The Able McLaughlins by Margaret Wilson (small books to read .TXT) 📕

for that. She had deep sympathy for her, and for that reason Libby came to her more often than to others nearer of kin. But now she did wish Libby would stop asking Chirstie those pointed, foreboding questions about her condition; stop sighing terribly upon each answer. She was making the girl nervous, and in that house there was no place for nervousness. Libby dwelt pathetically upon the details of her daughter’s death, upon the symptoms of her abnormal pregnancy. She kept at it, in spite of all Isobel’s attempts to divert her until she was about to go. She rose then, and gave a sigh that surpassed all her other sighs, adequate to one oppressed by the whole scheme of life. She said;

“It oughtn’t to be. There should be some other way of them being born, without such suffering and pain. With the danger divided between the two. I think⁠—”

But what she thought was too much for Isobel, who had no patience with those who fussed about the natural things of life.

“Havers, Libby!” she exclaimed. “How can you say such things!” And, thinking only of herself and the woman before her, she cried passionately,

“How can you say that it’s the bearing of them that hurts! It’s the evil they do when they’re grown that’s the great pain! We want them to be something great, and they won’t even be decent! Can you share that with anyone?”

Her words, so poorly aimed, missed their mark, and struck Chirstie. She bowed her head on the back of the chair in front of her. Isobel, returning from seeing Libby away, found her sitting that way, sobbing.

She began comforting her. Chirstie wasn’t to listen to what that poor daft body said! Why, Auntie Libby scarcely knew what she was saying. No fear of Chirstie dying. She was doing fine! And well as a woman ever was. But Chirstie couldn’t stop crying. She sobbed a long time.

Isobel was putting cobs into the fire when at last Chirstie lifted her red face from her arms, and sat erect, trying to speak.

“I don’t care! I might die! I’m going to tell you something!” And she fell to crying again.

Isobel came and stood over her. A fierce hope gleamed uncertainly for a moment in her mind, and went out again.

“What you going to tell me, Chirstie?” she asked kindly.

“If ever you tell I told you, I suppose you’ll break up everything between us!” she sobbed. “I don’t know what Wully’ll do if he finds it out. Maybe he won’t have me! Maybe he’ll turn me out!”

Her excitement excited Isobel. Chirstie wasn’t just hysterical, she saw.

“You needn’t fear I’ll tell!” she exclaimed loftily. “I don’t go about telling secrets!”

“Oh, it would never be the same between us again if he finds out I told you!”

“He’ll never find out from me!”

Then Chirstie sat up, sobbing heroically.

“You needn’t say Wully’s doing evil! He isn’t! He couldn’t! This isn’t any fault of his! It isn’t his disgrace!”

“I never supposed it was his fault!” said his mother.

Chirstie never heeded the insinuation.

“I mean⁠—it isn’t his! It isn’t his baby!”

Years might have been seen falling away from Isobel McLaughlin. She sat down slowly on the chair against which Chirstie was leaning. She could scarcely find her voice.

“Are you telling me it’s not Wully’s wee’un?” she asked at length.

“It’s not Wully’s!”

Bewildered she asked;

“Whose is it?”

“I can’t tell you that. It’s not his.”

“And you let us think it was!”

“Oh, mother, I couldn’t help it! Oh, I didn’t know what to do! And he just did whatever he wanted to. He has everything his own way! He wouldn’t let me tell you! Every day I’ve told him he ought to tell you. But he wouldn’t, mother. And if he finds out I have told you, he might even⁠—Oh, I don’t know what he’ll do!” She sobbed passionately.

Isobel put out her hand and began stroking her hair.

“He’ll never find it out from me! Oh, I canna sense it!” she cried. “What ever made him do it?”

“He did it to help me, mother! To help me out! Oh, I wanted him to tell you before we were married. It just seemed as if I couldn’t marry him without telling you. But he didn’t want anyone to know he wasn’t⁠—like me! He says⁠—”

“What does he say, Chirstie?”

“He says he doesn’t want anyone to know it isn’t his! He doesn’t want them to know about⁠—the other one! Mother, I’ll make this right some time! You trust me! Some day I’m going to tell how good he is!”

Isobel began kissing her.

“Oh, Chirstie! Oh, you did well to tell me. You needn’t fear I’ll ever let him know! His own mother! This is the best day of my life, Chirstie!” She rose, and began walking about the house in her excitement, unable to contain her delight. “He never was an ill child, Chirstie! He wanted to help you out, I see. There never was one of the boys as good as Wully, and so gentle-like.” She began poking the fire, not realizing what she did. “He’ll never know you told me. Don’t you cry! I knew he was good. I never believed that story of his! It wasn’t like him to do such a thing! It was like him to help you!” She went to the door presently, and called in the children who were playing outside, and when they came in, she took little Sarah passionately up in her arms. “Your mother’s young again!” she cried to the surprised child. “Young again!” She gave them both cookies. She comforted Chirstie, stopping in her turns about the room to stroke her hair. She sang snatches of Psalms. “He was never an ill child!” she kept repeating. She began making tea for the girl’s refreshment. She looked out of the window. She clasped and unclasped her hands excitedly. She shone.

An hour later John McLaughlin drove into the yard with a load of wood, and Wully was with him. Isobel threw a shawl over her head,