The autumn seemed to set itself against the house that Wully had
determined to have ready for occupancy before winter. Week after week
the roads continued so deep in mud that six oxen could not manage to
haul a load of lumber the mere twenty-six miles. Chirstie was not as
much disappointed by the delay as her husband; she rather liked being
hidden away, just then, on the outskirts of the settlement, in her
father’s lonely cabin. She had seen no one but Wully’s mother, and
her aunts into whose chagrined ears the humbled Isobel McLaughlin
had poured a story as sympathetic as possible, blaming Alex McNair
for this fruit of his unfatherly desertion. Mrs. McLaughlin had come
at once to see Chirstie after Wully’s revelation, apparently utterly
pleased over the prospect of a grandchild, never intimating by a
syllable that she saw anything deplorable in the unchristian haste
of his advent. Her kindness had naturally humbled the girl more than
any reproof could have done, and after a long cry the two had been
friends, both relieved that estrangement was a thing of the past.
One afternoon late in November Mrs. McLaughlin came as far as
Chirstie’s with her husband, who was going on to the Keiths’ on an
errand. It seemed to Chirstie then, and often afterwards, that one
who had not seen loving-kindness incarnate in her mother-in-law, had
never seen it at all. Her own mother had been a sad, repressed woman,
well-loved, indeed, by her children, but as far different as possible
from this great, cordial, brimming woman, who seemed so capable of
anything that might ever be required of her. One couldn’t imagine her
hesitating, complaining, broken in spirit.
Chirstie sat beside her sewing, an awe-filled pupil in the things
of maternity. It was comforting, when one was feeling daily more
wretched, to be assured by the mother of thirteen huskies that a baby
is just nothing whatever but a joy, no trouble worth speaking of.
Did Chirstie remember that her brother Jimmie had been just Wully’s
age? Many was the time Jeannie McNair and Isobel McLaughlin had sat
together waiting for those two, and sewing, and Jeannie had said so
and so, and Isobel had answered thus and thus. Once she had said to
Chirstie’s grandmother that she wouldn’t like to have just a common
bairn, and the old woman had replied that there was not the least
chance of it, for no woman yet had mothered just a common child.
In Scotland, too, when a baby was born, one had to lose the flavor
of joy wondering where its food was to come from. But in this land
crying aloud to the heavens for inhabitants, there was no anxiety of
that sort to dull one’s happiness. What had it been to them but an
omen of the new home’s abundance, that the John McLaughlins had had
twins born the year of their arrival, that the Squires had had twins
within six months, and that before the year was gone, the Weirs, from
the same Ayrshire village, were also blessed in the same way. To be
sure, Squire McLaughlin had uttered a word which might not have been
taken to signify altogether pure satisfaction with these godsends,
the morning after the double increase in his family. He had gone to
his barn, and finding that his dearly-bought cow, which was to have
furnished him milkers, had given birth to twins, he had sighed a sigh
which became a tradition, and murmured, “Bull calves, and lassie
wee’uns!” The men had laughed at that, but the women considered it a
rather cheap thing of the old wag, even as a joke.
And so they talked on, until the clouds covered the sun again,
and they heard the wind rising noisily as they drew near the fire
to consider their knitting in the light of it. The elder Mrs.
McLaughlin, who was, as usual, doing most of the talking, looked
enviously around the kitchen from time to time. She knew she
was considered a capable woman. And she had a fine family--yes,
certainly, a fine family--in spite of this--affair of Wully’s. But
she could never keep house as Jeannie did, or even Chirstie. She
could, of course, polish her kitchen to some such a degree of luster
for special occasions, but to maintain such a brightness was out of
the question for her. There had been no white sheets on the wall
here for some time now. But each little pane in the window glowed
from its daily polishing. The bits of rag carpet seemed always
scarcely yet to have lost the marks of their folding, so recently had
they been spread down after washing. Even the fireplace was more kept
than any other fireplace. The back of it had always just been scraped
and scrubbed and whitewashed. Isobel wondered if her son realized the
degree of this beautiful neatness.
After a while they heard a wagon drive in, and Mrs. McLaughlin,
thinking it was her husband, rose and began leisurely wrapping her
knitting. There was no hurry about going. Her man had best come in
and warm himself. She stood buttoning her old gray faded coat about
her. It had been made, mantle-fashion, in Scotland, before she had
grown so large, and she had increased its capacity by the simple
device of putting broad black strips of cloth down either side of
the front, where it fastened. Afterwards it had needed new sleeves,
and hadn’t apparently sulked about having new ones of a brownish
gray homespun woolen. It had nothing to sulk about, in fact. It was
still given plenty of honor as a good serviceable garment. Mistress
McLaughlin was wrapping round and round her throat a knitted scarf,
pulling it carefully up around her ears, when the door opened....
And in walked--not John McLaughlin, but that tall, gaunt, thin-faced
Alex McNair! With those little round, black, piercing eyes shining
out from under straight black brows!...
And after him, a woman!
