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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..27f3125 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #53522 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53522) diff --git a/old/53522-8.txt b/old/53522-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c6cc16e..0000000 --- a/old/53522-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7180 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ann and her Mother, by O. Douglas - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Ann and her Mother - -Author: O. Douglas - -Release Date: November 13, 2016 [EBook #53522] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANN AND HER MOTHER *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines - - - - - - - - - ANN - AND HER MOTHER - - - BY - - O. DOUGLAS - - AUTHOR OF "THE SETONS," "PENNY PLAIN," ETC. - - - - NEW YORK - GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1922, - BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY - - - - ANN AND HER MOTHER. I - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - - To - ISOBEL CUNNINGHAM - - "To whatsoever things are fair - We know, through you, the road; - Nor is our grief the less thereby; - O swift and strong and dear, Good-bye." - - - - -"In this age of opulence and refinement whom can such a character -please? Such as are fond of high life will turn in disdain from the -simplicity of a country fireside. Such as mistake ribaldry for humour -will find no wit in this harmless conversation: and such as have been -taught to deride religion will laugh at one whose chief stores of -comfort are drawn from futurity." - -OLIVER GOLDSMITH. - - - - -ANN AND HER MOTHER - - -CHAPTER I - -Mrs. Douglas and her daughter Ann sat together in their living-room one -November night. - -It was a wonderfully comfortable room, brightly yet softly lit, and -warmed by a noble fire. There was a pleasant space and emptiness about -it, an absence of ornaments and irrelevant photographs; each piece of -furniture, each of the few pictures, was of value. - -Mrs. Douglas had a book in her lap and in her hand a half-finished -stocking, for she considered that she was wasting time if she did not -knit while reading. - -Ann sat on a stool by the fire, poring over a seedsman's catalogue, a -puzzled frown on her brow. - -"I wish," she said, without looking up, "I do wish I knew more about -gardening. I can't make out from this what will grow best with us.... -Don't you think, Mother, it is almost _lèse-majesté_ to call a rose -Queen Mary, and describe it as 'a gross feeder? Oh, and this! _Mr. -Asquith_, 'very compact in form, rosy in colour.' What humourists the -compilers of seedsmen's catalogues are! And what poets! Where was it -we read that article about catalogues? It said that the very names -were like a procession of princes--'amber and carmine Queens, and -Princes' Feathers, and Cloth of Gold.' The names tempt one simply by -the glory of the sound. 'Love-in-a-Mist ... Love-Fire, a rich cream -with a faint suggestion of apricot primrose in petal'--and with a drop -one learns that this beauty can be bought for the sum of tuppence! ... -Delphiniums we must have--dozens of them. I can picture us next summer -lying on the lawn in deck-chairs on hot, sunny days, looking between -tall, blue delphiniums to green hilltops. Won't it be lovely, Mother?" - -"H'm," said her mother in a dry voice, "at present you have only the -hilltops. I haven't imagination enough to picture the hot sun and the -lawn and the blue delphiniums." - -"_Mother!_" said Ann, wheeling round on her stool and facing her -parent, who was knitting with provoking calm, "there's nothing sporting -about you at all. It always rains in November, but that's nobody's -fault, and you might at least try to look as if you didn't mind. -Nobody ever said a glen was a cheery place in winter, but, myself, I -like it frightfully. When Uncle Bob left me the Green Glen for my very -own I determined that somehow or other I would manage to build a house -in it--a little white-faced house among the heather. Not big, but big -enough to hold us all--six good bedrooms, one big living-room, a hall -we could sit in, a smaller room to feed in. You all made -objections--all except Charlotte, who encouraged me. You pointed out -all the disadvantages: six miles from a station, a steep hill road, -carting difficult! You told me that building in these days was only -the pastime of a millionaire, but--the house is built and, because the -architect was a man of sense and listened to what I wanted, it is -exactly the house I meant it to be in my dreams, so 'Dreams' it will be -called." - -"I thought you hated new houses?" - -"So I do, except when it is my own house in my own Green Glen. And you -will admit that it is comfortable." - -"It's very bare," Mrs. Douglas said. - -"Well, I like it bare. And your own room is far from bare. It is more -like a museum than anything else, with so many mementoes of other days -hung on the walls, and photographs of us all at every age and in every -attitude, and shelves and shelves of devotional books, not to speak of -all the little stucco figures you have cherished for years. Their -heads have been gummed on so often they fall off if you look at them. -Davie was always being entreated by you to mend them, and he found, -finally, that Moses' head (or was it Eli?) would only remain on if -turned the wrong way about--so his beard was down his back! ... To -return to 'Dreams,' I admit the garden is still unmade, and the road a -mere track, but wait and you will see it blossom like the rose. We -shan't have any fences--there is no need for them among the hills, and -the heather will grow to the edges of our shaven lawns, and we'll have -herbaceous borders as gay as a carnation ribbon, and beds of -mignonette..." - -Mrs. Douglas laid down her stocking and looked at her daughter. "No -fences? And rabbits nibbling the mignonette--it's a thing they have a -particular fancy for; and sheep eating the vegetables..." - -"Go on with your stocking, Motherkin, and don't try to be crushing. -We'll have fences then, and wire to keep out the rabbits, and we'll -cover the fences with rambler roses--the bright red single kind; I -don't like Dorothy Perkins. And there's simply no end to what we can -do with the burn; it would make any garden fairyland, with those -shining brown pools fringed with heather. _What_ luck to have a burn! -Before the house we are going to have a paved bit, so that you can go -out and take the air without getting your feet wet. There will be no -'gravel sweep,' and no one will be able to come to our door except on -their own feet, for the road will stop a long way from the house." - -Ann clasped her hands round her knees, and rocked herself in joyful -anticipation. - -"I remember," she went on, "hearing as a child some one praise a -neighbourhood with the phrase, 'It is full of carriage people.' I -wondered at the time what kind of people they were, and if they perhaps -had their abode in a carriage, like a snail in its shell! When 'motor -people' come to Dreams they will have to leave their motors and walk. -We shall say to them, like True Thomas, 'Light down, light down from -your horse o' pride.' ... But, Mother, is this really going to bore -you terribly? Do you miss so badly the giddy round of Priorsford? The -pavements? The shops? The tea-parties?" - -Mrs. Douglas gave a long sigh. "I don't want to grumble, but, you -know, I always did say it was rash to attempt to stay a winter in the -Green Glen. It's well enough in the summer (though even then I would -prefer to be nearer civilisation), and fine for the children, but in -November, with the fields like sponges, and the road a mere Slough of -Despond, and the hills covered with mist most of the time, and the wind -coming down the glen howling like an evil spirit, and the station six -miles away, and only a pony trap between us and complete burial; Mark -and Charlotte in India, and Jim in South Africa, and the children in -Oxfordshire with their other grandmother, I feel like a pelican in the -wilderness. I told you I would, and I do." - -"Poor dear, but..." - -"Through the day it isn't so bad. I admit the mornings are rather -beautiful, and when it happens to be fine I can potter about outside, -and Marget is always a divert. In the afternoon when it rains (and it -has rained practically every day for three weeks) I sew and write -letters and read, and there is always tea to look forward to. But in -the evenings--and the curtains have to be drawn now about four -o'clock--when there is no chance of a ring at the bell, no postman, no -telephone-call, no stray callers, and the owls hoot, and my eyes get -tired with reading, and one can't knit for ever even with four wild -grandchildren to knit for, well----" - -"But, my dear," said her daughter, "just think how you will appreciate -Priorsford when you get back. We are very much alone just now--it was -an odd chance that sent Mark and Charlotte to India and Jim to South -Africa the same winter--but don't let's have to remember it as the -winter of our discontent.... We must face facts. Neighbours we have -almost none. Mr. Sharp, at the Manse, is practically the only one, and -he is so shy that speaking to him is like trying to carry on a -conversation with a very young rabbit in a trap. The Scotts aren't so -very far away as the crow flies, only over the other side of the hill, -but it is five miles round by the road. It's an unpeopled world, but -the great thing to remember is that any moment you please you can have -a case packed, order the pony trap, drive to the station, buy a ticket, -and in about two hours you would be in Glasgow, in the Central Station -Hotel, among all the city gentlemen, feasting your eyes on people, -forgetting the owls in listening to the Glasgow accent, eating large -meals, frequenting picture houses...." - -Mrs. Douglas dropped both her book and stocking in her indignation. - -"Ann, you know I _never_ enter a picture house, and I haven't the least -desire to go to Glasgow in the meantime." - -"I tell you what," Ann cried, "go in for a course of reading and -improve your mind. It's an opportunity that may not occur again." - -"I'm too old to improve my mind; besides, it isn't very nice of you to -suggest that it needs improving." - -Ann studied her mother with her head on one side. "You're sixty, -aren't you? Sixty's nothing. The late Mr. Gladstone learned Arabic -when he was eighty. Besides, you are the most absurd person for sixty -I ever saw. Your hair is as soft and brown as it was when you were -thirty, and you have a complexion that is the envy of less fortunate -women. And the odd thing is, I believe you hate to be told so. I -believe you want to look old." - -"Last summer," said Mrs. Douglas, "I overheard Rory say to Alison, -'Alis, Gran is nearly sixty; I heard her say so,' and Alis, with a -depth of pity in her voice, replied, 'Oh, poor Gran!' But when I think -I'm only sixty I feel like pitying myself. In the _Times_ last night -there were six people among the 'Deaths' who were over ninety. It -frightens me to think that I may live to a great age, and, perhaps, see -you all go before me--and I get so wearied sometimes for your father -and the boys...." - -Ann laid her hand on her mother's. "I know," she said, "I know. But, -Mother, are those who are gone so much more dear to you than we who are -left? As Pharaoh said to Hadad: 'What hast thou lacked with us, that, -behold, thou seekest to go to thine own country?'" - -"Ah, my dear, _nothing_, but..." - -"The old answer," said Ann. "Nothing, nothing--'howbeit let me go in -any wise.' ... Well, we have wandered from our subject. What do you -say, Mums, to reading Robert Louis right through? We have the -Edinburgh edition here. He will teach you to love the moorlands." - -Mrs. Douglas recoiled in horror from the suggestion. - -"Oh no! No. No. The very name of R.L.S. makes me think of the -eternal crying of whaups, and we are fairly beset with the creatures -here. Really to appreciate Robert Louis you must read him immersed in -a town with no hope of a holiday, or on the burning, shining plains of -India, or on the South African veldt. To read there of 'a great, rooty -sweetness of bogs' and 'the infinite, melancholy piping of hill-birds,' -and 'winds austere and pure' is like water in a thirsty land. But when -one is seated in the bogs, and deaved by the hill-birds it's only an -irritation. I'd rather read Ethel M. Dell, and warm myself with the -thought of heroes whose eyes are like slumbering volcanoes, and -heroines who generally manage to get a flogging from some one before -they win through to happiness." - -Ann laughed. "It's quite true. Here we must read books hot with life, -full of intrigues and sensational developments. We have all the -simplicity we want in the Green Glen." - -Her mother sighed. "I'm not really discontented, Ann, though I'm -afraid I sound so. But I seem to lead such a useless life here. A few -letters to sick and sad people is all I accomplish. If there were some -people about the doors whom I could visit and, perhaps, help a little. -Once a minister's wife always a minister's wife. I can't get out of -the habit of trying to help. But there's only old Geordie's cottage, -and he hasn't even a wife, and he wouldn't thank me for a visit." - -"No," laughed Ann. "He is very proud of being able to fend for -himself, and hopes to die without being beholden to any woman. He was -telling me a sad tale the other day about an old friend of his who -lived alone until he was eighty, and then fell ill and had to have the -district nurse, who insisted on his remaining in bed. 'To think,' said -Geordie, 'that a man should live to be aichty and be overpowered by a -wumman in the end.' But I can quite see that the lack of people to -comfort and help is a great lack to you--born minister's wife that you -are." - -"Ah, well, I made many mistakes, but my heart was in my job. It was a -real pleasure to me to know every soul in the church, and to listen to -all they cared to tell me of their trials and their troubles, and to be -asked to share in their merrymakings; to have the right to laugh and -cry with them. The wives used to say when your father intimated -visiting, 'I wish the mistress wad come wi' the minister, she's a -graund cracker.' Your father was sometimes ill-off knowing what to -talk about in the different houses; he wasn't one of those glib men -with a fund of easy phrases, but when they got to know him they liked -him the better for his quietness, and valued his few words more than -other people's eloquence. How he would have enjoyed this, Ann! He -loved the Green Glen, and the burn, and the whaups crying." - -There was a silence, and Mrs. Douglas sat looking into the fire. She -was far away from the little house among the hills. She was young -again, and the husband of her youth was once more at her side. -Pictures, softened and beautified by time, unrolled themselves before -her eyes. Children played in a garden among flowers, their laughter -and shouting came to her ears, she could see their faces lifted to -hers; but no beckoning could bring them to her, for long ago they had -grown up and gone away; they were but dream children who played in that -garden. - -Ann watched her mother with a soft look in her grey eyes. "I've been -thinking, Mums, you ought to write your _Life_." - -Mrs. Douglas came back to the present with an effort. "Write my life? -But I did--don't you remember? On that yachting cruise we went, when -the sea never stayed calm except for a few hours. There was nothing -much to do, so I wrote my life in a twopenny pass-book, with a pencil, -and none of you were at all encouraging about it. I read it aloud to -you somewhere about the Azores, when you were lying seasick in your -berth, and you said it made you feel worse; and Charlotte cried from -the next cabin, 'Ann, what is wrong with Gran that she is making that -curious, whining sound?' and Mark printed on the cover, 'The Life of -auld Mistress Douglas written by herself,' and then it got lost." - -"I remember," said Ann. "But this time it must be done properly. -You'll tell it to me and I'll write it down, and we'll have it typed -and perhaps printed, so that the children when they grow up will know -what a queer little grandmother was theirs. Let me see--we'll be here -alone until the Moncrieffs come about the middle of December; that will -give us a month to work at it. Two hours every night, perhaps more. -Does that please you, Motherkin?" - -"Ann, you are trying to humour an old woman. I don't suppose the -children would ever trouble to read my _Life_, except perhaps -Alison--that child has a strong sense of duty; but I must say I would -enjoy remembering it all.... Here are Marget and Mysie." - -The two servants came into the room accompanied by a large Persian cat, -grey, the colour of a November sky. This beautiful creature had been -named by Ann the "Tatler," because his genius for falling into -photographic attitudes reminded her, she said, of those ladies, fair -and fashionable, whose pictures adorn the weekly pages of that popular -journal. - -Marget seated herself majestically. She was a tall woman, with a -broad, honest face, and hair pulled straight back and covered by a -cap--not the flippant scrap of muslin with a bow generally worn, but an -erection of coffee-coloured lace, with touches of crimson velvet, which -she alluded to as a "kep," and which gave her almost a regal air. - -Marget had been thirty-five years with the Douglas family, and was so -thoroughly a Douglas that there was never any thought of keeping her in -her "place." Mysie, who was her niece, she kept under iron control, -but she allowed herself much latitude. No one knew Marget's age. It -was a subject on which she had always been excessively touchy. When -the Census came round she had said, "I'll no' pit it doon till a' the -bairns are oot, an' naebody but the maister'll ken, an' he'll no' tell." - -She met all questions with "I'm as auld as ma little finger an' I'm -aulder than ma teeth." In revenge the Douglases had intimated to their -friends that they had inside knowledge that Marget was at least eighty. - -After prayers Mysie left the room, but Marget generally remained for a -"crack," delighting to bandy words with "Miss Ann"--a diversion which -to-night ended in Ann being called "a daft lassie." - -"_Lassie!