THE TATTIE-DOOLIE

THE TATTIE-DOOLIE⁠[12]

His name was James MacDonald MacGregor, as you could prove by reading the newly painted sign over his door, which told Drumorty in yellow and black that he was: “A high-class tailor; pressing and mending also done.” But Jean MacFarlane had nicknamed him the “Tattie-Doolie” on the very first Sunday. But this was not until after the service, not until after he had outsung her, outsung her in time and outsung her in volume. Even in the final hymn, when she had held the last note until her ears buzzed and her face was like a harvest moon, he had held it just a second longer.

Jean had always been proud of her breath. It lasted longer than any breath in the parish of Drumorty. She was proud, too, that no voice in the parish could be heard above her own. Many had tried it, both man and woman!

Skilly’s “Gype,”⁠[13] called that because he was daft-like and wore fancy waistcoats on week-days, had a roaring fine voice; and Mary Macrimmon, who had a wooden leg, “could make a braw noise when she put her mind to ’t.” But even they had lost heart at last and had left Jean to lead the singing. The Gype stayed away from the service altogether and spent his Sunday mornings “sellin’ his soul to the devil on a dambrod.” But Mary Macrimmon was a God-fearing woman, so she made up for her loss by coming late every Sunday, and the ring of the brass ferrule on her wooden leg announced her passage up the flagged aisle to her seat in the front pew. Each entrance was a dramatic triumph, for she changed the trimming on her hat every week, so that the congregation “wouldna crane their necks for naught.” Jean MacFarlane was well content to let her have this triumph: there should be compensations for a wooden leg.

In four years none had ventured to dispute Jean’s right to sing the last note of each line as a solo. The members of the congregation accepted it with the same placidity that they accepted the fact that the varnish had never really hardened on the pews; and if you sat too long or too solidly on one place, you left the nap of your suit embedded on the seat.

In time they came to be proud of Jean, and they waited for her to finish with their mouths agape, as much out of admiration as out of a desire to be ready to start the next line when her breath finally gave out.

The organist, who was blind, knew better, and longed for the courage to terminate Jean’s stentorian solos. But she dared not, for the congregation believed that she couldn’t be so good as an organist that could see, and this made her timid; so she would humbly hold the last note until Jean’s final gasp signaled that she could start a new measure. But in return for this, Jean defended her when some young snip would suggest that she wasn’t much of an organist. “No,” Jean would admit. “She’s no’ a great musician, but she’s a gran’ accompanist, an’ that’s what’s needed in a kirk like ours.”

Until that first Sunday Jean had held no grudge against James MacDonald MacGregor, although it would have been natural, and even dutiful, for her to have sniffed a little in affected disdain when she heard his name mentioned, for his arrival was a source of much distress to her father, Perney MacFarlane, who had been the only tailor in Drumorty for twenty-five years, as had been his father before him. Indeed, old Perney had given Jean the rough side of his tongue for her undaughterly lack of resentment over the new tailor. But Jean, while realizing that his advent would end her father’s sartorial monarchy, was none the less conscious of a pleased flutter when Mistress MacKenty stepped in by to say: “The puir man’s single dootless, for I hae seen neither hide nor hair o’ a wife, nor her belongings.”

“That’s a consideration,” Jean had answered; and, giving her father an accusing look, added: “to them that never sees a man frae one day’s end to the other.”

Jean was a little irritated with her father on this score, and blamed him that she hadn’t been married long since. For, although his trade should have supplied her with more suitors than any other lass in Drumorty, it was a fact that, while the grocer’s daughter by making smirking pretense of helping, could meet young men on Saturday evenings in her father’s shop; and even the druggist’s boarding-school daughter could “happen” to come in to kiss her father good night when a prosperous young farmer was in, Jean could never meet a man that way, because Perney insisted that it wasn’t seemly for a single woman to come in, when a man might be having his trousers fitted. To Jean’s protest: “Father, ye canna always be fittin’ the crotch,” he merely answered, “I might be.”