A woman in olive green silk, with black fringe around a puffy
overskirt, and such fur and gloves as Isobel McLaughlin had seen only
in her travels, and Chirstie never remembered seeing in all her life!
The two of them! Coming right into the room!
McNair, seeing Isobel standing there, cried, blinking,
“Weel, weel! You here, Isobel! Weel, weel! This is Barbara, Isobel!”
Chirstie had shrunk in fear and confusion, back into her seat. But
the elder woman showed no signs of confusion. She looked the grand
wee body over majestically and replied:
“Is’t, indeed! I hope she fares better than Jeannie, Alex, dying here
alone.”
Alex had bent down to kiss his daughter, and seemed to be not so much
impressed by this greeting as the little woman was. She continued:
“I have just been sitting a while with my son’s wife. You may
not remember Chirstie was married, you having so grand a time in
Scotland!”
“Warm yourself!” he said to his wife, indicating a chair. “I’ll
be bringing in the kist.” He went out of the door, which had
not yet been shut, so suddenly and quickly had it all happened.
Mrs. McLaughlin’s manner changed at once, and she began helping
the amazing stranger out of her wraps. How could those two who
watched, so impressed by the richness of them, and so unbetraying
of their impressions, how could they have imagined, seeing her, the
deceitfulness of those little innocent hesitating airs! The garments
were scarcely laid gingerly on the bed until Alex returned, carrying,
with Bob McNorkel’s help, a great box, which they seemed to plan to
leave in the middle of the floor. Chirstie remonstrated and gave them
directions. It seemed from Alex’s grunting and hard-breathing words
as the box was put in the only possible place for it, that he and his
bride had ridden out with Bob, who had to be hurrying on. Alex went
out of the door with him, and after Alex, Isobel the avenger.
“I’ll just have a word with you!” she said to him, stepping inside
the barn to be out of the wind. It was a powerful word. Had she not
planned it many a night as she lay sleepless thinking of Jeannie and
her daughter! “I mind the day you brought Jeannie home a bride,” she
began. “’Twas no day like this.” None of them would ever forget the
day she died deserted. Never had Isobel McLaughlin had an occasion
worthier of her tongue, and never a stronger motive for making the
best of the occasion. McNair was a slow-moving, slow-thinking man,
not without tenderness. Isobel’s recital of grim detail after grim
detail as he stood there amazed, remorseful, humiliated, angry, tired
of his journey, and chilled to the bone, overwhelmed him. He could
scarcely follow her. It seemed that the whole clan was bitter against
him, not only because of his wife’s death, but because, some way, his
absence had brought disgrace beyond disgrace upon the McLaughlins. He
could scarcely understand. Wully and Chirstie had waited and waited
for him to come home, and he _would_ not, and fine results these were
of his delay! They were married now, but not soon enough.... The girl
feared to marry without his permission.... If he had only come when
they wrote for him to.... He wasn’t to blame the Keiths or any of the
neighbors for this. They had done what they could. He was to be very
careful what he said to Wully, none too pleased with him, and always
hot-headed ... and to Chirstie.... It was all his own fault, he was
to remember....
The man was staggered. He liked this news all the less because all
the day the little new wife’s spirits had been sinking as they
traveled over the prairies away from the world. Now to bring her into
a disgrace of this sort! He was shivering. He wanted to get in to the
fire.
“I have nothing against Wully!” he murmured to the woman who bearded
him. “He’s a fine man for the lassie!”
Nevertheless, when they were inside again, Isobel watching saw his
face darken with anger as he realized Chirstie’s condition. She saw
too that the girl had seen it, and she determined not to leave the
house till Wully would come. She busied herself to make tea for the
strange woman, sparing her daughter-in-law with the consideration
which so beautiful and so fruitful a woman deserved. She sat herself
to make the wee body feel at home. Dod came in from school, and she
noticed without relenting the warmth of his father’s greeting. Even
the little lassie was persuaded to go to his lap. Alex was probably
wishing Isobel would go home and leave his family in peace. But she
would wait.
McNair was telling something about the passage across when Wully
opened the door. He paused a moment, seeing the room full. He looked
at them in surprise, and they looked at him with various degrees of
admiration. He came from cutting and hauling home wood for the winter
and the wind had made his cheeks as red as the fringe of the scarf
around his neck, and his eyes as blue as the knit wool of it. In the
old coat wrapped about him, he filled the door, a huge young man one
would not like for an enemy. His mother had just begun to tell the
strange woman that this was her son, when Alex rose and stretched out
his hand.