_" cried Ann. - -"Ye'll aye be a lassie to me," Marget told her; "but," turning to her -mistress, "is it true, Mem, that she's gaun to write yer _Life_? I -never ken when Miss Ann's speakin' the truth and when she's juist -haverin'.... It wad be rale interestin'. Ye wad need to pit in aboot -thon daft man wha cam' to see the maister and the pollis efter him, an' -that awfu' fricht we got wi' the big fire in the linoleum factory, and -aboot the man wha drooned hissel in the Panny Pond and floatit...." - -"Yes, Marget," said Ann, "we'll need your help to decide what is to be -put in. One thing, of course, must go in--your age." - -Marget rose from her chair with a we-are-not-amused look, put the -Bibles back in their proper places, dropped her delightful, -old-fashioned curtsey, walked to the door, and said before she closed -it behind her: - -"Ye wadna daur. An', what's mair, ye _dinna ken it_." - - - - -CHAPTER II - -Two nights later, when the stars had come out to look down at the Green -Glen and the curtains were drawn in Dreams, Ann sat down before a small -table on which lay a pile of paper and a fountain-pen, and told her -mother that she was now ready to write her _Life_. - -"But how do you begin a _Life_?" Mrs. Douglas asked. She was sitting -in her favourite low chair, doing what she called her "reading." -Beside her was a pile of devotional books, from each of which she read -the portion for the day. Nothing would make her miss this ceremony, -and she carted the whole pile about with her wherever she went. - -"Shall I give you the date of my birth and say that I was the child of -poor but honest parents? I seem to remember that beginning." - -"No," Ann decided, "we'll leave dates alone; they are 'chiels that -winna ding.' The point is, what style would you like me to write it -in? We might begin like _The Arabian Nights_--'It is related (but God -alone is all-knowing, as well as all-wise and all-mighty and -all-bountiful) that there was in ancient times a fair virgin, -Helen....' But I think, perhaps, your history is too tame and domestic -for such a highly coloured style." - -"I should think so, indeed," said her mother, as she laid down _Hours -of Silence_ and took up _Come ye Apart_. - -"What about the Russian touch?" Ann asked, waving her pen. "Like this: -'She turned upon her pillow, tearing at its satin cover with her nails, -then, taking a spoonful of bromide, she continued----'" - -"Oh, Ann--don't be ridiculous!" - -"Or shall I dispense entirely with commas, inverted and otherwise, and -begin without a beginning at all, as the very best people do? It does -make Aunt Agatha so angry, that sort of book, where no explanations are -offered, and you suddenly find yourself floundering among a lot of -Christian names. Anyway, it's much too clever for me to attempt! I'm -afraid we must confine ourselves to a plain narrative, with no -thoughts, only incidents. I think I'll begin: 'In my youth I wasna -what you would ca' bonnie, but I was pale, penetratin', and -interestin'.' How is that?" - -Mrs. Douglas shook her head. She had reached _From Day to Day_, and -would soon be at the apex of the pile, _Golden Grain_. "If you are -going to describe my appearance you might at least be accurate." - -"Well," said her daughter, "I only know you from a very old photograph -as a moon-faced child with tight curls, and then, later, with two -babies and a _cap_! What were you really like?" - -Mrs. Douglas sat very upright, with a becoming pink flush on her face -and a little smile at the corners of her mouth. "I can see myself the -day I met your father for the first time. I had on my first silk -dress--royal blue it was--and a locket with a black velvet ribbon round -my neck, and my hair most elaborately done in what was called a 'mane,' -some rolled up on the top, some hanging down. My hair was my best -point. It was thick and wavy, and as yellow as corn. Your father -always said he fell in love with the back of my head. Who would -believe it who saw me now?" - -"'Faigs, ye're no' bad,' as Marget would say," Ann comforted her. "As -one gets older looks are chiefly a matter of dress. When you take -pains with your clothes no woman of your age looks better; but when you -wander out in a rather seedy black dress, with a dejected face under a -hat that has seen better days, you can't wonder at what my friend Mrs. -Bell said after meeting you one wet day: 'Eh, puir auld buddy; she's an -awfu' worrit-lookin' wumman; it fair makes me no' weel to look at her!'" - -"Yes, Ann, but you shouldn't have laughed. I don't like that Mrs. -Bell. She's a forward woman, and you spoil her." - -"Oh, I told her you weren't really old, but those women are so -surprisingly young. They have grown-up families and hordes of -grandchildren, and you think they are at least seventy and they turn -out to be fifty. Of course, it was rather disrespectful of her to call -you 'puir auld buddy,' but the 'awfu' worrit-lookin'' was such an exact -description of you doing good works on a wet day in your old clothes -that I had to laugh. But we're not getting on." - -"It's absurd to talk of writing my life," Mrs. Douglas said. "There is -nothing worth telling about. I asked Alison last summer what she was -going to be, and she tossed back that yellow mane of hers, and said -earnestly, 'Well, Gran, I did think of being a poet, but I've decided -just to be an ordinary woman with a baby.' That's all I ever was. An -ordinary woman with several babies and a man and a kirk to look -after--a big handful for any woman. I'd better begin where, for me, -the world first began, at Etterick. You remember the old house, don't -you, with its white-washed walls and high pointed roof, standing at the -end of the village? When I think of it it always seems to be summer; -the shadow of the house falling black across the white road, a baker's -van standing in the village, and one of the wives holding out her white -apron for loaves, a hen clucking sleepily, the hum of the bees among -the flowers in the old garden, the _clink-clink_ from the smiddy at the -burnside, my mother in a thin blue dress standing in the doorway with a -basket on her arm--the peace of a summer afternoon! And the smell of -it! New-mown grass drying in the sun, indescribable sweet scents from -the flower-thick roadsides, the smiddy smell of hot iron sizzling on -big hoofs, wafts from the roses in the garden--those most fragrant, -red, loose-petalled roses that now I never see. Inside the house was -cool and dark, with drawn blinds. D'you remember the parlour? I can -tell you where every bit of furniture in it stood. The bureau behind -the door, and along the wall the old, wide sofa. I've often told you -about the upholsterer from Priorsford, who came to prescribe for it -when its springs began to subside? He had a lisp, and after the -examination was finished he said simply and finally, 'The thofo's -done.' How we laughed over that, and the 'thofo' held on for another -twenty years, never getting much worse. Yes, the piano came next to -the sofa, and then the wide window with all the little panes. The -tea-table stood there in summer, and one could see all who passed by. -'The day the chaise and pair gaed through Caddonfoot' was a saying in -the countryside, but Etterick boasted carts and carriages in some -profusion. I wonder if my mother's teas were really better than anyone -else's? The cream so thick that it had to be helped out of the jug -with a spoon! And the 'thin' scones coated with fresh-churned butter! -My dear Robbie revelled in them. He wrote from India, you remember, -that when camping they ran short of bread, and the cook said he would -bake some _chupattis_. 'And,' wrote Robbie, 'by the grace of God the -_chupattis_ turned out to be my grandmother's "thin" scones!'" - -"I remember," said Ann. "He introduced me to them when I went out. -Wasn't the house at Etterick an inn once?" - -"Yes, and all the rooms had numbers painted on the doors. No. 8 was -your nursery when we used to spend the summer there. And the playroom -was called 'Jenny Berry'--why, I don't know; the reason for the name is -lost in the mists of antiquity. It was the first place you all rushed -to the moment you arrived, in a fever to see if your treasures were -safe, and you always found them just as you left them. My mother was a -very understanding woman with children. She wasn't, perhaps, a very -tender grandmother as grandmothers go now, and you children held her in -some awe; but you valued her good opinions, and you knew her to be -absolutely just. She seldom praised, but, on the other hand, she never -damped your enthusiasms. 'Never daunton young folk' was one of her -favourite sayings. Yes. I'm afraid she was somewhat intolerant, poor -dear. She had a great contempt for the gossiping, crocheting, -hen-headed female that abounded in her day. 'A frivolous woman,' she -would say after a visit from such a one, 'fit for nothing but fancy -work and novelettes.' Good looks appealed to her enormously, and she -was glad all you children had what she called 'china' faces; swarthy -people she could not abide. We took Mrs. Alston to see her when she -was staying with us one summer at Caddonfoot--dear Mrs. Alston, with -her dun skin and projecting teeth and her heart of gold! Your -grandmother was the frailest little body then, only her indomitable -spirit kept her going, and Mrs. Alston fussed over her and deferred to -her in the kindest way. But the blandishments were all to no purpose; -she looked coldly at the visitor, and afterwards, when I told her what -a fine woman Mrs. Alston was, and what fine work she had done in the -mission-field, all the answer I got was, 'Oh, I dare say, but I never -took my tea with a worse-looking woman.'" - -"I remember that," said Ann. "I remember how Father shouted when you -told him. Granny was often very amusing, but what I remember most -about her was her sense of comfort." - -"Yes, if I've any notion how to make a house comfortable I got it from -my mother. She was great in preparing for people. If we had only gone -to Priorsford for the day she made of our return a sort of festival. -Out on the doorstep to meet us, fires blazing, tea ready, and such a -budget to tell us of the small events of the day. Some women are so -casual with their children, they don't _thirl_ them to themselves. -They let them go and come, and seem to take very little interest in -their comings and their goings, don't even trouble to be in the house -when the boys come home for the holidays; suppose vaguely that this one -or that one will be home to-day or to-morrow, never think of preparing -a welcome. And then they wonder that their children have no love for -their home; that when they go out into the world, they don't trouble to -write except at infrequent intervals; that sometimes their lives drift -so far apart that they cannot hear each other speak." - -"Mother," said Ann, "you speak wisely, but how much of this is to go -down in your _Life_? At present I have only got that you had yellow -hair and a royal blue silk dress and a locket. Oughtn't I to say -something about your childhood and what influenced you and all that -sort of thing? Do try to remember some thoughts you had; you know the -sort of thing these 'strong' novels are full of--your feelings when you -found they had drowned your kitten--and weren't you ever misunderstood -and driven to weep floods of tears in secret?" - -Mrs. Douglas shook her head. "No, I never was clever enough to think -the things children think in modern novels. And I don't remember being -misunderstood, except that I was always considered rather a forward -child when really I suffered much from shyness. One morning, with a -great effort, I managed to say to old Sibbald, It's a fine morning,' as -I passed him. 'What are ye sayin' noo wi' yer impertinence?' was his -most uncalled-for response. I think my childhood was too happy to have -any history. One of a big family, with freedom to roam, and pets in -abundance, I never had a dull minute. And Etterick was a very -interesting village, full of characters." - -"Wasn't there somebody called 'Granny' you used to tell us stories -about?" - -"My mother's nurse. She died before you were born. The very wee-est -woman that ever was--I used to pick her up and carry her about--and so -bonnie, with a white-goffered mutch framing her face. We all loved -that little old woman. She lived in a tiny house at the top of the -village with Tam, her husband; all her family were up and married and -away. 'Granny' was our refuge in every kind of storm--indeed, she was -everybody's refuge. And she had a great heart in her little body. It -was told of her that when her eldest boy ran away to Edinburgh and -enlisted, she made a pot of broth and baked a baking of scones for the -children left at home, strapped the baby on her back, walked into -Edinburgh, bought the boy off, and walked back again--fifty-six miles -in all! We have almost lost the use of our legs in these days of -trains and motors. She never asked anything from anybody. I can -remember her face when some well-meaning person offered her charity. -'Na, na, thank ye kindly. I may be sodger-clad, but I'm major-minded.' -And there was old Peggy Leithen, who gave a ha'penny to every beggar -that came to the door, murmuring as she did so, 'Charity covereth a -multitude of sins,' and graphically described her conversion: 'I juist -got the blessin' when ma knee was on the edge o' the bed steppin' in -ahint Geordie.' And there was Jock Look-Up--but I could go on for -hours. I think I was thirteen when I went to a boarding-school. I -enjoyed that, too--all except the getting up to practise on winter -mornings. I can feel now the chill of the notes on my numb fingers. I -was going back to school for another year when I met your father and -got married instead." - -"Seventeen, weren't you?" - -"Seventeen, and childish at that. I never had my hair up till my -marriage day. Your father was twenty-six." - -"Babes!" said Ann. - -"It's odd how things come about," said Mrs. Douglas, as she put the -last of the text-books on the pile, and took off the large, round-eyed -tortoise-shell spectacles that she wore when doing her "reading." "Dr. -Watts, our own minister, was ordered to the South of France for the -winter, and your father, who had just finished with college, came to -take his place. We were used to fine ministers in Etterick. Dr. Watts -was a saint and a scholar, and the parish minister was one of God's -most faithful servants--both were men of dignity and power. But your -father was so young and ardent; he went through the district like a -flame. He held meetings in lonely glens where no meeting had ever been -held before. He kindled zeal in quiet people who had been content to -let things go on as they had always gone; it was a wonderful six -months. Your Aunt Agatha, who, being older, had left school before I -did, wrote to tell me of this extraordinary young man; indeed, her -letters were so full of him that I made up my mind to dislike him at -sight. And after I did meet him I pretended to myself and to Agatha -that I thought him a very tiresome young man. I mimicked the way he -sang hymns and his boyish, off-hand manner, so unlike Dr. Watts' grave, -aloof ways. I wish I had words, Ann, to give you some idea of the man -your father was in his youth. As he grew older he grew not less -earnest, but more tolerant--mellower, perhaps, is the word. As a young -man he was like a sword-blade, pure and keen. And yet he was such a -boy with it all, or I never would have dared to marry him. I had -absolutely no training for a minister's wife, but I went into it quite -blithely. Now, looking back, I wonder at myself. At the time I was -like the little boy marching bravely into a dark room, his bigger -brother explaining the phenomena with 'He hasna the sense to be feart.'" - -"There's a lot in that," said Ann. "But think what a loss to the world -if you had remained a spinster--it hardly bears thinking of! Well, we -haven't got very far to-night. To-morrow you must tell me all about -the wedding. I know Alison would like to hear about the tiny, white, -kid lacing shoes with pale blue rosettes that I used to look at in a -drawer. I believe they finished up in a jumble sale." - -"Yes," Mrs. Douglas confessed. "It was the first one we ever had, and -you know the sort of madness that seizes you when you see people eager -to buy. I rushed home and looked out everything we could do -without--my wedding slippers among the lot. And poor old Mrs. -Buchanan, in a sort of ecstasy of sacrifice, climbed up to her kitchen -shelf and brought down the copper kettle that in her saner moments she -cherished like saffron, and threw it on the pyre. The sale was for -Women's Foreign Missions, and when at the end of the most strenuous -evening any of us had ever spent the treasurer and I lugged our takings -home in a cab, her husband met us at the door, and, lifting the heavy -bag, said, 'I doubt it's Alexander the coppersmith.' But it wasn't; it -was fully £100. Dear, dear, the excitements of a ministerial life!" - - - - -CHAPTER III - -"Now that the visitors are gone," said Ann, "we'll go on with our -wedding number. Who complained of the dullness of the Green Glen? -Three visitors--the whole neighbourhood you may say--in one afternoon: -first the parson, then the two Miss Scotts. As I came down the -burnside I saw them go up to the door, and I said to myself in the -words of the old beadle who was asked what sort of congregation was -gathering: 'Graund! Twa weemen pourin' in.' Didn't you like them, -Mother? The Miss Scotts, I mean? I thought their weather-beaten faces -very attractive, and their voices so surprisingly soft and clear. -Somehow I had expected voices rather loud and strident, to go with -their workman-like clothes and heavy boots. The younger one specially -attracted me--they way she beamed through her spectacles and said 'Yes' -unexpectedly, whenever a pause occurred in the conversation. They are -going to help me a lot with the garden; their own place is lovely. -It's a nice happy way to end one's days--living peacefully among -growing flowers! Think of all the old women who live in hotels and -boarding-houses, quite comfortable, I dare say, so far as fires and -light and a good bed, and well-cooked food go, but so barren of all -interest except a morbid curiosity about their fellow-prisoners! How -spacious a country life is! ..." - -"Oh yes," her mother broke in impatiently; "but hotel life can be very -interesting, and there is nothing I enjoy so much as watching my -neighbours.... I wonder why Mr. Sharp likes telling funny stories?" - -"Shyness goads him to it," Ann said. "It's the same thing that makes -me chatter like a swallow when I am with impressive people and ought to -hold my peace. He's a decent lad, Mr. Sharp, but I wish that when I -meet him outside he wouldn't treat me like a funeral. He doesn't look -at me, but removes his hat when passing. Shyness again, I suppose." - -"He has a housekeeper," Mrs. Douglas said, as she picked up a stitch. -"It's a pity he hasn't a wife. In a quiet place like this the Manse -should be a centre for the district. Don't you think, Ann, if we asked -Nina Strachen, or----" - -"Mother," said Ann solemnly, "I utterly refuse to have anything to do -with your matchmaking efforts. Just let your mind dwell for a little -on the result of your last." - -Mrs. Douglas sighed. "Poor George Reid! But it wasn't marrying killed -him. He couldn't have got a better wife than Jeanie Robb. The doctors -said the trouble had been going on for a long time, and, anyway, the -last months of his life were as comfortable as they could be made. If -he hadn't married he would have been dependent on _fremt_ women, for he -hadn't a soul of his own; and Jeanie gets the Widows' Fund, so you -can't regret the marriage having taken place." - -"Practical woman!" laughed Ann. "But we must get on with your own -wedding now--we are making no progress at all. When I think of what -Hugh Walpole or Compton Mackenzie can make out of somebody's childhood, -I blush for my few bald sentences. About your wedding--did my -grandmother choose your things? When I knew her she took very little -interest in clothes, just wore whatever was brought to her." - -"Ah, but she wasn't always like that. I remember Agatha and myself -almost in tears begging her not to get a purple silk dress and bonnet -which she much desired, as we thought them absurdly youthful for her -years. Poor body! I don't believe she was more than forty. Daughters -can be very unfeeling." - -"They can," Ann agreed, with a twinkle. "My poor grandmother! What a -shame to deprive her of her purple silk! If you and Aunt Agatha could -have looked forward forty years and seen grandmothers with dresses -almost to their knees, dancing, playing tennis, frivolling, hardly -recognisable from the eighteen-year-olds, I wonder what you would have -thought. Well, who did buy your trousseau? Aunt Agatha?" - -"No, she was less sophisticated even than I was. My stand-by was Miss -Ayton. My mother trusted her judgment and her taste and asked her -help, and Miss Ayton was only too willing to give it; for, spinster of -fifty as she was, she loved a marriage. She was one of those -delightful women who can be vividly interested in their neighbours' -business without ever being a nuisance, and she presided like a stout, -benign fairy over my nuptials, getting things done, it seemed, by a -wave of her wand." - -Mrs. Douglas let her knitting fall on her lap, and lay back in her -chair, smiling. - -"First I was whisked off to Edinburgh to have some lessons in cooking -(I knew absolutely nothing about anything). _High-class_ cooking it -was called, I suppose because nearly every recipe called in the most -casual way for a dozen of eggs and a bottle of sherry. Not the sort of -cooking required for a manse, you will say...." - -Ann looked up from her writing. "Hadn't you--I seem to remember--a -cookery book from that class, a fat green book? It stood, for some -reason, on the nursery bookshelf, and was a sort of Aladdin's Cave to -us children. We pored over it, reading aloud the rich, strange -ingredients, and lay on our faces gazing enraptured at the picture of a -dinner-table laid for about sixty people, where each napkin was folded -in a different way, and pheasants with long tail-feathers sat about in -dishes, and brightly tinted jellies and creams and trifles made it -blossom like a fairy garden. That picture always made us so hungry -that we had to have 'a piece' all round after looking at it.... Why do -I connect that cookery book with Communions?" - -Mrs. Douglas laughed. "Because at Communion times, when we had strange -ministers assisting we had puddings out of that book, at least -expurgated editions of them. I have that book in my room now. It is -too much a bit of my past for me ever to part with it. It has been -with me since the start. At first it was all that stood between me and -blank ignorance, and now it is a reminder of the days that seem like a -happy dream. Well, the book and the cookery lessons were due to Miss -Ayton. Or, was it Mrs. Watts first suggested I should learn cooking? -I believe it was. There was never anyone so practical as Mrs. Watts, -dear woman. I always regret that she was gone before you grew up, Ann; -you would have delighted in her. She was a daughter of the great Dr. -Grierson--that mighty preacher and statesman--and she had much of the -Grierson charm. Her husband, Dr. Watts, was laird as well as minister, -and they didn't live at the Manse, but at their own place, Fennanhopes. -It was about the greatest treat we had as children, to be invited to -Fennanhopes, and I can't think why we liked it so much, for whenever we -arrived Mrs. Watts would say, 'Now, friends,' and in a trice she had us -all working hard. Some picked currants, some went to bring in the -eggs, some weeded--but we all did something. We wouldn't have done it -for anyone else, but we liked to please Mrs. Watts. She kept everybody -busy: visitors (the house was always full), village, the whole -countryside, and there is no doubt that the state of being pleasantly -busy is the best we can attain to in this world. Mrs. Watts was a -noted housewife, and servants trained by her were eagerly sought for. -I remember going, during one Assembly time in Edinburgh, to a meeting -at which Mrs. Watts was to speak. One knew what to expect as a rule--a -rather gasped-out, tepid little homily from the wife of one or other -well-known divine; but I rather thought Mrs. Watts would be different. -I waited with interest, and presently she stepped on to the platform, -looking so big and fine and of the open air, spoke for a few minutes in -her clear, round voice, and then, looking round the meeting with -friendly eyes she said, 'Now, friends, I am going to tell you how to -make _really good coffee_.'" - -Ann laughed. "What a dear! I wish I had known her. I can just -remember Dr. Watts. It seemed to me, standing somewhere about his -knees, that his head must be dangerously near the clouds, and I -remember his gentle voice saying to me, 'It will take you a long time -to grow as big as I am.' ... Yes, and so between Mrs. Watts and Miss -Ayton you learned something about cooking. And who chose your -trousseau, and all your 'providing'?" - -"Miss Ayton, really, but of course my mother was there too, and I was -there, though I don't think I was supposed to have an opinion. You -would laugh at my things now, but they were considered very -handsome--the best that could be had at Kennington & Jenner's." - -"What! Was Jenner's in Princes Street in those days?" cried Ann, -astonished. - -"Dear me, why shouldn't Jenner's have been in Princes Street then? -Really, Ann, you talk as if it were before the Flood. I assure you my -clothes caused something of a sensation in the countryside." - -"I'm sure they did. I knew you had a sealskin coat, for it ended its -long and useful existence as capes for Robbie and me. I liked mine, -but Robbie wept bitterly, and said only coachmen wore capes. And you -had a bonnet, hadn't you? A bonnet at seventeen!" - -"A prune-coloured bonnet," said Mrs. Douglas, "high in front, and worn -with a prune-coloured silk dress and the sealskin coat. Those were my -'going-away' things. But the dress your father liked best was navy -blue, what was called a Princess dress, buttoned straight down with -small brass buttons. I had a sort of reefer coat to wear with that, -and a hat with a blue veil. And I had a black satin for evenings (no -self-respecting bride would have been without a black satin) besides my -bridal white satin." - -"You must have looked a duck with those little white kid shoes with the -big rosettes on the toes and the blue silk laces. I suppose you were -married in the house?" - -"Oh yes. Church weddings were practically unknown then. I was married -in the drawing-room. Do you remember it? Rather a gloomy room, and -not often used. The partition between the dining-room and the room -next it was taken down, and the luncheon was laid on long tables. -People came from Priorsford the day before and cooked and made ready. -It had been a terrible storm, and the drifts were piled up high, but I -don't think any of the invited guests stayed away, although many of -them had long distances to drive. The preparations were very exciting. -I remember the great rich cakes from Edinburgh being cut down with a -lavish hand, and big, round, thick cakes of shortbread with white -sweeties on them, so the guests must have had tea as well as luncheon, -and been well warmed and fed. Rather unlike our modern weddings, with -a crumb of bridescake and a thimbleful of champagne, followed by a cup -of tea and a sandwich. Hare soup, and roasts of all sorts, and creams -and trifles galore. I was child enough to enjoy it all." - -Ann stopped writing and sat with her fountain-pen poised in her hand, -looking into the fire. - -"I can just imagine," she said, "how jolly it must have been. The -comfortable old house in the village street, all the rooms with blazing -fires, and the kitchen with the flagged, uneven floor, hot and -simmering with good things cooking, and the snow outside, and the -horses stamping in the cold, frosty air, and the guests coming in -laughing and talking. And Father so young and tall and blue-eyed, and -you such a nice little white and gold bride, blue-eyed, too (no wonder -there is such a lamentable lack of variety in the looks of your -children; I do admire a family where some are dark, and some fair, and -some red-haired--it isn't so dreadfully monotonous), and the -bridesmaids in white with scarlet berries, and your little brothers all -agape for good things. It must all have been so young and merry. A -good send-off to a very happy married life, eh, Mother?" - -Mrs. Douglas looked at her daughter without speaking, the tears slowly -gathering in her eyes. Ann bent forward and laid her hand on her -mother's. "Just say to me as Marget says, 'Oh, lassie, haud yer -tongue!' I know that is what you are feeling like. It breaks your -heart to look back. There has been so much happiness and such great -sorrow; but the sad bits are as precious as the happy bits, and they -all help to make the pattern. On the whole a gay pattern, Mother." - -"Oh yes, yes. I have had far beyond my deserts. For many years life -was almost cloudless, except for the clouds I made with my own foolish -fears and forebodings. Why did nobody shake me for my silliness? -Fussing over trifles, worrying about the congregation, feverishly -trying to lay by for an evil day. I wonder now how I could ever have -made a trouble of anything when I had your father with me and all my -children about me. And I knew I was happy, but I daren't say it even -to myself, in case I brought disaster. What pagans we are at -heart--afraid of envious fates! And then Rosamund died.... We thought -we could never be happy again--but we were. It was never quite the -same again; we walked much more softly, for the ground seemed brittle -somehow, and the sorrow of the world came closer to us, and we went -with a different understanding to the house of mourning--but we were -happy. I think I must often have been very trying to my friends during -those prosperous years. They talked of 'the Douglas luck,' for -everything the boys tried for they seemed to get. And the educating -being over we had more money in our hands, and you got about to see the -world, and we could all go abroad at a time, and I could spend some -money on the house--I always made a god of my house. How proud I was -of my drawing-room when we got the green velvet carpet that was like -moss, and the soft blue walls and hangings, and the big Chesterfield -with the down cushions! And the tea-table set out with plates and -green knives, while the people round were still handing their visitors -a cup in their hand, and cake and scones on a cake-stand! I was a -queen and no widow.... Why, Marget, is it nine o'clock already?" - -Marget gave her demure, respectful curtsey, which was so oddly at -variance with her frank and fearless comments on things in general, and -sat down on a chair beside Mysie. - -"Ay, Mem, it's nine o'clock. It's juist chappit on the lobby clock." -She directed a suspicious glance towards the table where Ann sat. "Is -Miss Ann gettin' on wi' yer _Life_? Dinna let her put in ony lees -aboot us. How faur has she gotten? Juist to yer marriage? Oh, that's -a' richt. I wasna there then. But I can keep ye richt aboot what -happened ony time in the last five-and-thirty years." - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -"No honeymoon!" - -Ann's pen was held aloft in amaze, as she looked across at her mother -seated at the other side of the fire in her very own chair that had -stood by the nursery fireside in long past days. Well did Ann remember -the comfortable squat legs of it from the time when she had lived in -that world of chair-legs and the underside of sofas which we all -inhabit at the beginning of things. - -Ann's mother was knitting as usual, a stocking for a long-legged -grandson; but she knitted mechanically, not looking at her work, her -eyes on the dancing flames, a little reminiscent smile turning up the -corners of her mouth. - -"No honeymoon!" Ann again ejaculated. "What was Father thinking of? -Didn't you mind?" - -"Mind? No. Where would we go in December but to our own little house? -You must remember that I had hardly ever left Etterick except to go to -school, and the journey north seemed a wonderful adventure to me; and -your father was in such a hurry to show me the little Manse and all the -new furniture that the train journey seemed all too long. We got to -Inchkeld very late, and it was snowing hard. We looked about for the -cab that had been ordered to meet us, but your father said, 'There's -only a carriage and pair; that can't be for us--let's walk.' So off we -set, I in my sealskin coat and prune-coloured bonnet! And the sad -thing was that the carriage and pair was meant for us. It turned out -that the carriage-hirer came from Priorsford, and when he got the order -he said, 'It's for Mr. Mark and his bride; I'll send a pair.' And the -pair came, and we walked!" - -Ann laughed. "Too much humility doesn't pay. There's a parable there -if I had time to think it out. Well, and did the house come up to your -expectations?" - -"It was one of a row of houses," said Mrs. Douglas. "There was a gate -and a strip of garden, and a gravel-path leading to the front door. On -your right as you went in at the door was the dining-room--but before -we got to that your father had to show me everything in the little -entrance hall and tell me the price. Very ugly things you would call -them--you who like crumbling Jacobean chests and gate tables; but I was -very well pleased with the brand new hall table (on which stood a large -brass bell), the hat-stand, and the thing for umbrellas. I really -liked them much better than the beautiful old things at Etterick; they -were new and they were mine. The dining-room had a bow window which -held a green wire stand full of growing ferns. (Isn't it odd that -after forty years I remember every detail?) The room was hardly big -enough to hold the huge mahogany sideboard with the mirrored back, and -all the other furniture." - -"I remember the pictures," Ann said, "at least I expect they were the -same as at Kirkcaple and Glasgow--big steel engravings; one of a slave -market which I liked very much, and another that the boys liked better, -of fat priests looking at the provisions brought by the country people -for the Monastery--ducks and fowls, and a large