On the way to kirk that first Sunday, Jean was in a twitter. She had even gone the length of putting Jockey Club on the front of her bodice as well as on her handkerchief. This made her feel akin to Jezebel, and for a moment she liked the feeling. She wished that a woman could be “wanton in her ways” and yet seem respectable. Then, appalled at her own wickedness, she made a hasty prayer for her soul’s salvation, and decided that scent was a hand-maiden of the devil and that she would never use it again. But the next moment she was glad that she had used it, and sorry that she hadn’t used more, as the new tailor passed her on the road and remarked to his neighbor something about “a fine smell.”

He was grand beyond Jean’s expectations. He wore a frock coat and a “tile,”⁠[14] and she gasped in admiration of his “venturesomeness” in wearing them when there was neither a marriage nor a funeral in the neighborhood to justify such splendor.

For in Drumorty the laird is the only man entitled by common opinion to wear such grandeur on ordinary Sundays. Many a tattie-doolie in the fields around Drumorty flapped in solitary dignity with the scarcely worn frock coat and “tile” of some deceased farmer, who had been too modest to wear them.

Jean had even been pleased when he came boldly up to the choir and took a seat in the front row of the men’s pew directly facing her. It was a bit forward of him to sit in the choir without a public invitation from the minister, but Jean thrilled. “It’s all of a piece wi’ his wearin’ a tile, he’s a man that kens his mind and does it.” She was glad also that he was where he could see her, and know at once who it was that sang so long and so loud.

She settled herself in her seat with the dignity that a duck acquires upon water. Debating the relative effectiveness of a lace handkerchief emerging from her sleeve or thrust daintily into the front of her bodice, she decided in favor of the former, because if she wore it on her breast the book would hide it when she stood up to sing.

Satisfied that she was at her best, she glanced across the aisle. She was disappointed to find that he was not watching her. He was reading the hymn numbers on the announcement slate and looking them up in his hymn-book.

“A singer himsel’, nae doot,” she reflected. “All the better; it takes a singer t’ appreciate a singer.” She looked him over carefully and decided that he was “over thin for good looks, and over white in the face. But he had a grand mustache! A manly-like an’ full-growin’ mustache. A careful wife that tended him like a chicken on a brod,⁠[15] could make a fine strappin’ chiel out o’ him.”

A yearning tenderness toward him, the passion of a brood hen, stirred in her breast. She wanted to envelop him in her care; already he seemed to belong to her. Feeling the need to emphasize this to herself by speaking of him, she whispered to Mary Macrimmon:

“What think ye o’ the new tailor?”

When Mary answered: “He’s unco chilpet⁠[16] and hungry-like aboot the jaw-bones,” she answered tartly:

“He’s no’ hog-fat. For mysel’, I like a man on the thin side.”

Indeed, Jean had even found herself thinking with satisfaction of the twenty-four hand-made and feather-stitched night-gowns that lay at the bottom of her kist.⁠[17] Not that she was ready to jump down the throat of the first man that asked her. Indeed not! She wouldn’t fash⁠[18] herself if she never married! But twenty-four night-gowns made a body feel prepared for anything.

When the organist began the prelude to the first hymn, Jean took a deep breath, and set her head like a filly fighting the snaffle.

Now he would see! Now he would take notice! She charged the first note with a vociferation that made Mary Macrimmon drop her hymn-book. Never had her voice been so loud. Never had she felt more exultant in its power. He would be looking at her now! But wait! Wait until the end of the verse when she could show him the length of her breath. That would make him take stock and wonder. That was where breath could show to advantage.

As she reached the last phrase, she filled her lungs. Now he would see. This would be the best that she had ever done.

Her voice rose powerfully above the others. They were falling away. As the last note was reached, Jean’s voice took hold of the ragged edges of sound and knit them up. Soon she would be singing alone.

But what was this? A voice full and strong was keeping pace with her. He was still singing. Was he trying to compete with her? It couldn’t be! She glanced across at him, her face red with the strain of holding the note. Yes! He was wilfully trying to outsing her. In his eyes was the insolent look of a duelist who is sure of victory. Outraged, Jean lost her hold upon the note, and James MacDonald MacGregor’s voice boomed out in triumphant solo for two beats more.

