Mark Rutherfords Deliverance | Page 8

He perpetually, therefore, had
before him an enfeebled reflection of himself, and this much irritated
him, notwithstanding his love for her; for who could help loving a
woman who, without the least hesitation, would have opened her veins
at his command, and have given up every drop of blood in her body for
him? Over and over again I have heard him offer some criticism on a
person or event, and the customary chime of approval would ensue,
provoking him to such a degree that he would instantly contradict
himself with much bitterness, leaving poor Mrs. M'Kay in much
perplexity. Such a shot as this generally reduced her to timid silence.
As a rule, he always discouraged any topic at his house which was
likely to serve as an occasion for showing his wife's dependence on him.
He designedly talked about her household affairs, asked her whether
she had mended his clothes and ordered the coals. She knew that these
things were not what was upon his mind, and she answered him in
despairing tones, which showed how much she felt the obtrusive
condescension to her level. I greatly pitied her, and sometimes, in fact,
my emotion at the sight of her struggles with her limitations almost
overcame me and I was obliged to get up and go. She was childishly
affectionate. If M'Kay came in and happened to go up to her and kiss
her, her face brightened into the sweetest and happiest smile. I recollect
once after he had been unusually annoyed with her he repented just as
he was leaving home, and put his lips to her head, holding it in both his

hands. I saw her gently take the hand from her forehead and press it to
her mouth, the tears falling down her cheek meanwhile. Nothing would
ever tempt her to admit anything against her husband. M'Kay was
violent and unjust at times. His occupation he hated, and his restless
repugnance to it frequently discharged itself indifferently upon
everything which came in his way. His children often thought him
almost barbarous, but in truth he did not actually see them when he was
in one of these moods. What was really present with him, excluding
everything else, was the sting of something more than usually repulsive
of which they knew nothing. Mrs. M'Kay's answer to her children's
remonstrances when they were alone with her always was, "He is so
worried," and she invariably dwelt upon their faults which had given
him the opportunity for his wrath.
I think M'Kay's treatment of her wholly wrong. I think that he ought
not to have imposed himself upon her so imperiously. I think he ought
to have striven to ascertain what lay concealed in that modest heart, to
have encouraged its expression and development, to have debased
himself before her that she might receive courage to rise, and he would
have found that she had something which he had not; not HIS
something perhaps, but something which would have made his life
happier. As it was, he stood upon his own ground above her. If she
could reach him, well and good, if not, the helping hand was not
proffered, and she fell back, hopeless. Later on he discovered his
mistake. She became ill very gradually, and M'Kay began to see in the
distance a prospect of losing her. A frightful pit came in view. He
became aware that he could not do without her. He imagined what his
home would have been with other women whom he knew, and he
confessed that with them he would have been less contented. He
acknowledged that he had been guilty of a kind of criminal epicurism;
that he rejected in foolish, fatal, nay, even wicked indifference, the
bread of life upon which he might have lived and thriven. His whole
effort now was to suppress himself in his wife. He read to her, a thing
he never did before, and when she misunderstood, he patiently
explained; he took her into his counsels and asked her opinion; he
abandoned his own opinion for hers, and in the presence of her children
he always deferred to her, and delighted to acknowledge that she knew
more than he did, that she was right and he was wrong. She was now

confined to her house, and the end was near, but this was the most
blessed time of her married life. She grew under the soft rain of his
loving care, and opened out, not, indeed, into an oriental flower, rich in
profound mystery of scent and colour, but into a blossom of the
chalk-down. Altogether concealed and closed she would have remained
if it had not been for this beneficent and heavenly gift poured upon her.
He had just time enough to see what she