salmon and a slain -deer. We made up stories about those pictures." - -"The drawing-room was the crowning glory of the house," Mrs. Douglas -went on. She was not listening to her daughter; she was living over -again that first enchanting peep at her own house. "My father -furnished it for us, and everything he did was well done. It was -midnight before we had finished supper, but I couldn't have slept -without seeing it. The wall-paper was pure white with bunches of gilt -flowers; it was your father's choice and I thought I had seldom seen -anything so beautiful. How dull it must be for women who marry men who -take no interest in the house! I'm thankful that I had a man who was -interested in every thing. It made doing things so much more worth -while. He was so innocent the way he showed his belongings to people, -taking their interest for granted, like a child. I can see him now -watching my face as the full glory of the room burst on me. It was lit -by a glittering glass gasalier hung from the ceiling; I had known only -lamps and candles. The rosewood suite was covered with bright crimson -rep, there were crimson rep curtains at the bow window, a chiffonier -with a marble top stood against one wall, our shining new piano against -another, a round rosewood table in the middle of the room, and an -ottoman covered with bead work in the window. Really, Ann, I can -hardly forgive you when I think that when you grew up you made me part -with the chiffonier and the rosewood table, and the ottoman, and that -_comfortable_ couch." - -"What a vindictive mother!" said Ann. "But why did you do it? Surely -my eighteen-year-old yearnings after a high-art drawing-room could have -been quelled." - -"Oh, I suppose they could, but I didn't want to 'daunton' you, and you -didn't see how you could live unless you got at least one room in the -house made what you called artistic. You said our drawing-room walls -were just a network, and perhaps I had too many things hanging from the -picture-rail (it used to be a puzzle to get them all up again at -spring-cleaning times), but they had all a reason for being there--the -plaques framed in plush that Mark painted, your water-colours, and all -the enlarged photographs of people I was fond of. You put them all -ruthlessly away, and had the walls done with brown paper and hung up a -few dreary-looking pictures in dark frames. And you chose a dull blue -carpet, and orange cushions, and all my cheerful red rep chairs were -covered with sad-coloured stuffs, and you got green blinds and kept -them pulled down so that the room was almost quite dark, and people who -came to call just stotted over obstacles on their way to shake hands. -And you banished photographs----" - -Ann's face wore a guilty look as her mother told of her sins and faults -of youth, and she broke in: - -"But own, Mother, that the phase didn't last long. I know it was -dreadful while it lasted. I had met some artists and they had fussed -me and my head was turned. I must have been a sore trial to my family -at that time. Father, losing patience with me one night, said, 'Oh, go -to bed, girl, and don't sit attitudinising there!' You should have -beaten me instead of giving in to me when I suggested putting away the -things you were fond of. Young people are heartless because they don't -think. I would know better now." - -"Well," Mrs. Douglas gave a long sigh, "it's only now I miss my things. -I parted from them light-heartedly--rather proud, I dare say, of being -so modern. I didn't know that I would live to cherish every relic of -my first married days, because I had lost the one who shared them.... -Not that I behaved well that first year in Inchkeld. Of course, I was -only seventeen, but I might have had more sense. I cried half the -time. What a damp and disconsolate companion for any poor man! No, I -had nothing to cry about! _Au contraire_, as the seasick Frenchman -said when asked if he had dined (to use Robbie's favourite jest); but I -had never been away from home before, and I missed Agatha, and I missed -the boys, and I missed all the stir of a big family and the cheery -bustle that goes on in a country house. I loved my little doll's -house, so new and fresh, but the streets, and the houses full of -strangers oppressed me, and I was woefully homesick. Your grandmother, -my mother-in-law--she died before you were born, and you missed knowing -one of the kindest women that ever lived--sent her cook, Maggie Ann, a -capable girl from the Borders, to be my servant, and she was as -homesick as I was. One day we saw an old tinker body who visited -Etterick regularly on her rounds walking down the road with her box of -small wares slung on her back. The sight to us was like cold water to -a thirsty man. Maggie Ann rushed out and brought her in, and we -feasted the astonished old woman and bought up nearly all her wares. -The thought that she would be seeing Etterick soon, that she would -sleep in our barn, would hear the soft Lowland tongue and see all my -own people made that old beggar-wife a being to be envied by me.... -Poor Maggie Ann was very patient with her inefficient mistress, and was -young enough rather to enjoy my effort to housekeep. She said it -reminded her of when she was a bairn and played at a wee house. We -tried all sorts of experiments with food, but I don't remember that -anything turned out very well. I'm afraid we wasted a good deal. It -was a very long, cold winter, that winter in Inchkeld. The snow lay on -the ground, and the frost held late into March, and even my sealskin -coat could not keep out the cold. We grew tired of skating, and I took -to moping in the house----" - -"Really, Mother," said Ann, "it sounds frightfully unlike you as I have -always known you--a little bustling hurricane of a woman, waking up all -the dreaming ones, spurring the idle to work, a reproach to the -listless, an example to all--and you tell me you sat in the house and -moped and cried." - -Mrs. Douglas shook her head. "I wasn't always a bustling hurricane. I -think I became that because I married such a placid man; just as I -became a Radical because he was such a Tory; just as I had to become -sternly practical because he was such a dreamer. If we had both been -alike we would have wandered hand-in-hand into the workhouse. Not that -Mark spent money on himself--bless him--but nobody ever asked him for -help and was refused; and he did like to buy things for me. I found I -just had to take control of the money. Not at first, of course; it -came to it by degrees. And your father was only too glad; money was -never anything but a nuisance to him. I don't think I'm inordinately -fond of money either, but I had to _hain_ so that for years it had an -undue prominence in my mind. Well, I sighed for the South Country, and -one day, when I was miserably moping over the fire, your father said to -me: 'Come on, Nell, I'm going to visit a sick girl about your own age. -She's always asking me questions about you, and I said you would go and -see her.' - -"I didn't want to go, for I was shy of sick people--the being ill in -bed seemed to put them such a distance away--but I put on my best -clothes to make a good impression, and went.... We were taken into a -clean, bright room, with a dressing-table dressed crisply in white -muslin over pink. A girl was lying high up on the pillows, and I -thought at first she couldn't be ill, she had such shining blue eyes -and rose-flushed cheeks; her yellow hair hung in two plaits over her -shoulders. Then I saw that her hands were almost transparent, and that -her breath came in quick gasps between her red, parted lips, and I knew -that this pretty child was dying quickly of consumption. I couldn't -speak as I took her hand, but I tried hard to keep the tears from my -eyes as she looked at me--two girls about an age, the one beginning -life at its fullest, the other about to leave the world and youth -behind. I stood there in my wedding braws, hating myself almost for my -health and happiness. Your father talked to her until I got hold of -myself, and then she seemed to like to hear me tell about the little -house and my attempts to cook. As we were leaving she held your -father's hand, and said, in her weak, husky voice, 'Mr. Douglas, tell -the folk on Sabbath that _Christ is a Rock_....' I think I realised -then, for the first time, what religion meant. A sentence in that book -we were reading, _Green Apple Harvest_, reminded me of that girl.... -You know when Robert is dying and his brother Clem says to him: - -"'Oh, Bob, it seems unaccountable hard as you should die in the middle -of May!' - -"And Robert replies: '.... I've a feeling as if I go to the Lord God -I'll only be going into the middle of all that's alive.... If I'm with -Him I can't never lose the month of May....' - -"I went home crying bitterly for the girl who was dying in the May -morning of her days. I don't think I moped any more." - - - - -CHAPTER V - -Inchkeld was a most pleasant place in which to have one's home--a city -set among hills and watered by a broad river; and surely no young and -witless couple ever had a kinder and more indulgent congregation than -we had. - -"The first Sunday I appeared in church I was almost dead with fright. -I had to walk through the church to reach the Manse seat, and every eye -seemed to be boring into me like a gimlet. As if that weren't bad -enough, I was accosted on my way out by a tall, bland elder, who said -he supposed I would want to teach a class in the Sabbath school. As a -matter of fact, he supposed quite wrong, for it had never entered into -my head that such an awful duty would be required of me. Think--until -a short time before I myself had been a scholar (and a restless, -impertinent one at that!), and the very thought of trying to control a -class made my brain reel. But I was as clay in the hands of this suave -Highland potter, who went on to tell me that the last minister's wife -had carried on a most successful class for older girls. 'She, of -course,' he added, 'was a niece of the late Lord Clarke,' as if that -fact explained any amount of talent for teaching the young. He led me -away--I was now in a state of passive despair--and introduced me to a -class as their new teacher. There were seven of them, girls about -fifteen--always, I think, the worst and a most impudent age (you were a -brat at fifteen, Ann!), and they fixed me with seven pairs of eyes, -round brown eyes, rather like brandy-balls--I suppose they couldn't all -have had brown eyes, but the general effect was of -brandy-balls--silently taking me in. I heard the elder telling them -how honoured they were to have the minister's wife as teacher; then I -was left with them. Later on, when I got to know the girls, I -sometimes laughed at the terror of the first Sunday. They were the -nicest girls, really, gentle and kind; but that day they seemed to me -inhuman little owls. They told me the lesson--one of the parables--but -my mind was a blank, and I could think of no comment to make over it. -I stumbled and stuttered, every moment getting more hot and ashamed, -and finally went home, feeling, in spite of my sealskin coat and prune -bonnet, the most miserably inadequate minister's wife that had ever -tried to reign in a manse, scourged as with whips by the thought of the -late Lord Clarke's niece. What a comfort your father always was! He -made it seem all right in a twinkling, assured me that I needn't teach -a class unless I liked, but vowed that if I did no one could teach it -half so well; and as for the late Lord Clarke's niece, he had never -seen her, but he was sure she was a long-faced woman, with no sense of -humour." - -"I know," said Ann. "Father was always singularly comforting. When we -hurt ourselves, you and Marget invariably took the gloomiest view, -looked up medical books and prophesied dire results. Once I got my -thumb badly crushed and the nail torn off while swinging on a see-saw. -Marget at once said 'lock-jaw!' I hadn't a notion what that was, but -it had an eerily fatal sound, and I crept away to Father's study to try -and lose my fears in a book. Presently Father came in, and I rolled -out of the arm-chair I had cuddled into and ran to show him my bandaged -hand. - -"'Oh, Father!' I cried, 'will I take lock-jaw and will I die?' I can -see him now, all fresh from the cold air, laughing at me, yet sorry for -me, lifting me up in his strong arms, saying, 'Poor wifie, were they -frightening you? Lock-jaw? No. Let's look at it. Yes, I see the -nail's off. Had we better get a celluloid one till the new one grows? -Try and keep a cloth on it, like a good lassie, and it will soon be -well.' And then peace slid into my soul, and I sat on his knee and he -told me a story. I can quite see what a wonderful minister my father -was. It was that air of surety, of steadfastness, that gave people -such a lift, and that firm, comforting hand that touched things so -gently. Robbie had the same; so had the little lad.... But to go back -to Inchkeld and the congregation----" - -"Yes. It was a very flourishing congregation. Every Sunday it crammed -the little church, and sometimes forms had to be brought in. The -goodness of the people was almost destroying. They wanted to share -everything they had with us. Constantly such things as a hare, or -pheasants, or a 'black bun,' or several cakes of shortbread would -arrive--and we had so few to eat them. Inchkeld was a sociable place, -and I had lots of callers and no lack of opportunities for wearing my -wedding finery. Those weren't the days of afternoon tea. Cake and -wine were served in the drawing-room with the white and gilt wall-paper -and the red rep furniture--neat squares of wedding-cake in the brand -new silver cake-basket." - -"Oooh!" groaned Ann. "Can't I see those squares of wedding-cake! I -hope no hungry children ever came to see you. Do you remember taking -me as a small child to call on some newly married people in -Burntisland?--I think I was taken because I was a firebrand at -home--and tea came in on a silver tray, all prinked out with ruffly -d'oyleys--scones about the size of half-crowns and a frightfully newly -married shining cake-basket, holding inches of wedding-cake. I was -passionately hungry, and could have eaten the whole show and never -known it; but I sat on a stool and nibbled a scone, and tried not to -make any crumbs, and then I was handed the cake-basket. We had been -taught always to take the bit nearest us, and the bit nearest -me--alas!--was the smallest bit in the basket, with only the minutest -fragment of almond icing and sugar attached. I would fain have -snatched two bits, but my upbringing was too strong for me, and I took -the fragment. It was far the most delicious thing I had ever tasted. -Surely, I thought, this must be what angels eat, and for the first time -in my faulty life I wished to be an angel. It was over in a second, -though I ate it crumb by crumb and kept the sugar for the last; and -then I sat and gazed hungrily for another bit; but no one noticed me, -no one brought the shining cake-basket again within my reach. I don't -think that newly married wife could ever have come to any good--a woman -who hadn't the sense to feed a hungry child! You think I spoil our -children, but it's because I remember the awfulness of having a very -little of a good thing." - -"I remember that visit to Burntisland," Mrs. Douglas said. "I had to -take you into a shop on the way home and buy you biscuits. Your father -wanted some, too--a handed-round tea was no use to him; he liked a -breakfast-cup filled several times. I don't think I was ever guilty of -starving children of wedding-cake. I got surfeited with it myself, and -a big family from across the way used to come in to help us away with -all that was left over from our parties. We were glad to get things -eaten up in those days. Both my own mother and your father's mother -constantly sent us boxes of eatables as if we had been on a desert -island instead of in a city of shops--great mutton-hams, and haggis, -and noble Selkirk bannocks; I was afraid of them coming to our little -household. How glad I would have been to see them in later years, when -I had growing children to feed! But the kind hands that packed them -were still.... We could entertain only in a very small way in our very -small house, but we were asked to quite a lot of dinner-parties. They -were evenings of dread to me. I was so shockingly bad at making -conversation. I blushed fiercely when anyone spoke to me, and must -have presented an appearance of such callowness that I provoked pity in -the hearts of kindly people. One dear old lady said to me, 'My dear, -have you cut your wisdom teeth yet?' ... In September Mark was born. -It was prayer-meeting night, and Maggie Ann carelessly let the cat eat -my canary. They didn't tell me about it until I asked why I wasn't -hearing him singing. Mark was a tiny, delicate baby, but he was -perfect in our eyes. We looked with distaste at large fat children, -who made poor little Mark look so puny and fragile, and told each other -that they were 'coarse,' and that we were glad our baby wasn't like -that. When I was able to travel we set off with our precious new -possession to Etterick. Agatha had been with us most of the summer, -but my mother didn't come; she liked to stay in her own house and -welcome us there." - -"A most detached woman, my grandmother," said Ann. - -"You are rather like her, Ann," said Mrs. Douglas. - -"Yes, I have the same aversion to staying in other people's houses, and -I share her dislike to the casual kissing that so many people indulge -in--people who are mere acquaintances. You should only kiss really -great friends at