Affronted! Affronted she was and shamed before the whole congregation! Shamed and affronted in her own kirk. And by this; this whippersnapper. Made mock of and be-meaned by a half-starved bantam-cock, with a tile on his brainless head.

There was a sputtering and sizzling of suppressed mirth from the body of the kirk. The new verse started, and staggered along in gusts like a drunken man. The McKenzie lassie with the fat legs was giggling and nudging her neighbor. The minister was hiding behind his prayer-book, but the redness of his ears told that even he was laughing. Mary Macrimmon was making no pretense of singing but was frankly laughing under cover of the organ. The new tailor was looking about him, smirkingly appreciative of his victory, although he did not yet know its magnitude.

Jean’s heart was fit to fly out of its cage, so angry was she. For little more she would have thrown her hymn-book in his face. He would come here, would he? Come here and set up opposition to her father. Horning his nose in on a man that had worked in Drumorty all his life. But that wasn’t enough. He must dare to outsing her, that had led the singing for years. He must make a byword of her that had defended him against her own father. Oh, but she was well punished that she hadn’t hated him from the first, the swaggering dandyprat, the fribble popinjay, all dressed up like a tattie-doolie! In that moment she hated him as only a heart that might have loved can hate.

It had been a bitter Sunday morning; and a bitter, bitter walk back from the kirk with whisperings and laughter all about her, and handkies held up to hide wide grins of amusement. It had been hard to bear with Mistress MacKenty when she said with ill-disguised glee: “Weel, weel, he’s goin’ t’ lead the singin’ as well as the tailorin’.”

But there had been comfort in seeing the pleasure it gave old Perney to hear her flay the new tailor. So delighted was he with her nickname for his rival that he pressed her to take the neck of the boiled fowl, a delicacy which he only relinquished in moments of great emotion. For Perney was troubled in his heart, deeply troubled and anxious, and he dare not speak of it. He had a secret which he believed was shared by no one. It was this. He didn’t know how the collar of a coat should be cut! For, although he had been fully thirty-five when his father had died and left him the tailoring business, he had never up to that moment either cut or fitted a collar. It had been the elder MacFarlane’s belief that his son was a witless warlock⁠[19] who was by nature bound to ruin any piece of cloth into which he put a pair of shears.

In time he begrudgingly and with loud-voiced distrust, allowed Perney to cut and fit trousers, and at a pinch, when his eyes began to trouble him, he would prayerfully let him work on a portion of a coat. But never to his last day would he let him touch a collar.

So Perney inherited the business with a perfect knowledge of trousers, a partial knowledge of waistcoats, and a complete ignorance of collars. For so jealous was old MacFarlane of this knowledge that he had always retired behind a screen for the cutting and fitting of this mystic portion of the garment.

On the first day he was alone, Perney had embarked on a series of experiments. From then on, every suit he cut was a hazard, an adventure. This much he suspected about collars. Something had to be cut on the crosswise, and something had to be stretched. But which had to be stretched, which had to be cut crosswise, he never was able to find out. Sometimes he did it one way, and sometimes the other, but little satisfaction resulted. When, occasionally, the miracle happened, and he would produce a collar that did neither stick out at the back like a spout, nor shy away from the neck in a coy semicircle, he had always forgotten how he had cut that particular collar, and try as he would he couldn’t duplicate it.

Perney had never told this to a soul, not even his wife; nay, least of all, his wife. But sometimes he wondered uneasily if she knew. There was something too impassioned in the way she defended him when a customer complained that the collar didn’t fit. It looked like something more than chance that brought her hurrying down the stairs just in the nick of time, and there was something more than affability in her voice when she exclaimed to the customer upon her entrance: “My certies, but that jacket brings out the breadth o’ yer shoulders.” If in the face of her evident admiration, the customer still murmured that the collar didn’t set to his neck, her voice became a shade scornful as she replied: “Think ye the collar’s human? How would it know where yer neck is? Hae patience and wear it a while, and come time, it will grow to the set o’ yer body.” And if he still complained, she would deride him playfully, crying: “Certies, man, expect ye the collar to grip yer neck like yer lass’s arm?” If this didn’t send him away with his face red and the suit under his arm, she could go even further.

