur for the
finish of it! My faith is in her from what I know of the worth o' her in
the old days. And now that she has seen, she can understand better. Yes,
back here at home she'll be able to understand better. Listen, Jeanie Mac
Dougal!" He fumbled in his pocket. "Here's a bit of a poem. I have loved
it ever since she recited it at the festival when she was a little girl.
You have forgotten--I remember! And here's one verse:
"And I think, in the lives of most women and men,
There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,
If only the dead could find out when
To come back and be forgiven."
"But I would change it to read, 'If only we all could find out when,'" he
proceeded. "It wasn't all her fault, mother. I was younger, then. I'm old
enough now to be humble. She is home again, and I'm going to ask to be
forgiven!"
Then the telephone-bell called.
He lifted her gently off his knee and stood up. "As to the lad who is here
with his father! Gossip is playing all sorts of capers this day, wee
mither! And do not be worried if gossip of another sort comes to you after
I'm gone this evening. There may be matters in the city for me to attend
to as mayor. If I'm not home you'll know that I'm attending to them."
He went to the telephone, replied to an inquiring voice and listened
intently, and then he assented with heartiness.
"It's Blanchard of the Conawin Mills! He has a bit of business with me and
offers to take me along with him to the reception. Tell Jock he'll not
have to bother with my car!" he said, coming to her where she waited at
the door. She had picked up the slip of paper which he had dropped in his
haste to attend to the telephone.
"I daured to peep at yer bit poem, Stewart, so that my ear might not seem
to be put to o'erhearing your business discourse," she apologized, stanch
in her adherence to the rules of the Morrisons. "And I'll tell ye that
Jeanie Mac Dougal says aye to one sentiment I hae found in it."
"Good! Read it aloud to me, that's my own girlie!" He folded his arms and
shut his eyes. She read in tones that thrilled with conviction:
"The world is filled with folly and sin
And love must cling where it can, I say;
For Beauty is easy enough to win,
But one isn't loved every day."
She tucked the paper into the fingers of his hand that lay lightly along
his arm. He opened his eyes and gazed down into her straightforward ones.
"Whoever may be the lass my bairnie loves will be honored by that love;
aye, and sanctified by that love! And sic a lass will deserve from Jeanie
Mac Dougal a smile at our threshold and respect in our hame." She went
away. Her eyes were dim with unshed tears; but she held her chin high and
trailed her bit of a train with dignity.
Morrison folded the paper and put it away. He took a turn up and down the
long room, confronting the portrait faces in turn. He eyed them as if he
were approaching them on a matter where there now could be a better
understanding than on the subject suggested by the slip of paper. "I don't
know whether Blanchard ought to be kicked or coddled," he confessed. "He's
a fair sample of the rest. They don't kick so often in these days,
Grands'r Angus, as you did in yours. On the other hand, Daddy David, there
has been too much coddling in this country, lately, by the cowardice of
men who ought to know better and the coddling has continued to the hurt of
all of us!"
He sat down and looked at the clock; the face of that would, at least,
tell him something definite: Blanchard said that he was talking from the
club, around the corner, and would be along in five minutes.
And Blanchard arrived on time!
"I suppose I ought to be offended by what you said to me over the 'phone
to-day, Morrison. I was hurt, at any rate!"
"So was I!" retorted Stewart, promptly. "Hurt and offended, both! So we
start from the scratch, neck and neck!"
"But why do you assume that attitude on account of what I told you?"
"I was obliged to put questions to you in order to get the news that you
propose to hitch up with a dominating water-power syndicate!"
"Only following out your proposition that we must get down to development
in this state."
"The development is taking care of itself, Brother Blanchard. As chairman
of the water-power commission, I shall submit my report to the incoming
legislature. And in that report I propose to make conservation the
corollary of development."