really serious times, and then it means something." - -Mrs. Douglas laughed. "Nobody ever took a liberty with your -grandmother. My father was utterly different, the most approachable of -men. People were always asking favours from him; he liked them to. He -didn't care how much he went out of his way to help anyone, and his -hand was never out of his pocket." - -"You must be exactly like grandfather. I think you are one of the very -few people left living in the world who do take trouble about their -fellow-mortals. The rest of us are too selfish to bother." - -"I like to be kind," said Mrs. Douglas, "but I don't take any credit -for being kind. It's just my nature to want to give. The people who -hate to give and yet make themselves do it are the ones who ought to be -commended. It has always been my great desire to add a little to the -happiness of the world, and I would never forgive myself if I thought I -had added by one jot or tittle to the pain." - -"I am very sure you haven't done that," Ann assured her. "You are the -very kindest of funny little bodies, and when I call you 'Ella Wheeler -Wilcox' I don't really mean it. But you must admit that it is often -very vicarious kindness, and the burden of it falls on your family. -Oh, the deplorable people who have come to us 'for a stop' because you -thought they were lonely and neglected! Of course, they were, but it -was because it almost killed people to entertain them; there's a reason -for everything in this world. But what a shame to laugh at your -efforts! Never mind. There are those - - 'Who, passing through Baca's vale, - Therein do dig up wells,' - -and you are one of them. But to go on with your _Life_. Didn't you -leave Inchkeld quite soon after Mark was born? I know Robbie and Jim -and I thought it very hard lines that he should have been born in a -lovely old historic city, while the rest of us had to see the light -first amid coalpits and linoleum factories. Mark never let us forget -it, either." - -"Mark was two months old when we left Inchkeld. When the Kirkcaple -congregation called your father he felt he ought to go. Oh! but we -were a thoughtless couple. It never gave me a thought to leave the -people who had been so good to us. I just took everybody's kindness as -a matter of course. I was too young to realise how rare such kindness -is, and their interest in the baby, and their desire to have us stay in -Inchkeld seemed to me no more than natural. I was amused and pleased -at the thought of going to a new place and a new house. You can hardly -get changes enough when you are eighteen. In middle life one's most -constant prayer is that God will let things remain as they are. What -was that you were reading me the other night? I think it was from -Charles Lamb." - -Ann leant back in her chair and pulled a little green book from a -bookshelf. "This, I think it was," she said, and read: - -"'I am content to stand still at the age to which I am arrived; I, and -my friends, to be no younger, no richer, no handsomer. I do not want -to be wearied by age, or drop like mellow fruit, as they say, into the -grave....'" - -"Poor Charles Lamb!" said Mrs. Douglas, shaking her head. "There _are_ -times when one would like to stand still, where we seem to reach a -pleasant, rich plain and are at our ease, and friends are many, and -life is full of zest.... I don't know whether it was wise to leave -Inchkeld. Your grandfather Douglas always regretted it. When he -visited us at Kirkcaple one remark he always made was: 'A great pity -Mark ever left Inchkeld.' We used to wait for it and the funny way he -had of clearing his throat after every sentence." - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -November is a poor time to go to a new place, and Kirkcaple certainly -looked a most unattractive part of the world when we arrived on a cold, -wet afternoon. 'The queer-like smell' from the linoleum factories, the -sea drearily grey and strange to my inland eyes, the drive through -narrow streets and up the steep Path, past great factories and mean -houses, until we reached the road, knee-deep in mud, where the Manse -stood, combined to depress me to the earth. It might have been -infinitely worse. I saw that in the light of the next morning. There -was a field before the Manse, and though there was a factory and a -rope-work and a bleach-field and a coal-pit all in close proximity to -it, there was also the Den, where hyacinths grew in spring, and where -you could dig fern roots for your garden. The Manse itself stood in a -large garden, and in time we forgot to notice the factories. The -people were very unlike the courteous Inchkeld people--miners and -factory workers, who gave one as they passed a -Jack's-as-good-as-his-master sort of nod. We grew to understand them -and to value their staunch friendship, but at first they were as -_fremt_ as the landscape. - -"When the cab lurched through the ruts to the Manse gate and I got out -and saw my new home I quailed. From the front it was a gloomy-looking -house--one window on each side of the front door, and three windows -above, and the kitchen premises on one side. There was a wide -gravelled space in front, with a small shrubbery to shelter us from the -road. It was a sombre and threatening place to enter on a dark night, -and when alone I always made a mad rush from the gate to the front -door. One night when I reached my haven I found a tall man standing -against it. I had hardly strength to gasp, 'Who are you?' and the man -replied, 'Weelum Dodds. I cam' to see the minister aboot gettin' the -bairn bapteezed, but the lassie wadna open the door.' I had told the -servants, who were young girls, to keep the chain on the door at night, -and the poor patient soul had just propped himself up against the door -and awaited developments.... The back of the house, looking to the -garden, was delightful. You don't remember the garden?" - -"_Don't_ I?" said Ann. "I was only about nine when we left Kirkcaple, -but I remember every detail of it. Just outside the nursery window -there was a bush of flowering currant. Do _you_ remember that? And -jasmine, and all sorts of creepers grew up the house. There was a big -square lawn before the window, rather sloping, with two long flowerbeds -at the top and herbaceous borders round the high walls. Our own -especial gardens were at the top of the kitchen garden. Mark had a -Rose of Sharon tree in his garden about which he boasted; it seemed to -set him a little apart. I had a white lilac tree in mine; Robbie, -severely practical, grew nothing but vegetables, while Jim, when asked -what his contained, said simply and truthfully, 'Wurrums.' Rosamond -was a tiny baby when we left Kirkcaple, and the little lad knew only -Glasgow. It was surely a very large garden, Mother? The gooseberry -bushes alone seemed to me to extend for miles, and in a far-away corner -there was the pigsty. Why was it called 'the pigsty'? In our day -there was never anything in it but two much-loved Russian rabbits with -pink eyes, Fluffy and Pluffy. I have a small red text-book in which, -on a certain date, is printed in large round hand: - - 'This day Fluffy died. - " " Pluffy " ' - -A ferret got in and sucked their blood. What a day of horror that was! -The roof of the pigsty sloped up to the top of the wall, and we liked -to sit on the wall and say rude things to the children on the road, -they retorting with stones and clods of earth. We were all bonnie -fighters. You had no notion, you and Father, when we came down to tea -with well-brushed hair and flannel-polished faces, of the grim battles -we had just emerged from. The enemy was even then at the gate. We, -with ears to hear, knew what sundry dull thuds against the front door -meant. Marget, wrathful but loyal, wiped away the dirt and said -nothing to you--lots to us, though! ... But I'm getting years ahead. -You were just arriving with baby Mark to an empty, echoing Manse, -through ways heavy with November mud. Sorry I interrupted." - -"As to that," said her mother, "I was really just talking to myself. -It is good of you to listen to my maunderings about the past." - -"Not at all," Ann said solemnly; and then, "You daft wee mother, now -that courtesies have been exchanged will you go on with that _Life_ of -yours? It will take us years at this rate. What happened when you -tottered into the Manse? Did you regret the little sunny, bow-windowed -Manse in Inchkeld?" - -"Regret! I ached for it. I couldn't picture us being happy in this -muddy mining place; I couldn't see this bare barracks ever getting -homelike. But it was a roomy house. The dining-room was to the right -of the front door, the study to the left, and the nursery was on the -ground floor, too. They were all big square rooms: the dining-room was -cosy in the evening but rather dark in the day time; the study was a -very cheerful room, with books all round the walls, and a bright red -carpet, and green leather furniture." - -"And a little square clock," Ann added, "with an honest sort of face, -and a picture of John Knox, long white beard and all, above the -mantelpiece, and the carpet had a design on it of large squares; I -know, for I used to play a game on it, jumping from one to another. -Some deceased elder had left to the Manse and to each succeeding -minister a tall glass-doored bookcase containing, among other books, a -set of Shakespeare's plays illustrated. It was funny to see how the -artist had made even Falstaff and Ariel quite early Victorian--and as -for merry Beatrice I think she wore a bustle! Not that it worried us; -we were delighted with his efforts ... and in that glass-doored -bookcase there stayed also a very little book dressed in fairy green, -with gilt lettering on its cover. I have tried for years to find -another copy, but I have nothing to go on except that it was a very -tiny book and that it contained fairy tales, translations from the -German I think, for it talked in one of a king lying under the green -lindens! I thought linden the most lovely word I had ever heard! it -seemed to set all the horns of Elfland blowing for me. One of the -stories must have been _Lohengrin_, there was a swan in it and 'a frail -scallop.' How I wept when it appeared for the second time and took the -knight away for ever! I loved Germany then because it was the home of -green lindens and swans with scallops, and houses with pointed roofs -and wide chimneys where storks nested. Even in the war I couldn't hate -it as much as I ought to have done, because of that little green -book.... But we're straying again, at least I am.... You got to like -the house, didn't you?" - -"Oh dear, yes. It was terribly gaunt at first, but before we left it I -thought it was pretty nearly perfect. When we got fresh paper and -paint, and the wide upper landing and staircase carpeted with crimson, -and curtains shading the high staircase window, everyone said how -pretty it was. The drawing-room was always a pleasant room, with two -sunny windows, and all my treasures (you would call them atrocities) in -the way of gilt and alabaster clocks with glass shades, and -marble-topped chiffonier, and red rep furniture. But the big night -nursery was the nicest room of all, with its row of little beds, each -with a gay counterpane! There was a small room opening from it where -your clothes stayed, with a bath and a wash-hand basin--a very handy -place." - -"Yes," said Ann; "and in one corner stood a very tall basket for soiled -clothes. I remember Robbie, after hearing of someone's marriage, -coming to you and saying so earnestly, 'I'll stay with you always, -Mums, and if anyone comes to marry me I'll hide in the dirty-clothes -basket.'" - -Robbie's mother looked into the dancing flames. "That was always his -promise," she said softly, "I'll stay with you always.... It wouldn't -have been so bad beginning in a new place, with a new baby (and me so -utterly new myself!) if Mark hadn't been so fragile. I daresay he -suffered from my inexperience, I almost smothered him with wraps, and -hardly dared let him out of the warm nursery, but he must have been -naturally delicate as well. He got bronchitis on the smallest -provocation, and my heart was perpetually in my mouth with the frights -I got. I spent hours listening to his breathing and touching him to -see if he felt hot, and I kept your father racing for the doctor until -both he and the doctor struck. I was so wrapped up in my baby that I -simply never turned my head to look at the congregation; but they -understood and were patient. I really was very absurd. Some people -gave a dinner-party for us, and your father said I simply must go. On -the night of the party I was certain Mark was taking croup, and I could -hardly be dragged from him to dress. I was determined that anyway I -must be home in good time, and I ordered the cab to come back for us at -a quarter to nine! We had hardly finished dinner when it was -announced, but I rose at once to go. The hostess, astonished but kind, -said on hearing my excuses, 'Ah, well, experience teaches.' 'Finish -your proverb, Mrs. Smeaton,' my dinner neighbour (a clergyman from a -neighbouring parish) broke in, 'Experience teaches fools.' Now I -realise that the man was embittered--and little wonder!--by having -tried to make conversation to me for a dreary hour, but at the moment I -hated him. When we left Kirkcaple he and his wife were our greatest -friends.... There were four houses in our road. The large one nearest -the Den belonged to one of the linoleum people, we came next, and then -there was a low, bungalow sort of house where the Mestons lived with -their three little girls, and at the end of the road lived one of the -elders in the church--Goskirk was the name--with his wife and eight -sons. How they all got into that small house I know not, but it was -always comfortable, and there was always a welcome, and Mrs. Goskirk -was the busiest, happiest little woman in Kirkcaple, and a great -stand-by to me. 'How's baby to-day?' she would come in saying, every -word tilted up at the end as is the accent of Fife. As rich in -experience as I was poor, she could soothe my fears and laugh at my -forebodings. She prescribed simple, homely remedies and told me not to -fuss. She gave me a new interest in life, and kept me happily engaged -by teaching me how to make clothes for Mark. Her little boys trotted -in and out, coming to show me all their treasures, and going away -pleased with a sweetie or a sugar biscuit! They did much to make me -feel at home.... When I went back to Etterick in summer I thought Mark -was a lovely baby, and that he had a wonderful mother! He wore a -pelisse I had made him (under Mrs. Goskirk's eye), cream cashmere, with -a wide band of lavender velvet, and a soft, white felt hat with a -lavender feather round it. I paid fifteen shillings for the feather -and thought it a great price.... For three years we had only Mark, -then you and Robbie quite close together. But Mark was never put in -the 'stirk's stall'; for you were a healthy, placid baby, and my dear -Robbie was just like you. I remember his coming so well. It was a -February morning, and Mrs. Perm, the nurse, said: 'Another deil o' a -laddie.' She much preferred girls. Robbie was such a _caller_ baby, -so fat and good-natured and thriving." - -"My very first recollection of Robbie," Ann said, "is in the garden. I -think it must have been an April morning, for I remember daffodils, and -the sun was shining, and the wind tumbling us about, and Mark said to -me that he thought Ellie Robbie meant to run away with Robbie, and that -it behoved us to save him. As he told me his terrible suspicions -Robbie came down the walk pulling behind him a large rake--a little boy -with an almost white head, very blue eyes, and very chubby, very rosy -cheeks. I remember we separated him from his rake and Mark dragged us -both into the gooseberry bushes, where we lay hid until Ellie Robbie -(the suspect) came to look for us, bringing us a treat in the shape of -a slice each of brown scone spread with marmalade, and two acid drops. -That closed the incident." - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -On these winter evenings in the Green Glen, when the wind and the rain -beat upon the house, and Ann by the fireside wrote down her mother's -life, Marget made many errands into the drawing-room to offer advice. - -"I think"--said Ann one evening--"I think I must have been horribly -neglected as a baby. Everyone was so taken up with Mark they hadn't -time to look at me." - -Marget was standing in the middle of the room with her hands folded on -her black satin apron; she would have scorned to wear a white apron -after working hours. She had come in with a list of groceries to be -ordered by post, and stood looking suspiciously at Ann and her writing. - -"Ye were never negleckit when I kent ye, an' I cam' to the hoose afore -ye kent yer richt hand frae yer left. You were a wee white-heided -cratur and Maister Robbie wasna shortened." - -"Ah, but were you there when Mark fell out of the carriage and was so -frightfully hurt? I've been told by Aunt Agatha that no one had time -to attend to me, and I was just shut up in a room with some toys and -fed at intervals. It's a wonder that the Cruelty to Children people -didn't get you." - -"Havers," said Marget. - -"That was a terrible time," Mrs. Douglas said. "Mark was four, and -beginning to get stronger. You were a year old, Ann. It was a lovely -day in June, and Mr. Kerr, in the kindness of his heart, sent a -carriage to take us all for a drive." - -"I mind fine o' Mr. Kerr," Marget broke in. "He was fair bigoted on -the kirk. I dinna think he ever missed a Sabbath's service or a -Wednesday