A Dozen Ways Of Love. L. Dougall
'How often have I heard my mother say that not one of her children had ever told her a lie!'
'Yes, yes, but——' There was a tone in the doctor's voice as if he would like to have used a strong word, but he schooled himself.
'It's curious the notion she has got of not eating,' broke in the minister. 'I held the broth myself, but she would have none of it.'
In the next room the flames of a large fire were sending reflections over the polished surfaces of massive bedroom furniture. The wind blew against this side of the house and rattled the windows, as if angry to see the picture of luxury and warmth within. It was a handsome stately room, and all that was in it dated back many a year. In a chintz arm-chair by the fireside its mistress sat—a very old lady, but there was still dignity in her pose. Her hair, perfectly white, was still plentiful; her eye had still something of brightness, and there was upon the aged features the cast of thought and the habitual look of intelligence. Beside her upon a small table were such accompaniments of age as daughter and nurse deemed suitable—the large print Bible, the big spectacles and caudle cup. The lady sat looking about her with a quick restless expression, like a prisoner alert to escape; she was tied to her chair—not by cords—by the failure of muscular strength; but perhaps she did not know that. She eyed her attendant with bright furtive glances, as if the meek sombre woman who sat sewing beside her were her jailer.
The party in the dining-room broke up their vain discussion, and came for another visit of personal inspection.
'Mother, this is the doctor come to see you. Do you not remember the doctor?'
The old lady looked at all four of them brightly enough. 'I haena the pleasure of remembering who ye are, but perhaps it will return to me.' There was restrained politeness in her manner.
The doctor spoke. 'It's a very bad tale I'm hearing about you to-day, that you've begun to refuse your meat. A person of your experience, Mistress Macdonald, ought to know that we must eat to live.' He had a basin of food in his hand. 'Now just to please me, Mistress Macdonald.'
The old dame answered with the air that a naughty child or a pouting maiden might have had. 'I'll no eat it—tak' it away! I'll no eat it. Not for you, no—nor for my mither there'—she looked defiantly at her grey-haired daughter—'no, nor for my father himself!'
'Not a mouthful has passed her lips to-day,' moaned Miss Macdonald. She wrung excited hands and stepped back a pace into the shadow; she felt too modest to pose as her mother's mother before the curious eyes of the two men.
The old lady appeared relieved when the spinster was out of her sight. 'I don't know ye, gentlemen, but perhaps now my mither's not here, ye'll tell me who it was that rang the door-bell a while since.'
The men hesitated. They were neither of them ready with inventions.
She leaned towards the doctor, strangely excited. 'Was it Mr. Kinnaird?' she whispered.
The doctor supposed her to be frightened. 'No, no,' he said in cheerful tones; 'you're mistaken—it wasn't Kinnaird.'
She leaned back pettishly. 'Tak' away the broth; I'll no' tak' it!'
The discomfited four passed out of the room again. The women were weeping; the men were shaking their heads.
It was just then that the new servant passed into the sick-room, bearing candles in her hands.
'Jeanie, Jeanie Trim,' whispered the old lady. The whisper had a sprightly yet mysterious tone in it; the withered fingers were put out as if to twitch the passing skirt as the housemaid went by.
The girl turned and bent a look—strong, helpful, and kindly—upon this fine ruin of womanhood. The girl had wit 'Yes, ma'am?' she answered blithely.
'I'll speak with ye, Jeanie, when this woman goes away; it's her that my mither's put to spy on me.'
The nurse retired into the shadow of the wardrobe.
'She's away now,' said the maid.
'Jeanie, is it Mr. Kinnaird?'
'Well, now, would you like it to be Mr. Kinnaird?' The maid spoke as we speak to a familiar friend when we have joyful news.
'Oh, Jeanie Trim, ye know well that I've longed sair for him to come again!'
The maid set down her candles, and knelt down by the old dame's knee, looking up with playful face.
'Well, now, I'll tell ye something. He came to see ye this afternoon.'
'Did he, Jeanie?' The withered face became all wreathed with smiles; the old eyes danced with joy. 'What did ye say to him?'
'Oh, well, I just said'—hesitation—'I said he was to come back again to-morrow.'
'My father doesn't know that he's been here?' There was apprehension in the whisper.
'Not a soul knows but meself.'
'Ye didna tell him I'd been looking for him, Jeanie Trim?'
'Na, na, I made out that ye didna care whether he came or not.'
'But he wouldna be hurt in his mind, would he? I'd no like him to be affronted.'
'It's no likely he was affronted when he said he'd come back to-morrow.'
The smile of satisfaction came again.
'Did he carry his silver-knobbed cane and wear his green coat, Jeanie?'
'Ay, he wore his green coat, and he looked as handsome a man as ever I saw in my life.'
The coals in the grate shot up a sudden brilliant flame that eclipsed the soft light of the candles and set strange shadows quivering about the huge bed and wardrobe and the dark rosewood tables. The winsome young woman at her play, and the old dame living back in a tale that was long since told, exchanged nods and smiles at the thought of the handsome visitor in his green coat. The whisper of the aged voice came blithely—
'Ay, he is that, Jeanie Trim; as handsome a man as ever trod!'
The maid rose, and passing out observed the discarded basin of broth.
'What's this?' she said. 'Ye'll no be able to see Mr. Kinnaird to-morrow if ye don't take yer soup the night.'
'Gie it to me, Jeanie Trim; I thought he wasna coming again when I said I wouldna.'
The nurse slipped out of the shadow of the wardrobe and went out to tell that the soup was being eaten.
'Kinnaird,' repeated the minister meditatively. 'I never heard my aunt speak the name.'
'Kinnaird,' repeated the daughters; and they too searched in their memories.
'I can remember my grandfather and my grandmother—the married daughter spoke incredulously—'there was never a gentleman called Kinnaird that any of the family had to do with. I'm sure of that, or I'd have as much as heard the name.'
The minister shook his head, discounting the certainty.
'Maybe John will remember the name; your father, and your grandfather too, had great talks with him when he was a lad. I'll write a line and ask him. Poor William or Thomas might have known, if they had lived.'
William and Thomas, grey-haired men, respected fathers of families, had already been laid by the side of their father in the burying-ground. John lived in a distant country, counting himself too feeble now to cross the seas. The daughters, the younger members of this flock, were passing into advanced years. The mother sat by her fireside, and smiled softly to herself as she watched the dancing flame, and thought that her young lover would return on the morrow.
The days went on.
'I cannot think it right to tamper with my mother in this false way.' The spinster daughter spoke tearfully.
'Would you rather see Mistress Macdonald die of starvation?' The doctor spoke sharply; he was tired of the protest. The doctor approved of the new maid.