DOORWAYS IN DRUMORTY
DOORWAYS IN DRUMORTY
By LORNA MOON
INDIANAPOLIS THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1921, 1922, 1924, 1925 BY THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
PRESS OF BRAUNWORTH & CO BOOK MANUFACTURERS BROOKLYN, N. Y.
To My Dad
This, His Wee Nottie’s First Book
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE CORP’ 11
SILK BOTH SIDES 27
THE SINNING OF JESSIE MACLEAN 41
WANTIN’ A HAND 65
THE TATTIE-DOOLIE 79
THE COURTIN’ OF SALLY ANN 115
DOORWAYS IN DRUMORTY
THE CORP’
THE CORP’
By shutting the door to within three inches of the jamb, and moving her chair nearer the cat’s hassock by the fire, old Kirsty could see Mistress MacNab’s door and watch the mourners come and go.
She had been sitting there for three days, secretly watching, her dismay growing with every hour as she realized that it was possible that Mistress MacNab could carry her rage about the butter prize to the extent of not bidding her to see the corpse.
When Mistress MacKenty brought the startling news on Sunday evening that “Sandy MacNab had choked on a cold potato and hiccoughed himself to death,” Kirsty had had a momentary qualm of doubt. She wished she hadn’t openly scoffed at Mistress MacNab’s butter and flaunted her own first prize on the way back from the show. It was “an unwise-like thing to do with death so sure and life so uncertain; but who would expect a braw man like Sandy MacNab to choke to death on a potato?”
“And besides,” she reflected, “Mistress MacNab, be she as angry as she may, would never bury Sandy without all the honor that was due him.” And who in all Drumorty would think of being buried without Kirsty Fraser to cry as the lid was screwed down? Had she no’ cried at every funeral for forty-five years? And was it no’ part and parcel of the ceremony for her to have a fit when the body was carried out? And was it no’ true that the laddies of the village hung round the house of sorrow waiting for the chance to run for the doctor to bring her round?
She recalled the first time. What a day that had been! Never would she forget looking into the coffin of Maggie Sclessor and seeing her lying there so satisfied-like with the best-looking mutch[1] in Drumorty on her head. Never would she forget the rage that had filled her at the sight. For who would have expected Maggie Sclessor, poor as she was, to have a hand-made lace mutch laid away to be buried in and never to say a word about it? She had cried with envy, but the neighbors thought it was with grief, and they had turned their attention from Maggie and her braw mutch to Kirsty as her sobs grew louder; and when the doctor averred that Kirsty had been “on the very verge o’ a fit,” they screwed the lid down on Maggie without further to-do.
And as they carried the body out, Kirsty reflected with satisfaction, “Weel, she had a fine mutch, but wha will think o’ that noo?”
And then, with each succeeding funeral, she had added to her laurels; having once tasted the joy of stealing the attention from the corpse, she could not forego the excitement and the commiseration and the secret gratitude of the mourners. Her “fits” grew more and more masterly, until the neighbors argued boastfully:
“I’m tellin’ ye, when my man died, she had the worst fit she ever had.” And the answer, as positive, would be:
“Mistress MacPherson, hae I no’ got the use o’ my sight, praise be to God? Did I no’ see her eyes roll up to heaven and her legs stiffen when my Jeannie was carried oot?”
Certainly, Mistress MacNab would never think of burying her man without Kirsty’s being there, butter prize or no butter prize. Thus reassured, Kirsty had resolved to outdo all her past efforts at the funeral of Sandy MacNab. Always in the back of her head she had had a notion that by biting the sides of her cheeks till they bled, and frothing the blood upon her lips, she could give a more convincing and gruesome fit than any she had ever given. She had saved this for some great day. And this was the day. The world would see that Kirsty Fraser scorned to bear a grudge in the face of death. She would treat Mistress MacNab better than if she had been a friend.
On Monday morning she felt so kindly toward Mistress MacNab that she was minded to step over and say a word of comfort to her. She even thought of offering to do the “biddin’,” although she knew full that her legs would never stand it.