prayer-meeting." - -"I mind of him, too," said Ann. "He had white hair and bushy white -eyebrows, and a fierce expression and an ebony stick with an ivory -handle. He used to give Mark presents at Christmas time, but he -ignored the existence of the rest of us. I remember we went to see him -once, and he presented Mark with a book. Mark took it and said, 'Yes, -and what for Ann?' and Mr. Kerr had to fumble about and produce -something for me while I waited stolidly, quite unabashed by my -brother's unconventional behaviour." - -"Mr. Kerr was the best friend the Kirkcaple Church had," Mrs. Douglas -said. "He 'joyed' in its prosperity--how he struggled to get the -members to increase their givings. His great desire was that it should -give more largely than the parish kirk of the district. People may -talk about union and one great Church, but when we are all one I'm -afraid there may be a lack of interest--a falling off in endeavour. -St. Paul knew what he was talking about when he spoke of 'provoking' -one another to love and good works.... At first I couldn't bear Mr. -Kerr. If I let your father forget an intimation, or if a funeral was -forgotten, or someone was neglected, he came to the Manse in a passion. -I fled at the sight of him. But gradually I found that his fierceness -wasn't to be feared, and that it was the sheer interest he took that -made him hate things to go wrong--and one is grateful to people who -take a real interest, however oddly they may show it." - -"So Mr. Kerr sent his carriage," Ann prompted. - -"Mr. Kerr sent his carriage," said her mother, "and we set out to have -a picnic on the Loan. We were as merry as children. You were on my -knee, Ann, and Agatha sat beside me, your father and Mark opposite. We -were about Thornkirk, and Mark, who was always mad about flowers, -pointing to the dusty roadside, cried, 'A bluebell,' and suddenly made -a spring against the door, which, to our horror, opened, and Mark fell -out.... I don't know what happened next. The first thing I knew I was -in a cottage frantically pulling at a chest of drawers and crying for -something to cover the awful wound. By great good fortune our own -doctor happened to pass in his dogcart just then. All he said was, -'Take him home.' ... He stayed with us most of the night, but he could -give us no hope that the child would live, or, living, have his reason. -For days he lay unconscious, sometimes raving, sometimes pitifully -moaning. Agatha and I knew nothing of nursing, and there were no -trained nurses in those days--at least, not in Kirkcaple. What would -have happened to us all I know not if Mrs. Peat hadn't appeared like a -good angel on the scene. It was wonderful of her to come. A fortnight -before she had got news that her son in India--her idolised only -son--had been killed in some native rising, and she put her own grief -aside and came to us. 'My dear,' she said, 'I've come to take the -nights, if you will let me. You're young, and you need your sleep.' -So every evening she came and sat up--night after night for four long -weeks. I used to go into the night nursery on those summer mornings--I -was so young and strong that, anxious as I was I couldn't help -sleeping--and find Mrs. Peat sitting there with her cap ribbons -unruffled, her hair smooth, so serene looking that no one could have -believed that she had kept a weary vigil. She was a born nurse, and -she possessed a healing touch. I believe she did more than anyone to -pull Mark through; and all the time we were in Kirkcaple she was a -tower of strength to me. Always twice a week she came up early in the -afternoon and stayed till evening, her cap in the neatest little basket -in her hand--for she always took off her bonnet. I think I hear her -saying, 'Eh, my dear,' with a sort of slow emphasis on the 'my.' She -never made mischief in the congregation by boasting how 'far ben' she -was at the Manse. She had a mind far above petty things; she dreamed -dreams and saw visions." - -Mrs. Douglas stopped and laughed. "Your father, who admired her very -much, had been telling an old body troubled with sleepless nights how -Mrs. Peat spent her wakeful hours, and she said to me, 'It's an awfu' -job to rowe aboot in this bed a' night; I wisht I had some o' Mrs. -Peat's veesions.'" - -"I mind Mistress Peat," said Marget, who had now seated herself; "I -mind her fine. She was a rale fine buddy. Miss Peat was a braw -wumman. D'ye mind her comin' to a pairty we had in a crimson satin -body an' her hair a' crimpit an' pearls aboot as big as bantam's eggs? -Eh, I say!" - -"I remember the pearls," said Ann. "I suppose they were paste, but I -thought the Queen of Sheba couldn't have been much more impressive than -Miss Peat. She had a velvet coat trimmed with some sort of feather -trimming, and a muff to match--beautiful soft grey feathers. I used to -lean against her and stroke it and think it was like a dove's breast. -I overheard someone say that it was marvellous to think that the Peats -had no servants and that Miss Peat could clean pots and cook, and then -emerge like Solomon in all his glory. After that, when we sang the -psalm: - - 'Though ye have lain among the pots - Like doves ye shall appear...' - -I thought of Miss Peat in her velvet coat and her soft feathers.... -Was she good to you, too, when Mark was so ill?' - -"I should think she was--but everyone was good. At the time I took it -all as a matter of course, but afterwards I realised it. For days Mark -lay delirious, and I was distraught with the thought that his brain -might be injured; you see, the wheel passed over the side of his head. -When he became conscious at last, the doctor told me to ask him some -questions. I could think of nothing, and then I remembered that Mark -had had a special fondness for Crichton, our butcher. Trembling, I -asked, 'Darling, what is the butcher called?' and in a flash he -answered 'Mr. Cwichton.' I wept with relief. But it seemed as if the -poor little chap was never to be given a chance to get well. Three -times the wound healed and three times it had to be opened again. No -wonder our thoughts were all for him, and that you were neglected, Ann, -poor child! And you were so good, so little trouble, it almost seemed -as if you understood. Mark had a great big wooden box filled with -every kind of dry sweetie, and he would sit propped up with pillows, -and weigh them, and make them up in little 'pokes.' Sometimes he would -ask for you, and you were brought in, so delighted to play on the bed -and crawl about, but very soon he tired of you (especially if you -touched his sweeties!), and ordered you away. He could not be allowed -to cry, and we had to devise things to keep him amused. Opening lucky -bags was a great diversion. They cost a ha'penny each, and he made -away with dozens in a day. The great difficulty was getting him to -eat. At Etterick he was accustomed to going to the milk-house and -getting new milk from the pail into his 'tinny,' and when he was ill he -wouldn't touch milk, because he said it wasn't 'Etterick milk.' So -your father scoured Kirkcaple until he found a 'tinny,' and a pail as -nearly as possible like the milk-pails at Etterick, and we took them to -the nursery, and said, 'Now, then, Mark, is _this_ real Etterick milk?' -and the poor little man held out his thin hands for the 'tinny' and -drank greedily.... He lay for six months, and when he got up he had to -be taught how to walk! And even after we got him up and out he was the -most pathetic little figure, with a bandaged head far too big for his -shadow of a body. But I was so proud of having got him so far on the -way to recovery that I didn't realise how he looked to outsiders, until -a very cruel thing was said to me the very first time I had him out. A -man we knew slightly stopped to ask for him, and said, 'It seems almost -a pity he pulled through. I'm afraid he will never be anything but an -object.' I don't think he meant to hurt me; perhaps it was just sheer -stupidity, but ... It was a man called Temple who said it. You never -knew him, Ann." - -"Temple," said Marget. "Dauvit Temple the manufacturer? Eh, the -impident fella'. Him to ca' onybody, let alone Mr. Mark, an objec'. -Objec' himsel'. It wad hae been tellin' him if he hed fa'en on his -heid an' gien his brains a bit jumble, but I doot if the puir sowl had -ony to jumble; he hed a heid like a hen. He was fit for naething but -ridin' in a high dogcart an' tryin' to forget that his dacent auld -mither bleached her claes on the Panny Braes an' his faither worked in -the pit. But ye needna fash yersel' aboot him and his sayin's noo, -Mem. He's gone to his reward--such as it is." - -"Indeed, Marget, it's a poor thing to bear malice, and I believe that -awful accident was the making of Mark. He grew up as strong as a -Shetland pony. He was an extraordinarily clever little boy. We were -told not to try and teach him till he was seven, but he taught himself -to read from the posters. He asked endless questions of everyone he -met, and so acquired information. There was nothing he wasn't -interested in, and every week brought a fresh craze. At one time it -was fowls, and he spent hours with Mrs. Frew, a specialist on the -subject, and came home with coloured pictures of prize cocks which he -insisted on pinning round the nursery walls. For a long time it was -ships, and he and Mr. Peat, who was a retired sea-captain, spent most -of their time at the harbour. Next it was precious stones, and he -accosted every lady (whether known to him or not), and asked her about -the stones she was wearing." - -"Yes," said Ann, "he was a wonderful contrast to Robbie and me. We -never asked for information on any subject, for we wanted none. We -were ignorant and unashamed, and we used to look with such bored eyes -at Mark and wonder how he could be bothered. It was really disgusting -for the rest of us to have such a clever eldest brother. He set a -standard which we couldn't hope--indeed, we never thought of trying--to -attain to. What a boy he was for falling on his head! He had been -warned that if he cut open the wound in his head again it would never -heal, so when he fell from a tree, or a cart, or a pony, or whatever he -was on at the moment, we stood afar off and shouted, 'Is it your wound, -Mark?' prepared on hearing it was to run as far as our legs would carry -us. That is a child's great idea when trouble comes--to run away from -it. Once Mark--do you remember?--climbed the white lilac tree in my -garden on a Sunday afternoon and, slipping, fell on a spiked branch and -hung there. Instead of going for help I ran and hid among the -gooseberry bushes, and he wasn't rescued until you came home from -church." - -"That was too bad of you," her mother said, "for Mark had always a -great responsibility for you. One day when there was a bad -thunderstorm I found him dragging you by the hand to the nursery--such -a fat, sulky little thing you looked. - -"'I'm going to pray for Ann,' he told me. 'She won't pray for -herself.'" - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -"I don't know," said Mrs. Douglas, "when I first realised what was -expected of me as a minister's wife. I suppose I just grew to it. At -first I visited the people and tried to take an interest in them, -because I felt it to be my duty, and then I found that it had ceased to -be merely duty, and that one couldn't live among people and not go -shares with them. It was the long anxiety about Mark that really drew -us together and made us friends in a way that years of prosperity would -never have done. There was hardly a soul in the congregation who -didn't try to do us some little kindness in those dark days. Fife -people are suspicious of strangers and rather aloof in their manner, -but once you are their friend you are a friend for life. Ours was a -working-class congregation (with a sprinkling of well-to-do people to -help us along)--miners, and workers in the linoleum factories--decent, -thrifty folk. Trade was dull all the time we were in Kirkcaple, and -wages were low--ridiculously low when you think of the present-day -standard, and it was a hard struggle for the mothers with big young -families. Of course, food was cheap--half a loaf and a biscuit for -twopence--and 'penny haddies,' and eggs at ninepence a dozen--and -people hadn't the exalted ideas they have now." - -"Well," said Ann, who was busy filling her fountain-pen, "I seem to -remember rather luxurious living about the Mid Street, and the Nether -Street, and the Watery Wynd. Don't you remember I made friends with -some girls playing 'the pal-lals' in the street, and fetched them home -with me, and when upbraided for so doing by Ellie Robbie in the -nursery, I said, 'But they're _gentry_; they get kippers to their tea.' -My 'bare-footed gentry' became a family jest." - -Mrs. Douglas laughed, "I remember. To save your face we let them stay -to tea, but you were told 'Never again.'" - -"It was a way I had," said Ann. "I was full of hospitable instincts, -and liked to invite people; but as I had seldom the moral courage to -confess what I had done, the results were disastrous. Once I invited -eight genteel young friends who, thinking it was a pukka invitation, -arrived washed and brushed and dressed for a party, only to find us -tearing about the garden in our old Saturday clothes. Ellie Robbie was -justly incensed, as she hadn't even a sugar-biscuit to give an air of -festivity to the nursery tea, and you were out. In private she -addressed me as 'ye little dirt'; but she didn't give me away in -public. And the dreadful thing was that I repudiated my guests, and -looked as if I wondered what they were doing there." - -"Poor Ellie Robbie!" Mrs. Douglas said. "She was an anxious pilgrim, -and you children worried her horribly. She came when she was sixteen -to be nursemaid to Mark, and she stayed on till we left Kirkcaple, when -she married the joiner. Do you remember her much?" - -"I remember one evening in the Den. We were getting fern-roots, and -Ellie Robbie and Marget were both with us, and Marget said to Ellie, -'My, how neat your dress kicks out at the back when you walk!' Isn't -memory an extraordinary thing? I've forgotten most of the things I -ought to have remembered, but I can recall every detail of that -scene--the earthy smell of the fern-roots, the trowel sticking out of -Mark's pocket, the sunlight falling through the trees, the pleased -smirk on Ellie Robbie's face. I suppose I would be about five. At -that time I was completely lost about my age. When people asked me how -old I was, I kept on saying, 'Five past,' but to myself I said, 'I must -be far more, but no one has ever told me.' ... What was Ellie Robbie's -real name?" - -"Ellen Robinson. Her father's name was Jack, and he was supposed by -you children to be the original of the saying, 'Before you can say Jack -Robinson.' Marget and Ellie got on very well together, although they -were as the poles asunder--Ellie so small and neat and gentle, Marget -rather like a benevolent elephant. She is a much better-looking old -woman than she was a young one." - -"Did Marget come when Maggie Ann married?" - -"Yes. No--there was one between--Katie Herd. She stayed a month and -was doing very well, but she suddenly announced that she was going -home. When we asked her why, she replied with great candour, 'I dinna -like it verra weel,' and off she went. Marget was a success from the -first. We knew it was all right as soon as she began to talk of 'oor -bairns.' When the work was over she liked to go to the nursery, and -you children welcomed her with enthusiasm, and at once called on her to -say her poem. Then she would stand up and shuffle her feet, and say: - - 'Marget Meikle is ma name, - Scotland is ma nation, - Harehope is ma dwelling place-- - A pleasant habitation.' - -You delighted in her witticisms. 'Ca' me names, ca' me onything, but -dinna ca' me ower,' was one that had a great success. Both she and -Ellie were ideal servants for a minister's house; they were both so -discreet. No tales were ever carried by them to or from the Manse. -There was one noted gossip in the congregation who was a terror to -Ellie. Her husband had a shop, and of course we dealt at it--he was an -elder in the church--and Ellie dreaded going in, for she knew that if -Mrs. Beaton happened to be there she would be subjected to a fire of -questions. Marget enjoyed an encounter, and liked to think out ways of -defeating Mrs. Beaton's curiosity. Not that there was any harm in Mrs. -Beaton and her desire to know all our doings. I dare say it was only -kindly interest. I got to like her very much; she was a racy talker -and full of whinstone common sense. I was sorry for her, too, for no -woman ever worked harder, both in the shop and in the house, and her -husband and family took it all for granted. She did kind things in an -ungracious way, and was vexed when people failed to appreciate her -kindness. Across the road from Mrs. Beaton lived another elder's wife, -Mrs. Lister, who, Mrs. Beaton thought, got from life the very things -she had missed. - -"'Never toil yourself to death,' she used to tell me, 'for your man and -your bairns; they'll no thank you for it. Look at the Listers over -there. Willie Lister goes about with holes like half-crowns in his -heels, but he thinks the world of his Aggie.' And it was quite true. -I knew that gentle little Mrs. Lister was everybody's favourite, for -she contradicted no one, ruffled no one's feelings, while -rough-tongued, honest, impudent Mrs. Beaton was both feared and -disliked. And yet there was no doubt which of the two women one would -have chosen to ride the ford with. Had a tea-meeting to be arranged, a -sale of work to be organised, or a Christmas-tree to be provided for -Sunday school, Mrs. Beaton was in it--purse and person. - -"Mrs. Lister always took 'the bile' when anything was expected of her. -Once a year we were invited to tea at the Listers' house, and as sure -as we found ourselves seated before a table groaning with bake-meats -and were being pressed by Mr. Lister to partake of them because they -were all baked by 'Mamaw,' Mrs. Lister would say, 'Ay, and I had a job -baking them--for I was bad with "the bile" all morning.' As Marget -says, 'The mistress is awfu' easy scunnered,' and after hearing that my -tea was a pretence. It was worse when Agatha was there, for then we -were apt to wait for the announcement, and when it came give way to -painful, secret laughter. Agatha always laughed, too, when Mrs. Lister -capped her husband's sayings with 'Ay, that's it, Paw.' She was a most -agreeable wife, but she was a mother before everything. She would have -talked all day about her children, bursting out with odd little -disjointed confidences about them in the middle of a conversation about -something else. 