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Updated: May 6, 2025
The matter of McGregor's attitude toward women and the call of sex was not of course settled by the fight in the house in Lake Street. He was a man who, even in the days of his great crudeness, appealed strongly to the mating instinct in women and more than once his purpose was to be shaken and his mind disturbed by the forms, the faces and the eyes of women.
In an open space in the shadow of a building young men played baseball, the shouts of the spectators rising above the murmur of the voices of people on the gravel walk. A thought came into McGregor's mind that he wanted to discuss with the older man. He was moved by the sight of women about and shook himself like one awakening from a dream.
"Come awa', man," it was Ronald McGregor's trembling voice from among the elders "come awa'; it's the wounded hand that beckons ye we're a' here o' the Saviour's grace alane." Michael Blake moved slightly, but his head was lower bowed. "Gang forrit, Michael, gang forrit to the table He's been gey guid to us baith an' oor Angus wants ye," whispered the woman beside him.
McGregor's gave her the chance she desired. "Yes," said the doctor, "I'll come to-day. One of the maids? Well, what else, Leila?" seeing that she still lingered. "I want to know something about all this tangle of politics. There's Breckinridge, Douglas, Bell and Lincoln four candidates. Uncle Jim gets almost cross when I ask him what they all stand for. Mr.
"Well," she went on, without noticing my correction, "at any rate, papa and the President are both very much vexed with him; so I offered to make my ride in his direction." "Where can he be?" I asked again. "Well," she replied, "I believe he's at Colonel McGregor's, and after lunch I shall go over there. I know he dined there on Monday, and I dare say he stayed on."
There it blew a good deal and rained in a proportion; my native air was more unkind than man's ingratitude, and I must consent to pass a good deal of my time between four walls in a house lugubriously known as the Late Miss McGregor's Cottage. And now admire the finger of predestination.
The thickest pall was blown against the right of our line between McGregor's company and the left of the 8th Battalion, where there was an open space protected only by a small trench and barbed wire. Of those on our right hardly a man was left to tell the tale. All those who stuck to the trench and did not use wet bandoliers or handkerchiefs died.
The hand of the woman who had beckoned to him from the window fumbled in McGregor's pockets and came out clutching a little roll of money. Her face, set now and ugly like the man's, looked up at him from under the arms of her ally. In a moment McGregor's heart stopped pounding and the dry unpleasant taste went out of his mouth. He felt relieved and glad at this sudden turn to the affair.
He thought that his point was made and was satisfied to let the imagination of his daughter do the rest. They turned off the boulevard and passed through a street of small stores. Before a saloon a troop of street urchins led by a drunken man without a hat gave a grotesque imitation of McGregor's Marchers before a crowd of laughing idlers.
She yielded by degrees and not without resistance to mere physical weakness, and under the emotional stress of war, and above all the absence of the man on whom she depended, had lapsed to McGregor's dismay into a state of mind and body for which he had no remedy.
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