She was childishly affectionate.
If M'Kay came in and happened to go up to her and kiss her, her face
brightened into the sweetest and happiest smile. I recollect once
after he had been unusually annoyed with her he repented just as he
was leaving home, and put his lips to her head, holding it in both
his hands. I saw her gently take the hand from her forehead and
press it to her mouth, the tears falling down her cheek meanwhile.
Nothing would ever tempt her to admit anything against her husband.
M'Kay was violent and unjust at times. His occupation he hated, and
his restless repugnance to it frequently discharged itself
indifferently upon everything which came in his way. His children
often thought him almost barbarous, but in truth he did not actually
see them when he was in one of these moods. What was really present
with him, excluding everything else, was the sting of something more
than usually repulsive of which they knew nothing. Mrs. M'Kay's
answer to her children's remonstrances when they were alone with her
always was, "He is so worried," and she invariably dwelt upon their
faults which had given him the opportunity for his wrath.
I think M'Kay's treatment of her wholly wrong.
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