'He's an awful nice boy, Johnnie; he's got a fine -voice,' would occur in a conversation about the Sustentation Fund, and -in the middle of a discussion about a series of lectures she would -whisper, 'He's a queer laddie, our Tommy. When Nettie was born he put -his head round my bedroom door and said, "Is she a richt ane, Maw?" He -meant not deaf or dumb or anything, you know.' She sometimes irritated -her husband by her overanxiety about the health of her children. If -one coughed in the night she always heard and, fearful of waking Mr. -Lister, she would creep out of bed and jump from mat to mat (I can see -her doing it--a sort of anxious little antelope), and listen to their -breathing, and hap them up with extra bedclothes. Nettie was the -youngest, and the delicate one, and had to be tempted to eat. 'Oh, ma -Nettie,' she would say, 'could you take a taste of haddie to your tea -or a new-laid egg?' - -"She was afraid of nearly everything--mice, and wind, and thunder, and -she hated the sea. One morning I met her almost distraught because her -boys had all gone out in a boat. 'Is their father with them?' I asked. -'No, no,' she said, 'I didna let him go; it was just the more to -drown.' Poor, anxious little body! God took her first, and she never -had the anguish of parting with her children.... What an opportunity -ministers and ministers' wives have of getting to know people as they -are--their very hearts!" - -"Yes," said Ann; "but it isn't every minister or every minister's wife -who can make anything of the opportunity. Just think of some we -know--sticks. Can you think of any poor stricken soul going to them to -be comforted 'as one whom his mother comforteth'? What would they say? -'Oh, indeed! How sad!' or 'Really! I'm very sorry.' Some little -stilted sentence that would freeze the very fount of tears. You, -Mother, I don't think you would say anything. To speak to those who -weep is no use; you must be able in all sincerity to weep with them. -As for Father, his voice was enough. Isn't it in one of the Elizabeth -books that someone talking of the futility of long, dull sermons, says, -'If only a man with a voice of gold would stand up and say, "Children, -Christ died for you," I would lay down my head and cry and cry...' Oh, -it's a great life if a minister and his wife are any good at their job, -and, above all, if they have a sense of humour!" - -"Well, I don't know about the sense of humour," Mrs. Douglas said -doubtfully. "I have often envied the people who never seem overcome by -the ludicrous side of things, who don't even seem aware that it is -there. Do you remember Mrs. Daw? I dare say not. My first meeting -with her was in the Path on a hot summer's day. I saw an enormously -stout woman toiling in front of me with a heavy basket, and as I passed -her she laid down her load, and turning to me a red, perspiring, but -surprisingly bland countenance, said, 'Hech! but it's a sair world for -stout folk.' There was something so Falstaffian and jocund about the -great figure, and the way she took me into her confidence, that I -simply stood still and laughed, and she laughed with me. We shared the -basket between us the rest of the way, and after that I often visited -her. But I could never let your father come with me; Mrs. Daw was too -much for us together. Only once we tried it, and she told us that the -doctor had advised her to take 'sheriff-wine and Van Houtong's cocoah,' -and her genteel pronunciation was too much for us. She was never at -her best when your father was there; she didn't care for the clergy. - -"'A lazy lot,' she called them. 'No wan o' them does a decent day's -work. If it was me I wad mak' a' the ministers pollismen as weel, and -that wad save some o' the country's siller.' She condescended to say -that she rather liked your father's preaching, though her reason for -liking it was not very flattering. 'I like him because he's no what ye -ca' a scholarly preacher. I dinna like thae scholars, they're michty -dull. I like the kind o' minister that misca's the deevil for aboot -twenty meenits and then stops.' - -"Mrs. Daw had me bogged at once when we started on theological -discussions. She would ask questions and answer them herself as she -knelt before the kitchen fire, engaged in what she called 'ringein' the -ribs.' - -"'Ay,' she would say, 'I'm verra fond o' a clear fire. Mercy me, it'll -be an awfu' want in heaven--a guid fire. Ye read aboot golden streets -and pearly gates, but it's cauld comfort to an auld body wha likes her -ain fireside. Of coorse we'll a' be speerits.' (It needed a -tremendous effort of imagination to picture Mrs. Daw as a spirit!) -'Wull speerit ken speerit?' and then, as if in scorn at her own -question, 'I daur say no! It wad be little use if they did. I could -get sma' enjoyment frae crackin' wi' a neebor, if a' the time I was -lookin' through her, and her through me. An' what wad we crack aboot? -Nae couthy bits o' gossip up there--juist harps an' angels fleein' -aboot....' - -"I would suggest diffidently that when we had gone on to another and -higher life we wouldn't feel the want of the homely things so necessary -to us here, and Mrs. Daw, shaking her head, would say, 'I dinna ken,' -and then with her great laugh (your father used to quote something -about a thousand beeves at pasture when he heard it) she would finish -the profitless discussion with 'Weel, sit ye doun by ma guid fire and -I'll mak' ye a cup o' tea in ma granny's cheeny teapot. We'll tak' our -comforts so long as we hae them, for think as ye like the next warld's -a queer turn-up onyway....'" - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -Evening had come again to Dreams, but Ann, instead of being found at -her writing-table, was stretched flat in the largest and softest of the -many comfortable chairs the room contained, with the Tatler, a great, -furry, sleepy mass, curled in her arms. - -"Dear me, Ann!" Mrs. Douglas said, looking up from her "reading." "You -seem very exhausted. Aren't you going to write to-night?" - -Ann looked through half-closed eyes at her mother. - -"Can't," she said lazily; "too dog-tired. A tea-party in the Green -Glen is too much for me. After such unwonted excitement I must sit all -evening with my hands before me. Mother, did we ever really entertain -people day after day--relays of them? I can't believe to-night that we -ever presided at meetings, and read papers, and gave away prizes, and -organised sales of work and cookery classes for the masses, and visited -the sick, and talked for ever and did not faint--such feeble folk as we -have become." - -Mrs. Douglas sighed as she laid down _Hours of Silence_. "I was of -some use in the world then," she said, "not a mere cumberer of the -ground." - -Ann sat up and laughed at her mother. "I'm not going to rise to that -fly, Motherkin. You remind me of the Glasgow woman we met in -Switzerland, who was suffering from some nervous trouble, and who said, -'I would give a thousand pounds to be the Mistress Finlay I once was.' -Perhaps you are not quite the Mistress Douglas you once were, but I can -see very little difference." - -Mrs. Douglas sighed again, and shook her head. "Oh--sic a -worrit-lookin' wumman!" Ann quoted. Then, "I must say I enjoyed the -tea-party. Mother, don't you like Mr. Sharp? I do. You needn't have -rubbed it in about sermons being no use if they are read. He sat with -such a guilty look like a scolded dog. I like his painstaking sermons -and his sincere, difficult little prayers. He will never make a -preacher, but he is a righteous man. Miss Ellen Scott cheered him by -saying read sermons were generally more thoughtful. I do wish we could -see the Scotts oftener. They have promised to come to luncheon one -day, and go thoroughly into the garden question. They go south, they -told me, in the early spring, so that the servants may get the -house-cleaning done, and they weary all the time to get back. I wonder -if they carry about them in London that sort of fragrance of the open -air." - -"They are nice women," said Mrs. Douglas, "and good, but they aren't my -kind of people. We don't care about the same things. But Mr. Sharp -makes me feel young again; he has the very atmosphere of a manse about -him." - -"The atmosphere of Mr. Sharp's Manse is chiefly paraffin oil," said Ann. - -At that moment Marget came into the room, ostensibly to remind Ann of -something needed at the village shop the next day, but really to talk -over the tea-party. - -"I think the minister enjoyed his tea," she remarked, "for there was an -awfu' wheen scones eaten." - -"He did, indeed, Marget," her mistress assured her. "He said he didn't -know when he had tasted such good scones. He was asking me what I -thought about him entertaining the office-bearers. He would like to, -but his housekeeper is delicate and afraid of work; and he's afraid to -suggest anything in case she departs." - -"Tets!" said Marget. "That wumman fair angers me. She's neither sick -nor sair, an' she's no' that auld aither, but she keeps that puir -laddie in misery a' the time in case she's gaun to break doon. She -never bakes him a scone, juist loaf breed a' the time, an' she'll no' -bother to mak' him a bit steamed pudden' or a tert, juist aye a -milk-thing, an' a gey watery milk-thing at that. She boasts that he -carries trays for her and breaks sticks--the wumman should be ashamed -to let the minister demean himsel'. If he wants to gie an Elders' -Supper, what's to hinder me and Mysie to gang doon and gie a hand?' - -"Why, Marget," Ann cried, "I haven't heard that expression since I was -a child. It was at Kirkcaple we had Elders' Suppers, wasn't it, -Mother--never in Glasgow?' - -"Only in Kirkcaple. They were held after the November Communions to -purge the roll." - -"_Purge the roll_," Ann murmured to herself; "of all delicious phrases!" - -"If ye'll excuse me, Mem," said Marget, "I'll tak' a seat for a meenit. -Mysie has just gone doon the road a step or two wi' the lassie Ritchie -frae the cottages." - -She seated herself primly on a chair and said: - -"I think ye should pit in yer _Life_ about the Elders' Suppers." - -Ann nodded. "I think so, Marget. I can just recall them vaguely. We -were all in bed before the elders actually came, but I remember the -preparation, and how deeply I envied you and Ellie Robbie staying up, -little dreaming, poor babe, how in after years I would envy the -children who get away to bed before the party begins." - -"They were terrifying occasions to me," said her mother. "Elders in -the mass are difficult to cope with. When they arrived they were shown -into the study, and when the business part of the proceedings was over -they trooped into the dining-room for supper. To keep the ball of -conversation going, to compel them to talk and save the party from -being a dismal failure was my job, and it was no light task. They were -the best of men, our Kirkcaple elders, but they let every subject drop -like a hot potato. It was from occasions like that I learned to talk -'even on,' as they say. I simply dared not let a silence fall, for, -from bitter experience, I knew that if I did and caught your father's -eye we would be sure to laugh and bring disgrace on ourselves." - -"Don't I know?" said her daughter. "Will you ever forget that night in -Glasgow, when we invited your class to an evening party, and they all -arrived in a body and in dead silence seated themselves round the room, -and none of us could think of a single word to say, and in an agony we -sat, becoming every moment more petrified, and my tongue got so stiff I -felt that if I spoke it would break off, and Father suddenly broke the -awful silence with 'Quite so,' delivered in a high, meaningless voice, -and we simply fell on each other helpless with laughter?" - -Mrs. Douglas laughed at the recollection. "Once you let a silence -fall," she said, "it's hopeless. Nothing seems important enough to -break it with.... To go back to the Elders' Suppers--we always had the -same menu. Hot roast beef, hot beef-steak pie, with vegetables, then -plum-pudding and apple-tart, and coffee. The oldest elder, Charles -Mitchell was his name, sat on my right hand, and the next eldest, Henry -Petrie, sat on my left. Charles Mitchell was so deaf that any attempts -to converse were thrown away on him. Henry Petrie was a man of most -melancholy countenance, and absolutely devoid of light table-talk. He -was sad, and said nothing, and might as well have been a post. One -night, having tried him on every subject with no success, I watched him -being helped to vegetables, and said, in desperation, 'Potatoes are -good this year, don't you think?' He turned on me his mournful eyes, -his knife suspended on its way to his mouth, and said, 'They'll no' -stand a boil.'" - -"D'ye mind," said Marget, "thon awfu' nicht when the pie cowpit on the -gravel? We were gettin' it covered at Wilson's the baker's, for they -made uncommon guid pastry, an' it didna come till the verra last -meenit. I was oot lookin' for the laddie at the gate, an' when he came -I took it frae him in a hurry, an', eh, mercy! if the whole hypothic -didna slidder oot o' ma hand on to the grund. I let oot a yell an' -Ellie came runnin' oot, and syne she brocht a lamp, an' we fund that -the pastry wasna muckle the waur, but the meat an' the gravy was a' -amang the gravel. What could we do but juist scoop up wi' a spoon what -we could get--meat, chuckie-stanes an' a'--an' into the hoose wi' it. -I can tell ye I handit roond the plates gey feared that nicht. I tried -ma best to get them to choose the guid clean roast beef, but there was -nae takkers. Juist pie, pie, pie, one after another until I was fair -provokit. Every meenit I expectit to hear their teeth gang crunch on a -stane. I can tell ye I was glad when I got their plates whuppit awa' -frae them, an' the puddens plankit doon. It was a guid thing -appendicitis wasna invented then, or they wad a' ha' been lying wi' it, -for an orange pip's a fule to a chuckie-stane." - -"Ay, Marget," said her mistress, "we had many a fright. As old Mrs. -Melville used to say, 'Folk gets awfu' frichts in this warld.' Well, -well!" Mrs. Douglas sighed as was her way. "We had many a successful -party, too." - -"Folk," said Marget complacently, "likit fine to come to oor hoose. -They aye got a graund feed an' a guid lauch forbye. The maister wasna -mebbe verra divertin' in company, being naitral quiet, but you were a -great hand at the crackin', Mem." - -Mrs. Douglas modestly waved away the compliment, while Ann said, "You -must have had some very smart suppers, for I have a distinct -recollection of eating ratafia biscuits and spun sugar from a trifle -one morning after a party." - -"The trifle evenings were few and far between," said her mother; "but -we had many a cosy little party among our neighbours." - -Marget again broke in. "No' to mention a' the folk that juist drappit -in. Oor hoose was a fair thro-gate for folk. A' the ministers that -lived a bit away kent whaur to come to in Kirkcaple for their tea. -Ye'll mind, Mem, that Mr. and Mrs. Dewar were never muckle away. When -Mr. Dewar walkit in frae Buckie and fund naebody in, he wad say to me, -'I'll be back for my tea, Marget. Isn't this baking-day?'" (Marget -adopted a loud, affected tone when imitating anyone; this she called -"speaking proper.") "Then Mistress Dewar wad come hoppin' in--'deed -she was often in afore I got to the door, for I wad mebbe be dressin' -when the bell rang. I wad hae to put on my wrapper again, an' there -she wad be sittin' on a chair in the lobby, knittin' awa' like mad. -'Always busy, you see, Marget,' she would say; 'I belong to the -save-the-moment society.' Then she wad gie that little lauch o' hers. -Sic a wee bit o' a thing she wis, mair like a bairn than a mairret -wumman." - -"Once," said Ann, "I went somewhere to spend a day with Mrs. Dewar, and -coming home we had to wait awhile for a train. Mrs. Dewar, of course, -was knitting, and as the light was bad in the waiting-room she calmly -climbed up on the table and stood, picking up a stitch, as near to the -gas-jet as she could get. She made the oddest spectacle with her -bonnet a little on one side, as it always was, her little blunt face -and childish figure. And to make matters worse she sang as she knitted: - - 'Did you ever put a penny in a missionary box? - A penny that you might have gone and spent like other folks?' - -It was torture to a self-conscious child to hear the giggles of the few -spectators of the scene." - -Mrs. Douglas laughed softly as if remembering something precious. -"Little Mrs. Dewar cared who laughed at her. That was what made her so -unusual and so refreshing. The queer, dear, wee body! There was no -one I liked so much to come to the house. She was so companionable and -so unfussy. If she could only stay ten minutes she was calm and -settled for that ten minutes, and then went. I have seen people who -meant to stay for hours keep me restless and unhappy all the time by -their fluttered look. Whenever I got tired of my house, or my work, or -myself, I went to Buckie to Mrs. Dewar. They had a delightful old -manse, with a charming garden behind, but in front it faced a blank -wall. Someone condoled with Mrs. Dewar on the lack of view. 