It was not so easy with the young ones who had been to Aberdeen to take the agricultural course at the university. They were “very notional,” and would bring a suit back again and again for alterations. But smart though they were, they hated to encounter Mistress MacFarlane, and would peep in at the window first to see that she was out of the way. But in the end she would always vanquish them. And it is a tribute to her eloquence that they sometimes came to agree with her that “a collar couldna be expected to fit, until you had worn it six months.”

In all the twenty-five years, Perney had never had a suit left on his hands; but he knew well where the credit lay for that.

He spent long hours turning it over in his mind. Did she truly believe that his collars were perfect, and his customers sorely wanting in sense? Or did she know all the time that he couldn’t cut a collar? But no—that thought smarted too keenly. She would never be able to keep from telling him if she knew. He knew women, with their tongues always wag-wagging. She’d cast it in his face in one of her tempers. She’d never be able to hold it back. No, she didn’t know. Of course she didn’t know. But why, then, did she never mention collars when they were alone? Because she thinks I can cut them. Because she knows I can’t. It was plausible either way. She knows. She doesn’t. She knows. She doesn’t. For hours his needle would flash out and in to this torturous refrain. Overhead he would hear her, heavy-footed, going back and forth about her work. Many times he had risen from his bench, determined to go up and have it out. Or sitting by her in the evenings, he had often been tempted to break the long silence by shouting the one word “Collars!” just to see what she would do. But he never dared carry out his resolve, because he couldn’t bear to learn that she knew.

Most of the time he was comforted by the thought that she didn’t know, and he loved her fiercely for her blind faith in him. But on occasions when she would defend him too loudly, he was convinced that she knew. And he tortured himself by the thought that she despised him in her heart. At such times he almost hated her, not only for the knowledge she had, but that she was strong enough never to give it voice.

One thing made it bearable. He could laugh at her. She had a notion about the making of broth. Nay, more than a notion, it was a belief as dear to her heart as her religion. And he knew it to be founded on folly.

Mistress MacFarlane was a Fraser, and the Frasers had always held the reputation of making the best Sunday broth-with-dumplings in the parish. It was their crown. How to make it was their secret. It necessitated the constant attention, for the whole forenoon, of a member of the family. This meant that some one must stay away from the kirk during the morning service; and as this mortification seemed to be borne more cheerfully by the male portion of the family, it came to be a tradition that the Fraser men were a godless ilk that would rather tend broth than praise the Lord. Indeed, one minister had even preached a sermon on setting up graven images, and it was clear that he exhorted the Fraser family to choose between their broth and the Kingdom of Heaven. But it was useless.

So, the Sunday morning after his marriage, Perney learned the secret of the Fraser broth. His wife told him every detail, as indeed she had continued to tell him every detail every Sunday morning since, for somehow she could never believe that he could retain all its intricacies; and never once did she fail to come back from the door-step to repeat: “Mind ye now, quarter of an hour apart.”

That was the secret! Other benighted Drumortians put everything into the pot at once. But the Frasers first boiled a shin bone in the water for half an hour, then added the turnips. A quarter of an hour later the carrots went in, and so on, until finally the dumplings.

Before leaving for the kirk, Mistress MacFarlane would arrange the different vegetables in bowls and set them in a row leading away from the fire. Just before tying her bonnet strings, she would drop the bone into the water and remind him: “The bowl next the fire goes in first.”

It was a ritual gone through with much gusto on her part and great patience on the part of Perney.

At first he had blundered, forgetting this or that, or he would go down to the shop to play a solitary game of chess and forget the broth altogether, and bowls of raw vegetables would betray him to his wrathful wife upon her return.

One Sunday, in a flush of rebellion, he had dumped the contents of all the bowls into the pot the moment she was off the door-step, and thumped defiantly down-stairs to play chess. But he had little peace that morning, for in spite of himself, he believed in the superiority of the Fraser broth. He was apprehensive about its flavor, and in two minds whether to confess or not, until they sat down to the table and Mistress MacFarlane, taking the first spoonful exclaimed just as she always did, just as every Fraser always did: “My, that’s fine broth.” And he agreed, just as the spouse of every Fraser always agreed. He never let a hint of what he had done cross his lips; after that, his Sunday mornings were tranquil.