“Come away, man! Come away!” he cried cordially. It was not the kind
of meeting Wully had anticipated. But what could he do, with his
mother and the women right there, but acknowledge the little woman’s
salutation, and give his hand to Chirstie’s father? And taking his
cue from his mother, he smiled so warmly down upon the wee body,
that then and there she began liking her stepson-in-law. His mother
began at once giving him instructions. He and Chirstie had best begin
packing their things. His father would be along any minute now, and
they would all go home together. Wully would no longer be needed at
McNair’s, and with all that work to be done on his own house----
McNair interrupted her decidedly,
“Huts, Isobel! Ye canna take Chirstie away the night!” One would
almost think she was the McLaughlins’ daughter to hear Isobel! That
manipulator of events smothered the retort that came to her, upon
this. She simply enlarged innocently upon the inconvenience of
Wully’s having to ride every day from this place to his own, such a
distance. McNair could understand that, but nevertheless they weren’t
going one step to-night. Wully winked slyly at his wife. He didn’t
know exactly how his mother had worked it all, but it did him good to
hear his father-in-law begging for the privilege of his company for
a while--that man he had expected to have such a time with! Isobel
yielded gracefully at length. They might stay the night with Alex,
but they mustn’t stay longer. With her big girls both away at school,
she was that lonely for Chirstie!
Then the elder McLaughlin came in and the greetings were all gone
over again, with this difference, that John McLaughlin, being less
quick at taking hints from his wife than his son had been, showed
just enough coldness to McNair to let him see that Isobel’s account
of the clan’s opinion of him was not exaggerated. Naturally after the
worthy McLaughlins had departed with so little of the old cordiality,
Alex was more eager than ever to placate Wully, who, divining that
Chirstie dreaded her father’s outburst against her, stood very much
upon his dignity, a rather forbidding son-in-law.
When the young two were alone in the kitchen that night, Chirstie
said, weary with the day’s excitement, and her first taste of shame
before strangers;
“Whatever’ll she say in the morning, when you’re not here, Wully?”
He answered;
“What do you care what she says? Anyway, she don’t look like she’d
say anything. Just you hold your head high, and she won’t dare!”
“It’s well enough for you to talk of holding your head high! But how
can I?”
“I’ll stay about in the morning, and in the afternoon we’ll go home.
I’ll say we must go.”
So they planned, little knowing how useless it was to fear the wee
body. In the next room, she was saying to her husband;
“Ye never telt me you lived in a sty!”
“Huts, woman! ’Tis no sty!”
“And I thinking you like a laird, with so many fine acres!”
“It’s a new country!”
“It’s an old sty!” Had she not from the train seen many a little
snug place among comforting hills, livable little places! But that
had been, to be sure, far from this, in the east. The further west
they came, the more they traveled into desolation. Lonely enough
places she had seen, but none so unpromising as this sty. Could it
be expected that a man with so disconsolate a bride would add to her
woe by rehearsing the fresh scandal of the family into which she
had come? She remarked at length that it was a terrible thing for a
lassie with the baby coming. Why had he not told her of that before?
He hadn’t remembered to. It was a fine place for bairns. Just let her
wait till the spring came. She remarked that it was many months till
spring. He snored, more or less successfully.
The next morning the new mother unpacked the great kist to get out
the presents she had brought for her stepchildren. She unpacked
till the poor room lay heaped high and hidden under richness. Wee
Jeannie had a fine doll. Dod had fur-lined mittens. Chirstie had a
collar of lace more soft and fine than she had ever seen. And the
wee body presented these things with that timid, conciliatory air
that made her career later so hard to understand. She apologized for
having nothing for the baby. If she had known about that, she would
have brought it something good. When was it to be born, she asked,
point-blank.
Chirstie, blushing to the unruly little curls about her forehead,
said in December. This seemed to relieve her stepmother greatly.
By that time, she declared, she could make a fine little dress for
it, out of stuff she had in another box. Another box! Were there
then other boxes? Of course brides bring dowries to their husbands,
the girl remembered with a pang. But she had brought hers only
disgrace! But the wee body talked on, in a kindly way. Chirstie
watched her making friends with little Jeannie. She liked her, very
much. That woman could never be anything but kind to the little
sister who was to be left in her charge. Oh, Chirstie could have
coveted that woman’s love for herself. But, of course, when the
truth about herself became known--and when she thought of going to
the McLaughlins, to live in that house, full always of children and
cousins and visitors, the center, as it were, and rallying place of
the neighborhood, her spirits sank lower and lower.
Wully had learned before now to conquer her depression, and he talked
the cold hours cunningly away as they rode towards his father’s.
His reward, that evening, was to see his wife sitting there at the
table, long after the meal was over, forgetful of herself, telling
his ejaculating mother of the dresses, the capes, the mantles, the
ribbons and feathers, reds and browns and greens and blues, puffs
and ruffles and tucks, all of these out of one box, and besides the
one there were three others left at the station to be brought out,
full of--whatever did they suppose? They couldn’t imagine! Isobel
was trying to fancy how Alex had enticed a woman so obviously rich to
the wilderness. She was disappointed in this marriage. She had hoped
when Alex married again, he would get a woman who would show him how
to treat a wife. But that timid, wee body! Meek like! With faded red
hair, and mild light blue eyes! There would be no hope of her ever
separating him from the price of a milk-crock! Anyone could see that.
The poor wee thing, married to Alex McNair!