3stalwarts (53 page)

“Well, I want one. And you better join me.”

The doctor went to his office and faced the shelves. He stood for a minute looking at the rows of bottles; then he said: “It was a dispensation of Providence they didn’t burn this office. This town could a whole sight better spare a church than those bottles.” He reached for one marked Tarta Emetic and took two glasses, and poured out a yellow liquid with affection. “Don’t get nervy, Mark. It’s good Kingston. The last I have. I put it there to make sure it don’t get misapplied. Now if it was Tartar Emetic in a rum bottle, that would be something.”

He drank and watched Demooth drink.

“How long have you been married?”

Demooth started. He met the doctor’s eyes.

“Why …” Then suddenly he caught on— the drink, the question. Demooth swallowed and said in the same tone, “Twelve years, Doc.”

Dr. Petry grunted, held out the bottle, and poured two more glasses. He closed his eyes as he drank; then he said, “Twelve years is a long time, for some people, and short for others. I’ve been married only ten, myself. Well, Mark, I might as well tell you …“He drew a deep breath.

“You needn’t, Doc. I’ve thought so for some time myself.”

“Yes, it went to her head.”

“It wasn’t the raid, you know,” said Demooth. “It was waiting for it to happen. She was scared.”

“Weak head, weak head. She was one of the prettiest women, when I first saw her, I ever saw,” said Dr. Petry.

“How long do you think she’ll live?”

“A week, a month, maybe till next spring. She’s strong in some ways. But she doesn’t want to hang on.”

Demooth turned to the window.

“I think the thing for me to do is to take her to Schenectady. She never got used to living up here. When I see her in that hut, I remember the way she used to look at me when we first settled in Deerfield, before the house was finished. I used to laugh at her then.”

“Some people never get over being scared, Mark. There’s nothing you can do about it. Yes, I’d move the poor lady down. It might make her happy. It might give her a new lease. But if she dies, don’t take it too much to heart, Mark. Try not to. It doesn’t pay to get brooding. Not up here. Not now.”

Demooth ignored what he said.

“I can take her down to Little Falls in one of those wheat wagons that went up to Fort Stanwix yesterday. They ought to be back by the end of the week. Ellis will lend me his sleigh.”

“The sooner the better,” nodded the doctor. “Before it gets too cold. She won’t stand much cold. Will you stay down there?”

Demooth hesitated.

“Yes.”

“Will you come back next spring?”

Again he hesitated.

Finally he said again, “Yes.”

“Good thing,” said the doctor. “You’ll probably be needed. While you’re down, try and get me some stuff. I’ve got a list. I haven’t been able to get anything sent up from the army hospital. Good luck, Mark.” They shook hands.

… “What will we do, John?”

She wasn’t crying, but her eyes were helpless and tragic.

“Won’t he take you?”

“He says he can’t. He says he’ll have to take Ellis’s sleigh and there’d be no room for me. He told me, too, that I’d done Mrs. Demooth as much good as anyone could have done. He was very nice, and he gave me a month’s wages, too. I didn’t want to take them, but he made me. Do you think that was all right?”

“I guess so,” said John. “As long as he said so.”

They were walking out along the Kingsroad, because they had no other place to be alone. It was snowing a little; there was no sunlight; the sky was gray, and even the snow looked lifeless, as if it died in falling.

Walking through it, both Mary and John looked thin and small and cold. Mary was cold. She was wearing moccasins she had made herself, stretched over rough knitted stockings. Whenever she had to answer him, she drew a deep breath so that her teeth would not chatter. She was afraid he would see how cold she was and make her turn back. But he was too preoccupied to notice her. He walked bent over, watching his own feet in the snow, a frown on his face. The frown made him seem older; she liked him when he frowned, knowing he did so on account of her. Ordinarily it gave her confidence in him. But now she thought, what could even John do in such a situation?

He suddenly blurted out, “If I could get work anywhere …”

It was to her a confession of his hopelessness. There was no work— she knew that as well as he— and she knew also how he felt about his mother. Now that his father had been taken by the enemy he felt a natural responsibility for her welfare and for Cobus’s. Cobus wasn’t yet old enough to be solely responsible. He was a stout strong lad, but he was too young to hunt. Moreover, the Weavers had less corn than almost any other family; and almost no money at all.

“John,” she said, “how much money have you got?”

She knew already, but he answered again, glad of something to say, that he had given the money to his mother.

She said, “With what Mr. Demooth has given me, I’ve got ten dollars, now.”

