This unspoken converging of minds, equivocal though it was on Martin’s part, resulted gradually in a more friendly period. Rose always liked to remember that winter, with its peace that quenched her thirsty heart and helped to blur the recollection of old unkindnesses long since forgiven, but still too vividly recalled. When, a year later, Billy was born, she was swept up to that dizzy crest of rapture which, to finely attuned souls, is the recompense and justification of all their valleys.
Martin watched her deep, almost painful delight, with a profound envy. He had looked forward, with more anticipation than even he himself had realized, to the thrill which he had supposed fatherhood would bring, taking it entirely for granted that he would feel a bond with this small reincarnation of his own being, but after the first week of attempting to get interested in the unresponsive bundle that was his son, he decided the idea of a baby had certainly signified in his mind emotions which this tiny, troublesome creature, with a voice like a small-sized foghorn, did not cause to materialize. No doubt when it grew into a child he would feel very differently toward it—more as he did toward little Rose, but that was a long time to wait, and meanwhile he could not shake off a feeling of acute disappointment, of defeated hopes.
By the end of the second month, he was sure he must have been out of his senses to bring such a nuisance upon himself and into his well-ordered house. Not only was his rest disturbed with trying regularity by night, and his meals served with an equally trying irregularity by day, but he was obliged to deal with an altogether changed wife. For, yielding as Rose was in all other matters, where Billy was concerned she was simply imperturbable. At times, as she held the chubby little fellow to her breast or caught and kissed a waving pink foot, she would feel a sense of physical weakness come over her—it seemed as if her breath would leave her. Martin could be what he might; life, at last, was worth its price. With the courage of her mother-love she could resist anything and everyone.
To her, the relative importance of the farm to Billy was as simple as a problem in addition. She had lost none of her old knack for turning off large amounts of work quickly, but she firmly stopped just short of the point where her milk might be impaired by her exertions. Martin had insisted that the requirement for hired help was over; however, in despair over his wife’s determined sabotage, it was Martin himself who commanded that the girl be reinstated for another two months.
Rose was a methodical mother and not overly fussy. As soon as Billy could sit in a highchair or an ordinary packing box on the floor, she kept him with her while she went about her different tasks, cooing and laughing with him as she worked, but when he needed attention she could disregard calling dishes, chickens, half-churned butter, unfinished ironing, unmilked cows or an irate husband with a placidity that was worthy of the old Greek gods. Martin was dumbfounded to the point of stupefaction. He was too thoroughly self-centred, however, to let other than his own preferences long dominate his Rag-weed’s actions. Her first duty was clearly to administer to his comfort, and that was precisely what she would do. It was ridiculous, the amount of time she gave to that baby—out of all rhyme and reason. If she wasn’t feeding him, she was changing him; if she wasn’t bathing him she was rocking him to sleep. And there, at last, Martin found a tangible point of resistance, for he discovered from Nellie that not only was it not necessary to rock a baby, but that it was contrary to the new ideas currently endorsed. Reinforced, he argued the matter, adding that he could remember distinctly his own mother had never rocked Benny.
“Yes, and Benny died.”
“It wasn’t her fault if he did,” he retorted, a trifle disconcerted.
“I don’t know about that. She took chances I would never take with Billy. She sacrificed him, with her eyes open, for you and Nellie—gave him up so that you could have this farm.”
Martin did not care for this new version. “What has that to do with the question?” he demanded coldly.
“Just this—your mother had her ideas and I have mine. I am going to raise Billy in my own way.” But, for weeks thereafter she managed with an almost miraculous adroitness to have him asleep at meal times.
At seven months, Billy was the most adorable, smiling, cuddly baby imaginable, with dimples, four teeth and a tantalizing hint of curl in his soft, surprisingly thick, fawn-colored hair. Already, it was quite evident that he had his mother’s sensitive, affectionate nature. If only his father had picked him up, occasionally, had talked to him now and then, he scarcely could have resisted the little fellow’s crowing, sweet-tempered, responsive charm, but resentment at the annoyance of his presence was now excessive. For the present, Martin’s only concern in his son consisted in seeing to it that his effacement was as nearly complete as possible.
The long-impending clash came one evening after a sultry, dusty day when Rose, occupied with a large washing in the morning and heavy work in the dairy in the afternoon, realized with compunction that never had she come so near to neglecting her boy. Tired and hot from fretting, he had been slow about going to sleep, and was just dozing off, when Martin came in, worn out and hungry.
“Isn’t supper ready yet?”
“All but frying the sausage,” Rose answered, achieving a pleasant tone in spite of her jadedness. “He’s almost turning the corner—hear his little sleepy song? Sit down and cool off. I’ll have it ready by the time you and the boys are washed.”
Under its thick coat of tan, Martin’s face went white. “I’ve had enough of this,” he announced levelly. “You’ll put him down and fry that meat.”
“Wait just a minute,” she coaxed; “he’ll be off for the night and if you wake him, he’ll cry and get all worked up.”
“You heard what I said.” His tone was vibrant with determination. “How am I going to keep hired men if you treat them like this? When they come in to eat, they want to find their food on the table.”
“This doesn’t often happen any more and they know, good and well, I make it up to them in other ways,” returned Rose truthfully.
For answer, he crossed over to her quickly, reached down and took the baby from her.
“What are you going to do with him?” she demanded, a-tremble with rage and a sense of impotent helplessness, as, avoiding her quick movement, Martin went into the bedroom.
“Let him go to sleep as other children do, while you finish getting supper. Do you want to make a sissy of him?”
“A lot you care what he becomes!” she flashed, conflicting impulses contending for mastery, as Billy, now thoroughly awake and seeing his mother, began to cry, pleading to her with big blue eyes and out-stretched arms to take him. She started forward, but Martin stepped between herself and the crib.
“Martin Wade, let me pass. He’s mine.”
“It isn’t going to hurt him to cry. He does it often enough.”
“If you had a really cross baby around you’d know how good and reasonable Billy is,” she flamed, torn by the little sobs.
“You get out to that kitchen,” he ordered, more openly angry than Rose had ever seen him. “I’ve had enough of this talk, do you hear, and enough of this way of doing. Don’t you set foot in here again till supper’s over. I’ve had quite enough, too, of jumping up and down to wait on myself.”
Confusedly, Rose thought of her countless hours of lost sleep, her even yet unrecovered strength, the enormous readjustment of her own life in her sincere efforts to do her best by the whole household, her joyous acceptance of all the perpetual self-denial her new duties to Billy necessitated. In comparison, the inconveniences to which Martin had been put seemed trifling. The occasional delays, and