decade of writing to John McPherson,
pretending to be someone else, Sally had grown in introspection as
well as maturity. The Margaret Patterson who had petitioned the
more reserved and malleable Sally Wilson to write those letters had
become a vain creature, a spoiled one, and a social
climber.
Perhaps Margaret had always suffered from those
defects, but Sally preferred to give her sometime-friend the
benefit of the doubt. She was a generous soul and it was Christmas, when one was supposed to overlook pettiness and
concentrate on giving, instead of making note of general
nastiness.
When she had done everything except put on her
cloak and bonnet, Sally sat down, slit the envelope and pulled out
a letter that had been sent three months earlier, according to the
barely visible postmark. After it had been read several times and
answered, this letter would join the others in a pasteboard box
labeled Doctor Meacham’s Restorative Tonic, and shoved under her
bed. She had never thrown out any of John’s letters, preferring to
read them over and over, and contemplate the writer who had changed
mightily in ten years.
In fact, the earliest letters, desperate
affairs telling of cold and hunger and ill use as he ventured into
Canada’s interior to trap beaver, were written on such cheap paper
that they needed to be copied onto better paper. The few days’
break at Christmas would be a good opportunity to do that. She had
worn them out with reading.
She stared at the folded letter, remembering
two awful years during those ten when she had heard nothing and
finally given him up for dead. Even now, she couldn’t help the
tears that welled in her eyes, remembering her prayers then her
anger that such a nice man should die alone in a strange country.
Finally she had resigned herself to the will of God, since the
matter was in omnipotent hands anyway—at least that’s what Papa
said. And besides that, she was writing for Margaret Patterson and
not Sally Wilson, who could only anguish in private and pray for
John McPherson’s safety.
She slid the letter back into the envelope,
deciding to read it at home after supper. Since there were usually
only three letters a year, she had schooled herself to savor them,
because the next one would be a long time coming. Lately she had
been writing once a month, telling him Dumfries news, which meant
stretching out even the most trivial detail, since Dumfries was a
quiet town. She could only assume that when he did get mail, it
accumulated in a pile for him to read.
She locked the school door behind her and
walked slowly home, pausing as usual at the bridge over River Nith
that separated the east side of Dumfries from the west. Accompanied
by its usual cloud of seagulls, the fishing fleet was tying up and
preparing to sling the day’s catch to the wharf, where the poor
women who scaled, gutted, and filleted the fish were even now
readying their knives.
Several of her students’ mothers saw her on the
bridge and waved. Sally waved back, happy to teach their children
and perhaps, if they were lucky and sharp, school them for
something better than gutting fish.
She walked slowly through Dumfries, nodding to
her friends, stopping to chat with other parents, and smiling at
the students. Released from school only an hour ago, they were
working behind counters and helping their families.
Her days were predictable and unerring. She
thought of John McPherson, breaking free from the deadly cycle of
other McPhersons, who fished a little, ran a few cattle—hopefully
their own—smuggled French brandy, and scratched a meager meal or
two from exhausted soil, as their fathers before them had done. In
spite of family skepticism and a certain amount of disdain from
others, John had set out to seek his fortune at eighteen years old,
far away from his useless kinfolk.
At least he was a man and at liberty to break
away. Here I remain , Sally thought, and not for the first
time. Too bad that ladies cannot
pretending to be someone else, Sally had grown in introspection as
well as maturity. The Margaret Patterson who had petitioned the
more reserved and malleable Sally Wilson to write those letters had
become a vain creature, a spoiled one, and a social
climber.
Perhaps Margaret had always suffered from those
defects, but Sally preferred to give her sometime-friend the
benefit of the doubt. She was a generous soul and it was Christmas, when one was supposed to overlook pettiness and
concentrate on giving, instead of making note of general
nastiness.
When she had done everything except put on her
cloak and bonnet, Sally sat down, slit the envelope and pulled out
a letter that had been sent three months earlier, according to the
barely visible postmark. After it had been read several times and
answered, this letter would join the others in a pasteboard box
labeled Doctor Meacham’s Restorative Tonic, and shoved under her
bed. She had never thrown out any of John’s letters, preferring to
read them over and over, and contemplate the writer who had changed
mightily in ten years.
In fact, the earliest letters, desperate
affairs telling of cold and hunger and ill use as he ventured into
Canada’s interior to trap beaver, were written on such cheap paper
that they needed to be copied onto better paper. The few days’
break at Christmas would be a good opportunity to do that. She had
worn them out with reading.
She stared at the folded letter, remembering
two awful years during those ten when she had heard nothing and
finally given him up for dead. Even now, she couldn’t help the
tears that welled in her eyes, remembering her prayers then her
anger that such a nice man should die alone in a strange country.
Finally she had resigned herself to the will of God, since the
matter was in omnipotent hands anyway—at least that’s what Papa
said. And besides that, she was writing for Margaret Patterson and
not Sally Wilson, who could only anguish in private and pray for
John McPherson’s safety.
She slid the letter back into the envelope,
deciding to read it at home after supper. Since there were usually
only three letters a year, she had schooled herself to savor them,
because the next one would be a long time coming. Lately she had
been writing once a month, telling him Dumfries news, which meant
stretching out even the most trivial detail, since Dumfries was a
quiet town. She could only assume that when he did get mail, it
accumulated in a pile for him to read.
She locked the school door behind her and
walked slowly home, pausing as usual at the bridge over River Nith
that separated the east side of Dumfries from the west. Accompanied
by its usual cloud of seagulls, the fishing fleet was tying up and
preparing to sling the day’s catch to the wharf, where the poor
women who scaled, gutted, and filleted the fish were even now
readying their knives.
Several of her students’ mothers saw her on the
bridge and waved. Sally waved back, happy to teach their children
and perhaps, if they were lucky and sharp, school them for
something better than gutting fish.
She walked slowly through Dumfries, nodding to
her friends, stopping to chat with other parents, and smiling at
the students. Released from school only an hour ago, they were
working behind counters and helping their families.
Her days were predictable and unerring. She
thought of John McPherson, breaking free from the deadly cycle of
other McPhersons, who fished a little, ran a few cattle—hopefully
their own—smuggled French brandy, and scratched a meager meal or
two from exhausted soil, as their fathers before them had done. In
spite of family skepticism and a certain amount of disdain from
others, John had set out to seek his fortune at eighteen years old,
far away from his useless kinfolk.
At least he was a man and at liberty to break
away. Here I remain , Sally thought, and not for the first
time. Too bad that ladies cannot
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