Margaret Atwood - Alias Grace

Mr. Walsh — for so I will now call him — proceeded to tell me that he’d thought at that time I was guilty, although he hadn’t wished to think so, as he’d always had a liking for me, which was true enough; but as he’d grown older and had considered the matter, he’d come to be of the opposite persuasion, and had been overcome with guilt for the part he’d played in my conviction; though he was only a young lad at the time, and no match for the lawyers, who’d led him into saying things he did not see the results of until afterwards. And I was consoling to him, and said it was the sort of thing that could happen to anyone.

After Mr. Kinnear’s death, he and his father were forced to leave the property, as the new owners had no use for them; and he took a position in Toronto, which he obtained due to his having made such a good impression as a bright and up-and-coming lad, at the trial, which was what they wrote about him in the newspapers. So you might say he’d got his start in life on account of me. And he saved up his money for several years, and then went to the States, as he was of the opinion that there was more opportunity for becoming a self-made man down there — you were what you had, not what you’d come from, and few questions asked. He worked on the railroads and also out West, saving all the while, and now owned his own farm and two horses all complete. He took care to mention the horses early on, as he knew how fond I once was of Charley.

He had married, but was now a widower, with no children; and he’d never ceased to be tormented by what had become of me through him, and had written several times to the Penitentiary to see how I was getting on; but he did not write direct to me, as he did not wish to upset me. And it was in this way that he heard of my Pardon, and arranged matters with the Warden.

The upshot was that he begged me to forgive him, which I did readily. I did not feel I could hold a grudge, and told him I would no doubt have been put in prison anyway, even if he hadn’t mentioned Nancy‘s dresses. And when we had gone through all of that, he pressing my hand the whole time, he asked me to marry him. He said that although not a millionaire he could certainly offer me a good home, with all that might be required, as he had some money put by in the bank. I made a show of hanging back, though the reality of it was that I did not have many other choices, and it would have been most ungrateful of me to have said no, as so much trouble had been taken. I said I did not want him to marry me out of mere duty and guiltiness, and he denied that such were his motives, and claimed that he’d always had very warm feelings towards me, and that I’d scarcely changed at all from the way I was as a young woman — I was still a fine looker, was how he put it. And I remembered the daisies in Mr. Kinnear’s orchard with the stumps, and I knew he did think that. The hardest thing for me was viewing him as a full-grown man, as I’d known him only as the gawky lad who’d played the flute the night before Nancy died, and was sitting on the fence the very first day I came to Mr. Kinnear’s.

Finally I said yes. He had the ring all ready, in a box in his vest pocket, and he was so overcome with emotion that he dropped it twice onto the tablecloth before putting it on my finger; for which I had to remove my glove.

Matters for the wedding were arranged as quickly as possible, and we remained at the hotel meanwhile, with hot water brought to the room every morning, and Janet stayed with me as being more proper. All was paid by Mr. Walsh. And we had a simple ceremony with a Justice of the Peace, and I remembered Aunt Pauline saying so many years before that I would no doubt marry beneath me, and wondered what she would think now; and Janet stood bridesmaid, and cried.

Mr. Walsh’s beard was very large and red, but I assured myself that it could be altered in time.

Chapter 53

It is almost thirty years to the day, since when not yet sixteen years of age, I first went up the long driveway to Mr. Kinnear’s. It was June then, as well. Now I am sitting on my own verandah in my own rocking chair; it is late afternoon, and the scene before me is so peaceful you would think it was a picture. The roses at the front of the house are in bloom — Lady Hamiltons they are and very fine, although subject to aphids. The best thing, they say, is to dust them with arsenic, but I do not like to have such a thing about the house.

The last of the peonies are flowering, a pink and white variety and very full of petals. I don’t know the name, as I did not plant them; their scent reminds me of the soap that Mr. Kinnear used for shaving. The front of our house faces southwest and the sunlight is warm and golden, although I do not sit right in it, as it is bad for the complexion. On such days I think, This is like Heaven. Although Heaven was not a place I ever used to think of myself as going.

I have been married to Mr. Walsh for almost a year now, and although it is not what most girls imagine when young, that is perhaps for the better, as at least the two of us know what sort of a bargain we have got into. When people marry young they often change as they grow older, but as the two of us have already grown older there will not be as much disappointment in store. An older man has a character already formed and is not as likely to take to drink or other vices, because if he was going to do such a thing he would have done it by now; or that is my opinion, and I hope that time will prove me right. I have prevailed on Mr. Walsh to trim his beard somewhat and to indulge his pipe smoking only out of doors, and in time perhaps both of these things, the beard and the pipe too, will disappear altogether, but it’s never a good idea to nag and push a man, as it only makes them the more obstinate. Mr. Walsh does not chew tobacco and spit, as some do, and as always I am thankful for small mercies. Our house is an ordinary farmhouse, white in colour, and with shutters painted green, but commodious enough for us. It has a front hall with a row of hooks for the coats in winter, although mostly we use the kitchen door, and a staircase with a plain bannister. At the head of the stairs is a cedar chest for the storage of quilts and blankets. There are four upstairs rooms — a little one intended for a nursery, then the main bedchamber and another in case of guests, although we neither expect nor wish for any; and a fourth, which is empty at present. The two furnished bedchambers each have a washstand, and each has an oval braided rug, as I don’t want heavy carpets; they are too difficult to drag down the stairs and beat in spring, which would be worse as I get older.

There is a cross-stitch picture over each bed which I did myself, flowers in a vase in the best room and fruit in a bowl in ours. The quilt in the best room is a Wheel of Mystery, the one in ours a Log Cabin; I bought them at a sale, from people who’d failed and were moving West; but I felt sorry for the woman, and so paid more than I should. There have been a great many things to be seen to, in order to make everything cosy, since Mr. Walsh had developed bachelor’s habits after the death of his first wife, and some things had become none too savoury. I had a large array of cobwebs and hanks of slut’s wool to sweep out from under the beds, and also a fair deal of scrubbing and scouring to do. The summer curtains in both bedchambers are white. I like a white curtain myself. Downstairs we have a front parlour with a stove, and a kitchen with pantry and scullery all complete, and the pump inside the house, which is a great advantage in winter. There is a dining room, but we don’t have that sort of company very often. For the most part we eat at the kitchen table; we have two kerosene lamps, and it is very snug there. I use the dining-room table for sewing, which is especially handy when cutting out the patterns. I have a Sewing Machine now, which is worked by a handwheel and is just like magic, and I am certainly glad to have it as it saves a great deal of labour, especially for the plain sewing such as the making of curtains and the hemming of sheets. I still prefer to do the finer sewing by hand, although my eyes are not what they used to be.