But Mistress MacKenty came in to say that Maggie Tate was to do the “biddin’,” and that the funeral was on Wednesday, adding meaningly, “But there’s no need to tell ye that; ye’ll be the first to be bidden, nae doot.”
Her tone made Kirsty uneasy.
At sundown, when Tammas, her son, came wearily in, she watched him wash his face in the tin basin, and as he spluttered and blew the water,—he never thought he was clean unless he made a noise about it,—she started to ask if he had heard anything, but stopped, mistrusting her voice. It would no’ do to let Tammas know that she was anxious. And should it be that some were already bidden, Tammas would know that she had been slighted, being left to the last.
On Tuesday the coffin was brought home. Jimmy Tocher tripped on the step as they carried it in, and it banged against the door. Kirsty could hear Mistress MacNab raking them up-hill and down-dale for their fecklessness, and she wanted to join them and see for herself if they had dented the mountings, but she couldn’t make the first advance.
At dusk she saw Maggie Tate on her rounds doing the bidding. She cried in at Jessie MacLean’s and then went on to Mistress MacKenty’s. “She’ll be here inside ten minutes,” Kirsty reflected, and rose to put the kettle on, so that she could make her a cup of tea. “It’s unco thirsty work, biddin’ to funerals.”
It was getting too dark to see. The kettle boiled dry, and she pulled it forward on the crane. “Mistress MacKenty is talking her stone-blind. She’ll never get here to-night,” she decided, but she couldn’t give up watching.
Tammas came home. He had heard something, and was uneasy in his mind. Kirsty could tell, because he was whistling The Lass o’ Ballochmyle between his teeth, which was a sign. And forby that, he said the long grace before supper, and he said it slowly, as she always had begged him to. He was trying to be kind to her; he even blew the smoke from his pipe up the chimney instead of out across the room. It was unnatural-like, and Kirsty knew that his behavior meant that he was sure that she would not be bidden to see the corpse. She resented his giving up hope before she did. He had never valued her fits. On occasions he had even advised her to bide away if funerals made her take on so. He was like his father, that he was. He was reliable-like, but he was dull. All the Frasers were dull. Why could he no’ speak up and say, “Ye’ll no’ be bidden to see the corp’, and I’m glad o’ ’t,” if that was what he was thinking? She’d give him just a minute more; then she’d ask him outright.
“Mither.” She looked at him as he spoke. To avoid her eyes, he bent down, and used the heel of his boot to press the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.
“Weel?” she prompted, and there was an edge on her voice.
“I’m thinkin’ o’ drivin’ up to Skilly’s the morn ti borrow their rake. Would ye like to go wi’ me?”
So he believed she wouldn’t be bidden, and he was trying to save her face. He little knew. He had never set store by her fits, but others had. Mistress MacNab might wait till the last to bid her, as was natural; she’d do the same herself, but bid her she would, as Kirsty knew well. So she answered tartly:
“I’m thinkin’ yer losing the wee bit o’ sense ye were born wi’, Tammas. The morn’s Sandy MacNab’s funeral.”
Tammas reddened guiltily.
“Oh, aye,” he murmured. “I had forgotten, mither.”
And now this was the day of the funeral. Through the small space between the jamb and the door Kirsty could see Mistress MacPherson knocking for admission to the house of sorrow. She had a small parcel in her hand, which she held gingerly upright.
Tammas had made another attempt to shut the door in a yearning desire to spare her. Manlike, he could not understand why she tortured herself by looking on. He had seen her put on her black mutch in readiness, and his heart was sick for her. He wondered why she could not give up hope. He paced the floor silently, stopping every now and then to do some kindly useless thing; and she, knowing what prompted him, would snap at him furiously.
The minister came. Kirsty sat rigidly forward in her chair as he was admitted and the door closed after him. Tammas stopped pacing. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He tried them in his pockets, and then took them out again, hanging them limply by his sides.