But now Perney was troubled. The arrival of the new tailor sharpened his anxiety about the collars, for not only might his wife discover the truth, but soon all Drumorty might know. He tortured himself by attributing to his rival great skill in collar making, and by magnifying his own lack of skill. Soon the sight of a new suit, with the collar snugly fitting the neck, justified his fears. And with every day came discouraging news of another customer gone over to the enemy. Fear was added to fear, as orders came in more and more slowly. Even the report that the “Tattie-Doolie” couldn’t hang trousers didn’t bring the consolation it should have. He began to lean on Jean, seeking comfort in the increasing scorn she expressed for the “Tattie-Doolie,” for Jean’s emotion was growing more keen with each Sunday. She existed from week to week in a fever of anticipation. She lived only for those moments when they faced each other across the aisle in combat. One morning he was late and she was beside herself for fear he would not come. At his sudden appearance her heart raced in an intoxication of something, she called it hatred.

After the services, when she reached home, she would deride him with a wit that delighted Perney, and a venom that surprised herself. But sometimes, following these outbursts, she would go to her room and cry helplessly, and she knew that she wasn’t crying because he had outsung her.

There is no knowing how it might have ended, had not the organist died suddenly, making it necessary to send hurriedly to Aberdeen for another to take her place. Five minutes after the train came in with the new one, Mistress MacKenty was spreading the news that it was a man this time, with most extraordinarily thin legs. By noon the next day she was able to tell that he demanded no less than two eggs for his breakfast, and that he was bound and determined to conduct the choir practise himself without interference from the minister. So it was clear that he was a feckful man in spite of his legs.

And his hands on the organ proved this to be true. Jean was filled with a new excitement as the organ woke clamorously and shook itself at his commanding touch. This was playing! This was music worth singing to! The “Tattie-Doolie” would never outsing her again. Here was music that would give her strength to conquer him. The new organist would see who had the longest breath. He would judge who was best fitted to lead the singing.

Her voice rose with clarion strength. The tailor was doing his best also. Jean was reluctantly obliged to admit that there were worse voices than the tailor’s. They were nearing the end of the line. Now for the struggle! But something was amiss. The last note slipped away from her like an eel, and the next line was in progress before she knew it. She tried to hold on at the end of the next line; but again the organist didn’t wait.

Of course, he didn’t know any better. That was it, Jean reasoned. She would have to wait till the end of the verse to show him. Then he would be glad to hold the note for such a voice. An organist had to be trained to a singer’s ways. Nearing the end she raised her voice so that he couldn’t help but hear her. But with a loud blast from the quaking pipes he drowned her out and briskly started the next verse.

Dumfounded, she looked across the aisle to see what the “Tattie-Doolie” thought of this. He was glaring furiously at the organist’s head. Presently his glance met Jean’s, and they gazed at each other in a common bond of indignation. He signaled to her not to sing, and closed his hymn-book emphatically, to show that he meant to be silent. Jean did the same, and he nodded his approval. Exchanging knowing smirks they waited for the collapse of the singing.

But it was not the hopeless failure they expected it to be. Their revenge was no revenge. Nobody missed their singing. The organ sped its multisonous way with the abandon of a calliope at a circus. It cared not a penny who sang or who didn’t. Its very abandon was inviting, and they fain would have joined in the singing but pride forbade them.

The tailor became more and more crestfallen as the service progressed. He fingered his hymn-book longingly, but he could not bring himself to start again.

Seeing his dejection, Jean forgot her own disappointment and yearned over him. She understood only too keenly how he was missing the exaltation of singing to the full capacity of his lungs. She knew only too well the sense of loss he felt, and the bitter hurt to his pride. His emotions found a dual echo in her breast; she was heartsick for herself, but she was doubly heartsick for him. Her one thought was to save his pride for him at any cost.