She had not told him before how much. Ten dollars. Ten dollars. He looked at her. The sum automatically reminded him how six months ago they had thought they could get married when they had that much saved up.

“What is it in?” John asked.

“Mr. Demooth always paid me in hard money. He said that was what he had made the offer in and he would stick to it.”

John said, “Then you’ve got— let’s see— you’ve got eighty dollars in American money.”

Suddenly they were awed by the miracles of Congressional finance. Just by the word of it, apparently, Congress had made them incredibly wealthy.

Eighty dollars— why, some people who were respectable had lived and died with less than that. They started smiling at each other.

Seeing him so pleased, Mary relaxed, and immediately the shivers got the best of her, and because John was looking at her he noticed them at last.

“You’re cold.”

She only nodded.

“You ought to have told me.”

She kept her teeth clinched, but she pleaded to him with her eyes. And he could not scold her. He knew how she looked forward to going out with him.

The wind had begun to blow also, and it seemed to him that he could see it cutting through her threadbare jacket and shawl. Her face was pinched now with cold, and her brown eyes very large. The freckles stood out startlingly on her face.

John was frightened. He cast a wild look around and spotted Mrs. McKlennar’s stone house.

“We can get warm in there,” he said. “Come on, Mary.”

He grabbed her arm and began lugging her towards the house.

It was midafternoon and they found only the women at home.

“For Lord’s sake!” said Mrs. McKlennar. “What have you two children been up to?”

“It’s my fault. I brought her walking. She got cold. I didn’t notice how cold it was. Do you think she’ll get sick?”

John was breathless and white. He couldn’t get his eyes off Mary, and now that the shakes had taken hold of her she could not have stopped them with the whole world looking on. They both started as Mrs. McKlennar cried, “Sick! Pshaw! I’ll give her some sack. Daisy! Fetch the sack. Now sit down by the fire. John hasn’t introduced you, but I know all about you, Mary Reall. John’s a good boy and his mother thinks you’re lucky, but you’re not half as lucky as he is. I can see that.” Mrs. McKlennar meant what she said. The girl was already cocking her chin, and Mrs. McKlennar liked any girl who could cock her chin. She gave her some sherry and had some herself and motioned the two young people to sit down on one settle.

She sat down opposite them.

“What on earth brought you two so far— just talking?”

To John, troubled as he was, Mrs. McKlennar’s long and horsy face, seen against the ears of corn, and the strings of dried apple and squash, in her large and comfortable kitchen, wore a kind and powerful beneficence. His young mind had been troubled too long with his and Mary’s burdens. Before he remembered that Mrs. Martin and the negress were still in the room he had started to tell Mrs. McKlennar everything.

“You see,” he concluded, “now Pa’s gone, I’ve kind of got to look out for Ma. And she won’t let Mary in the house. It ain’t as if we hadn’t waited quite a while, and we aren’t so terrible young. And then I don’t know where Mary’s going to live. She can’t live alone.”

“Can’t she stay in Demooth’s cabin?”

John flushed.

“He said Clem Coppernol was going to stay there.”

“Then of course she can’t,” said Mrs. McKlennar. “Do you know what I’d do, John?”

She was sitting very straight on the settle and looking down her nose at the two of them. As John replied, “No, ma’am,” the end of her nose quivered visibly.

“I’d marry the girl before some man with more brains than yourself snatched her from under your nose.” Her deferred snort was quite deafening.

John’s eyes shone. Then they sobered again. He had thought of it so many times. “It ain’t possible, Mrs. McKlennar. It wouldn’t be right to Ma. Taking Mary into her house. And I can’t build us another now. I couldn’t keep the two in wood. Cobus ain’t much yet. Somebody’s got to look out for Ma.”

Mrs. McKlennar said, “No, I don’t think you ought to abandon your mother, and I’m not telling you to. Now listen, John Weaver. What house are you living in?”

“In the cabin at the end of the row near the fort,” he said wonderingly.

Mrs. McKlennar snorted once more. “You are a stupid boy, John— maybe you shouldn’t get married after all. Now I’ve got to tell you all the things Mary could tell you but has been too sensible to tell you. What I meant was, who built the cabin?”

“I did,” said John.

“Item one. You did. How much money of your father’s has your mother got? How much of yours?”

“She’s got five dollars of Pa’s and seven dollars I earned.”

“Item two, you are mostly supporting her and your brother. Item three, how much money has Mary got saved?”

