My gentleman began making a very wry face at the pie.
"What an infernal dish!" he cried, pushing away his plate with an
air of great disgust. "These eels taste as if they had been stewed
in oil. Moodie, you should teach your wife to be a better cook."
The hot blood burnt upon Moodie's cheek. I saw indignation blazing
in his eye.
"If you don't like what is prepared for you, sir, you may leave the
table, and my house, if you please. I will put up with your
ungentlemanly and ungrateful conduct to Mrs. Moodie no longer."
Out stalked the offending party. I thought, to be sure, we had got
rid of him; and though he deserved what was said to him, I was sorry
for him. Moodie took his dinner, quietly remarking, "I wonder he
could find it in his heart to leave those fine peas and potatoes."
He then went back to his work in the bush, and I cleared away the
dishes, and churned, for I wanted butter for tea.
About four o'clock Mr. Malcolm entered the room. "Mrs. Moodie,"
said he, in a more cheerful voice than usual, "where's the boss?"
"In the wood, under-bushing." I felt dreadfully afraid that there
would be blows between them.
"I hope, Mr. Malcolm, that you are not going to him with any
intention of a fresh quarrel."
"Don't you think I have been punished enough by losing my dinner?"
said he, with a grin. "I don't think we shall murder one another."
He shouldered his axe, and went whistling away.
After striving for a long while to stifle my foolish fears, I took
the baby in my arms, and little Dunbar by the hand, and ran up to
the bush where Moodie was at work.
At first I only saw my husband, but the strokes of an axe at a
little distance soon guided my eyes to the spot where Malcolm was
working away, as if for dear life. Moodie smiled, and looked at
me significantly.
"How could the fellow stomach what I said to him? Either great
necessity or great meanness must be the cause of his knocking under.
I don't know whether most to pity or despise him."
"Put up with it, dearest, for this once. He is not happy, and must
be greatly distressed."
Malcolm kept aloof, ever and anon casting a furtive glance towards
us; at last little Dunbar ran to him, and held up his arms to be
kissed. The strange man snatched him to his bosom, and covered him
with caresses. It might be love to the child that had quelled his
sullen spirit, or he might really have cherished an affection for us
deeper than his ugly temper would allow him to show.