At the close of the service she eluded her mother, and caught up with him as he walked with slackened step and drooping shoulders along the road. It was a thing she could not have done for herself. But she was doing this for him. Nothing else could have given her courage to make that advance under the critical watching eyes of the congregation. She reached his side gasping, and a little hesitant, but the sight of his despondent face spurred her afresh, and she cried with well simulated derision: “Heard ye ever such singin’! A lot o’ women squeakin’ like mice in a trap, an’ no’ a man’s voice among the lot!”

He braced up at her approach and the gloom lifted from his face at her words, but settled back again as he answered doubtfully: “Skilly an’ the minister were singin’.”

“Singin’, were they!” Jean cried with a chuckle. “Man, yer over-generous to call it singin’.”

“They’re no’ so bad,” he said, inviting her to fresh protest. She laughed shrilly. “Ye ken fine, we never had a proper man’s voice till ye came.”

The swing was coming back to his shoulders again, and he was taking bigger strides.

“Think ye that?” he questioned anxiously. “I had a notion ye didna like my singing.”

He would never know what her next words cost her. For a moment the old rivalry came to life and pride strove with love. In that swift space she was a singer again, proud of her voice and contemptuous of his, but only for a moment. Then came her admission from quiet lips: “I was jealous o’ yer voice; jealous o’ yer breath bein’ longer than mine.” With those words she retired forever, leaving the stage to him. She would never compete with him again.

His step was jaunty now, and his face beamed with gratification.

“Aye, my breath is a lot longer than yours,” he replied.

Jean’s heart faltered a little at his reply. It was true that his breath was longer than hers; it was true that his voice was louder, but he might have said something kind about her voice, even if he didn’t believe it. She could tell any lie to make him feel better, it hurt that he didn’t care to lie for her. Now that his spirits were restored and he no longer needed her, Jean lost her courage. A dull ache assailed her heart and sharp tears forced their way into her eyes. She continued to walk beside him only because she could not do otherwise with all Drumorty looking on. Her brimming tears were about to fall in spite of her struggle to keep them back, but the tailor saved her this humiliation. His momentary exhilaration was passing away, and shadows were gathering over him again.

“I missed the singin’,” he sighed dolefully. “I like to sing. It seems like as if I had to sing something out o’ me on the Sabbath, to get a fresh start for the next week.”

“I ken what ye mean,” Jean cried with ready sympathy, blinking away her unseen tears. “That’s the way I feel—bottled up like.”

“Aye,” he agreed.

A daring thought came to Jean, a very daring thought. Quivering with excitement at her own temerity, she said: “I hae a harmonium. Would ye like to step in by wi’ me for an hour an’ sing the hymns?”

He looked full at her for the first, and there was admiration in his eyes. “Ye can play?” he questioned eagerly. “I’d like it fine, if—if—”

Jean knew what he meant.

“My father likes music,” she answered.

She was fluttering inside like a nest of young birds, half with joy, and half with fear of her father. But she would go through with it if the heavens were to fall.

As they reached the door, Mistress MacFarlane caught up with them. Being a true woman, she had already decided that Jean’s wedding veil would be at least half a yard longer than the veil of that high-handed lassie of the druggist’s had been.

“I’m goin’ to play the hymns for Mr. MacGregor,” Jean explained.

“Aye, aye,” said Mistress MacFarlane, with a comfortable, round pink smile, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Aye, aye, that will be fine.” With an elaborate wink to Jean, she slipped in and up the stairs. Understanding her maneuver, Jean lingered below until she heard the kitchen door shut quickly, then, knowing that her father was safely imprisoned, she followed, leading the tailor into the heavy-curtained, musk-scented parlor.

It was well that Mistress MacFarlane went first and pushed the enraged Perney backward into the kitchen, for he had seen Jean approaching with the “Tattie-Doolie” and was seething at her treachery.

“What means this?” he demanded when he regained his balance after his wife’s unexpected violence.

“Whist!” she commanded. “Dinna make an uproar. It’s the new tailor come to sing the hymns wi’ our lassie.”

“In my hoose?”

“Why should he no’?” questioned his wife with irritating calmness, pulling at the tips of her black kid gloves the while, but carefully keeping between Perney and the door.