“Ten dollars,” Mary said softly, but with pride. She couldn’t help it. Her voice made Mrs. McKlennar swing her eye round, and a sly little smile pulled the corner of her mouth.

“Then,” said Mrs. McKlennar, “marry the girl, take her to the cabin, and tell your mother that you’ve brought your wife home to your own house, and that Mary has said that she will be very glad and proud to have your mother stay with her.” Mrs. McKlennar’s grin had infinite relish. “She hasn’t another place to live in so she’ll have to put up.”

“We haven’t much corn. Pa was trying to get his money back in wheat. We haven’t much to live on.”

Mrs. McKlennar tossed her head.

“Mary’s money will take care of her as well when she’s married as when she’s single, and she won’t eat more. To look at her I’d say she’d gladly go without food every other day for the sake of being married to you. Shame on you, John Weaver. You’re trying to be too respectable. Respectability never made a saint. Saints most always start their careers with some good honest sinning. If you’re going to starve, you might as well all starve together. And that reminds me. There’s no stores where I can buy Mary a wedding present. So you’ll have to use your ingenuity to find yourself something. I shall give you a pound, Mary.”

John and Mary both stared at her. Then John looked at Mary and flushed painfully. But she did not flush at all. She merely looked at him—

The voice of Mrs. McKlennar went on almost like the voice of a higher power. Lana had told her the whole story; and long ago the widow had thought something ought to be done about it.

“John,” said Mrs. McKlennar, “I’ll tell you something you don’t probably know. Reverend Sam Kirkland’s over in Fort Herkimer, and he sent word by an Indian he’d be down this afternoon to spend the night here. He always stops on his way out from the Oneida towns each fall. He won’t mind marrying you without banns when I tell him about you. Now— would you like to wait and get it over with here and now? You, John Weaver, would you?”

John glanced at Mary. He looked positively shamefaced. Then he faced Mrs. McKlennar again and gulped.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“And you, Mary, would you?”

“Yes,” said Mary. Her voice was very low, but very steady.

“Oh, Lord,” thought Mrs. McKlennar. “See what I’ve done now! They’re nothing but children. The girl’s just a child.” But Lana was smiling at her, and black fat Daisy was muttering, ” ‘Clare to gracious, ain’ dey sweet?”; and she went on thinking, “God, what nasty sentimental things women are, and God knows why either. Likely as not he’ll beat her or something, and she’ll be miserable with her motherin-law, and the two of them will hate me all their lives.” But suddenly she began chuckling, and when they all looked at her, she said, “Anyway, Mary’s lost her chill.”

Now that it was done, it seemed hardly possible. It had taken so short a time. First Reverend Mr. Kirkland had come, and both John and Mary had been impressed with his kindness, and a little awed to think that he was the man who had kept the Oneidas on the American side of the war. He was a tall lean man, dressed like any other man, except for his black hat. He had straight thin features and a gentle mouth, and his eyes seemed completely detached from all the world. But the solemn, nasal tones of his voice as he repeated the service yet rang in Mary’s ears.

She felt humble and uplifted together. It was odd, too, walking home, though the daylight had waned, that she did not feel cold. She took John’s arm just as they reached the outskirts of the settlement. The feeble lights of tallow dips coming through the paper windowpanes of the cabins were like solemn light brown eyes. Her thin hands were strong on his arm, helping him to walk to the cabin where they would now live together with his mother.

“John,” she said. “Are you unhappy?”

He said, “No.” But she knew that he was worried.

“I’ll always be anything you want me to be, John. I’ll always love you, no matter what.”

He squeezed her hand against his side without speaking. But he looked into her face as they went under the first window and saw it brave, and patient, and adoring, and so young that he felt frightened to think that she was now his own.

Frightened, and excited, and glad that they would not have to sit through supper. Mrs. McKlennar had given them a supper before leaving. It was a marvelous meal— the bone end of the last ham, some heated chocolate in china cups, a pone with jelly, and apple sauce. It now occurred to him that he and Mary would have to find themselves a place to sleep together. He would take Cobus’s bed for themselves, as it was in the corner— though farthest from the fire, it would be more private. They had nothing but two deerskins to make curtains of— he hoped it would not turn so cold these would be needed for bed covers. He felt himself prickling all over; and then with a rush of elated confidence he knew that Mary had felt his elation, and that suddenly she had lost all her courage, and was afraid of him. When he opened the door, the light shone softly on her face, her eyes on his, and the color rushing into her cheeks.