“Nae in my hoose! Step aside, woman.”

“Sit doon, man, an’ stop yer haverin’,”⁠[20] she answered with easy contempt. “Do ye expect yer bairn to go to her grave a maiden?”

“What’s that?” cried Perney with fresh fury. “He wants to marry Jean. He would dare!”

Mistress MacFarlane snorted and elbowed him out of the way with a pitying superiority.

“No,” was her cryptic reply. “He has no’ dared yet, but he’ll dare come time.”

Perney was bewildered. It was hard to maintain his indignation in the face of his wife’s dispassionate assurance. She was his rock of strength. He followed in the course she steered, for her steering was always for his betterment. But now she seemed to have turned traitor and he felt lost. If she would only speak up and tell him her mind; he could always bear her lectures better than her silences. She was stepping about the room quietly, as if it were no concern of hers that his rival was here, under his roof.

The tailor’s voice rose lustily singing. “Oh, come all ye faithful.”

It was more than Perney could bear in silence.

“What mean ye, woman?”

“Man, hae a little sense,” she urged, as if speaking to an unreasoning but lovable child. “It’s high time that Jean was married—an’ there’s no room for twa tailors in Drumorty.”

So that was it! It was a staggering thought. He sat down in his chair the better to support it. He might have known that she had some bee in her bonnet. She was not a woman to act without a purpose. And she was right. She was quite right. It would be a blessing to have a partner instead of a competitor. He would give him the collars to do! That would be a great relief. The thought made him light-hearted, and he was just about to show her that he saw some reason in her plans, when she said: “Ye can give him the collars to do.”

At that he straightened in his chair, on the defensive again. So she knew! She had known all the time! She had lain beside him for thirty years with that secret knowledge in her heart. Despising him, perhaps! Yes, despising him. It wasn’t for Jean she wanted the new tailor; it was because she knew that he could make better collars. She put her trust in the “Tattie-Doolie,” in a stranger, an enemy, and she had turned against him, that had sheltered and loved her for thirty years.

She despised him, did she? Laughed at him? Well, he’d let her know that there were others that could laugh. He would tell her about the Fraser broth. He would lay her pride in the dust. There would be more than one humble heart in the house this day!

He turned toward her to launch his arrow of revenge.

All innocent of her blunder, she was lifting the lid of the broth pot and sniffing ecstatically: a Fraser worshiping at the shrine of the Fraser broth. He couldn’t do it. Never, if she trod him in the dust, never could he hurt her like that. He turned away, his heart sick and lonely, his soul bereft and bitter. She was no longer his. No longer the woman who believed in him.

But there would be no more hiding behind a wall. He would speak to her about the collars. He would have it out with her. He turned back and asked in a voice sharp-edged, because it was so near to breaking: “Why say ye I can give him the collars to do?”

A flicker of alarm came into her eyes, but she finished the sip of broth she had in the spoon before answering, and then her voice came with easy assurance.

“Weel, ye’ll never be able to trust him wi’ trousers; so ye can give him the coats and waistcoats to do.”

“An’ the collars,” he said bitingly.

“Aye, an’ the collars, an’ other easy bits,” she answered with lazy ease.

Collars and other easy bits! So she didn’t know. The foolish woman didn’t know! She thought a collar was an “easy bit.” She had always believed in him. In face of everything, she still believed that he was right. Oh, she was a foolish, feckless woman, with her blindness about collars, and her folly about broth. But he loved her. The very pattern of his soul was woven with the threads of hers, dear, blind, trusting woman that she was. She didn’t know. And now she would never know.

Her feet as she stepped about setting the table made a happy homelike music in his heart. How he loved her!

She paused at the table with an extra plate and spoon, and looked toward him questioningly. He had been so silent, she was not sure that she had won him over yet, so her voice was timorous and a little pleading: “Could I ask him, Perney?”

“Aye, lass, ask him,” he agreed. Then, searching in his flowing heart for words to tell her how he loved her, he said: “An’ I’m thinkin’, he has never tasted the like o’ the broth he’ll taste this day.”