'Tuts,' -she said, 'we've never time to look at a view.'' - -"Like old Mary Hart at Etterick, when a visitor said to her, 'What a -lovely view you have!' 'An' what aboot it?' was the disconcerting -answer. I remember the Dewars' manse, Mother. I once stayed there for -a week. What a pity Mrs. Dewar had no children of her own! She was a -wonder with children. I was only a tiny child, but she taught me so -much, and interested me in so many different things and people. After -breakfast I had to help her to 'classify' the dishes; put all the -spoons together, and wipe the knives with soft paper and make them all -ready to be washed. Then we saw that the salts and mustards were tidy, -and the butter and jam in dainty dishes. Then we would take a bundle -of American papers to a woman who had a son in the United States, and -on our way home she would take me down to the shore and point out the -exact spot on the rocks where she had once found a beautiful coral -comb, and where the next day she had found a mermaid sitting crying for -the loss of it. It was a long story, but I know it finished with the -grateful mermaid giving a large donation to the Sustentation Fund! -Mrs. Dewar had an extraordinary number of relations, who all seemed to -be generals and admirals, and things like that, and the tales of the -Indian nephews who had come to her as babies were enthralling to me. -They were grown up by that time, and, I suppose, on their way to become -generals, too. There was always something rather military about Mrs. -Dewar's small, alert figure. 'Mustard to mutton,' she would say to me -at dinner; 'child, you would be expelled from the mess.' She was -really too funny. When Mr. Dewar would say, 'My dear, have you seen my -spectacles?' she would reply, 'Seek and ye shall find, not speak and ye -shall find.' And if the servants worried her she walked about saying -the hymn beginning, 'Calm me, O God, and keep me calm.'" - -"I likit Mrs. Dewar," said Marget; "she had queer ways, but she was a -leddy. She was yin o' the Keiths o' Rathnay--rale gentry. Eh, Mem, -d'ye mind the black that was preachin' for Maister Dewar, an' they -couldna keep him in the hoose, for there was illness, and he cam' to -us? Eh, I say!" - -"Poor man! I remember your face, Marget, when I met you on the stairs -the morning he left. You were holding some towels away from you and -you said, 'I'm no verra sure aboot that black's towels.'" - -"Neither I wis," said Marget; "I'm aye feared the black comes off." - - - - -CHAPTER X - -"Mother," said Ann one evening, "do you realise that we are not getting -on at all well with your _Life_? Marget has developed this passion for -coming in and recalling absurd things--last night she wasted the whole -evening with the tale of her grandfather's encounter with a bull; racy, -I admit, but not relevant, and the night before she set me recalling -mad escapades of our childhood, and I didn't write a word. Where we -are, I don't know, but there are only three of us born--Mark and me and -Robbie. Jim has got to be worked in somewhere--and Rosamund. We were -all at Etterick recovering from whooping-cough when Jim was born, so I -don't remember much about him, but Rosamund's coming was a wonderful -event. She was my birthday present when I was eight." - -"In some ways Jim was the nicest of the babies," Mrs. Douglas said. -"He was so pretty and sweet-tempered--quite a show child. Whenever we -said, 'Sing, Jim,' he dropped on to the floor and began 'Lord, a little -band and lowly,' and he was no age at all." - -Ann laughed a sceptical laugh. "He ceased at an early age his efforts -to entertain; he has no use for company now. I suppose it might be a -reaction from his precocious childhood. But he still has the good -nature." - -"Indeed he has," said Jim's mother fervently. "The Fife people had a -saying 'born for a blessing,' and Jim has been that. Rosamund"--she -paused for a moment, then continued--"Rosamund was the most lovely -child I ever saw. No, it wasn't because I was her mother, unprejudiced -people said the same. I think, perhaps, it was the happiest time in my -life, those weeks after Rosamund came. Not that I hadn't always been -happy, but the years before had been rather a mêlée. Now I had found -my feet, more or less, and church work and housekeeping and baby -rearing no longer appalled me. It was in March she was born. We had -got all the spring cleaning done well beforehand, and the Deacons' -Court had papered and painted the stairs and lobbies, and we had -afforded ourselves new stair and landing carpets, and the house was as -fresh as it's possible for a house to be. I lay there with my baby, so -utterly contented, listening to the voices of you and the boys playing -in the garden in the spring sunlight, with pleasant thoughts going -through my mind about my healthy, happy children and a smooth running -church, and thanking God for the best man that ever woman had. And all -the kind people came flocking to see the new baby. Mrs. Dewar came -with a dainty frock made by herself and an armful of books and -magazines. These are George's choosing,' she said, 'and he says you -will enjoy them all. I think myself they look rather dull, so I've -brought you one of Annie Swan's--she's _capital_ for a confinement.' -And Mrs. Peat sat by the fire with Rosamund on her knee and said, 'Eh, -my dear, she's a beauty,' and blessed her. And you children came -running in with celandines from the Den, and grubby treasures which you -tried to thrust into the baby's tiny hand--I often look back on those -days. It seems to me that my cup of happiness must have been lipping -over. Rosamund grew like a flower. There was always something special -about her, and we felt it from the first. It wasn't only her beauty, -it was something fine, aloof. You remember her, Ann?" - -"Yes, I remember her, Mother. She was always different, even at the -beginning she wasn't red and puckered and squirming like most babies, -but faintly pink like a rose. Father worshipped her. Of course, you -know that you made far more of her than of any of the rest of us, and -we were glad and willing that it should be so. We were never rough -with her. She never lived the tumbled puppy-like life that I lived as -a child." - -Mrs. Douglas nodded. Presently she said: - -"You had a happy childhood, Ann?" - -"Hadn't we just? No children ever had a happier; we were so free. -When I see children dragging along dreary daily walks with nurses, I do -pity them. We hated being taken walks by Ellie Robbie, and generally -ran away. We used to meet the Johnstons with their Ellen, and then we -big ones dashed off together on business of our own, leaving the poor -nurses tethered to the prams. We were marauders of the worst type. -Having always a great hunger for sweets and being always destitute of -money, we had to devise schemes for getting them. In Nether Street -there stood a little sweetie shop owned by one Archibald Forbes, a -good-natured man who had once (in an evil moment for himself) given us -a few sweeties for nothing. With the awful pertinacity of children we -went back continually in the hope that he might do it again! (What you -and Father would have thought if you had seen us, I know not!) -Sometimes he ordered us away, but, when in a more forthcoming mood, he -would make us say recitations to him, and then reward us. He must have -been a very patient man, Mr. Archibald Forbes, for I can see him, his -spectacles on the end of his nose, and his bushy eyebrows pulled down, -standing behind his counter, listening without a movement to Mark -relentlessly getting through 'The scene was changed'--you know that -thing about Mary Queen of Scots?" - -"Indeed I do. If Mark was asked to recite when Mrs. Goskirk was -present, and she heard him begin, 'The scene was changed,' she gave a -resigned sigh and took up her knitting; and there was another about -Henry of Navarre that was almost as bad. The things you did were short -and harmless." - -"Oh, quite," said Ann. "There was one about a little girl called -Fanny, a child for whom we had a deep distaste. She had a dream about -being in heaven, I remember: - - 'I thought to see Papa's estate - But oh! 'twas far too small, Mamma; - The whole wide world was not so big - As William's cricket ball, Mamma.' - -And she finished: - - 'Your pretty Fanny woke, Mamma, - And lo! 'twas but a dream.' - -We thought the said Fanny was an insufferably sidey child, first of all -for mentioning 'Papa's estate,' then for saying 'And lo!' and, worst of -all, for alluding to herself as 'pretty Fanny'--that was beyond pardon. -Talking about money, someone once gave me a sixpence, which I took, -contrary to rule--we weren't allowed to take money. Feeling guilty, I -ran into a little shop in the Watery Wynd, a fish shop that sold fruit, -and demanded sixpenny-worth of pears. Ellie Robbie was hard behind, -so, with great presence of mind, I said, 'Give me one just now and I'll -get the rest another time.' That sixpennyworth of pears was a regular -widow's cruse to me. For weeks I called nearly every day at that shop -to demand a pear due to me, until they said if I came again they would -tell my father! We can't have had any decent pride about us, for I -don't think we minded being snubbed. When we ran away from Ellie -Robbie the harbour was generally our destination--a fascinating place -where Norwegian sailors strolled about in a friendly way and could -sometimes be persuaded to let us go on board their ships, where they -gave us hot coffee out of gaily painted bowls. The harbour was the -only romantic thing in Kirkcaple. Time meant nothing to us in those -days, and, so far as we were concerned, the King still sat in -Dunfermline town calling for a 'skeely skipper' to sail his ship to -'Norroway ower the faem'; and many an hour we stood looking out to sea -and watching for the gallant ship 'that never mair cam' hame.' Next to -the harbour we loved the coal-pit, and felt that we were indeed greatly -blessed to have one so near the house. There was no romance about a -coal-pit (except the romance that brings in the nine-fifteen); but -there were glorious opportunities for getting thoroughly dirty. We had -many friends among the miners, and they gave us rides on trolleys, and -helped us to make seesaws, and admitted us into lovely little outhouses -containing, among other treasures, the yellow grease that trains are -greased with. And there was the Hyacinth Den only a stone's-throw from -our own door, and the bleach-field beyond, and beyond that again the -Wild Wood. And our own Manse garden was not to be despised, for did it -not look into a field owned by the Huttons--a clan as wild and lawless -as our own, and many a battle took place between us. They had a friend -known to us as 'Wild Scott of the Huttons,' a truly great and tireless -fighter, and if he happened to be visiting them we never knew when a -head would pop up over the wall where the big pear tree grew, and -challenge us to mortal combat. Did you hear that Mark came across a -man in France, tremendously decorated and of high rank, who turned out -to be our old enemy 'Wild Scott of the Huttons'? Besides the permanent -feud with the Huttons, we had many small vendettas with boys from the -town, who stoned Mark on Sundays because they didn't like his clothes." - -Mrs. Douglas laid down her stocking, and said in a bewildered tone: - -"I never could understand why you were so pugnacious. You were a -dreadfully bad example to the other children in the place. They say -that ministers' children are generally worse than other people's--on -the principle, I suppose, that 'shoemakers' bairns are aye ill shod,' -but I never saw children more naturally bad than you were--well, not -bad, perhaps, but wild and mischievous to a degree. Your father -sometimes said that no one could doubt the theory of original sin after -seeing our family. Alison sometimes comes to me in her wheedling way -and says, 'Gran, do tell me about your bad children,' and I have to -tell her of the time when you celebrated the Queen's birthday at the -coal-pit by setting fire to a lot of valuable wood and nearly burned -the whole place, and the day when we lost you and found you all in the -Panny Pond--literally 'in' it you were, for you had made a raft and -sunk with it into the soft, black mud." - -"Yes," said Ann, "I was always sorry after that for 'The Girl who trod -on a Loaf,' for I knew the dreadfulness of sinking down, down." - -"I think my dear Robbie was the worst of you all. You others showed -faint signs of improvement, but he never deviated into good behaviour. -He was what is known in Priorsford as 'a notorious ill callant,' and in -Fife as 'an awfu' steerin' bairn.' When I went away for a day or two I -had always to take him with me, for I knew if I left him at home it -would be sheer 'battleation,' and yet he had the tenderest heart among -you, and Rosamund said, 'Robbie's the one who has never once been cross -to me.' I remember the first time I took him to church. He disliked -the look of the woman who sat in front, a prim lady, and he suddenly -tilted her bonnet over her eyes. Then he shouted to a well-behaved -child in the next seat, 'Bad boy make a face at me,' and before I could -stop him, hurled his shoe at him; and he announced at the top of his -voice, 'Mark and Ann's away to Etterick, but I don't care a wee, wee -button,' and had then to be removed. 'Wheep him,' Mrs. Beaton used to -counsel; but Mrs. Peat always said 'Robbie's a fine laddie.'" - -Ann nodded. "So he was, always. Though he was so turbulent and noisy -he was so uncunning you couldn't but think nobly of the soul. Mark and -I thought of the mischievous things to do, and Robbie threw himself -into them so whole-heartedly that generally he was the one caught and -blamed. The rest of us were better at wriggling out of things. Father -was never hard on us unless we cheated or told lies. He wasn't even -angry when the policeman complained of us--do you remember the one, an -elder in our church, who said in despair to his wife, 'I'll hae to jail -thae bairns and leave the kirk'? One of the few times I ever saw -Father really angry was when he was holding a class for young -communicants, and we crept into the cubby-hole under the stairs, where -the meter was, and _turned off the gas_. Father emerged from the study -like a lion, and caught poor Jim, who had loitered. The rest of us had -gained the attics and were in hiding. It must have been a great day -for the young communicants." - -"Ann! It was a shocking thing to do; it would have roused the -mildest-mannered man." - -"Father was very good-natured," said Ann, kneeling on the rug to put a -log on the fire; "but it was never safe to presume too much on his -mildness. He was subject to sudden and incomprehensible rages. One -day I innocently remarked that somebody had a 'polly' arm. I didn't -know that I meant a paralysed arm; I was only repeating what I had -heard others say, but Father grabbed me suddenly and said, 'You -wretched child! Where do you pick up those abominable expressions? Go -to the nursery.' I went weeping, feeling bitterly the injustice with -which I had been treated. But for every once that Father made us cry, -a hundred times he filled our mouths with laughter. All our best games -were invented by him. Whenever he put his head round the nursery door, -we knew we were going to have good times. There was a glorious game -about India, in which the nursery became a trackless jungle, and Father -was an elephant with a pair of bellows for a trunk. Sometimes on a -Sunday night, as a great treat, we were allowed to play Bible games. -Then we would march round and round the nursery table, blowing lustily -on trumpets to cause the walls of Jericho to fall, or Robbie as -Jeremiah would be let down by Mark and me into the pit (which was the -back of the old sofa), with 'clouts under his armpits'; or, again, he -and Mark lay prostrate on the sofa (now the flat roof of an Eastern -house), while I, as Rahab, covered them with flax. I have the nicest -recollections of winter evenings in the study, with the red curtains -drawn, and you sitting mending, when we lay on the hearth-rug, and -Father read to us of Bruce, and Wallace, and that lonely, lovely lady, -Mary of Scotland; but my most cherished memory is of a December day in -Glasgow. It was a yellow fog that seemed to press down on us and choke -us. You were out when we came in from our walk, the fire wasn't good, -and everything seemed unspeakably dreary. We were quarrelling among -ourselves and feeling altogether wretched, when the door opened and -Father looked in on us. 'Alone, folkies?' he said. 'Where's your -mother?' We told him you were out and that we had nothing to do, and -that everything was beastly. He laughed and went away, and came back -presently with a book. It was _The Queen's Wake_, and for the first -time we heard of 'bonnie Kilmeny' who went away to Fairyland. We -forgot the fog, we forgot our grievances; we were carried away with -Kilmeny. Then Father got a ballad-book, and that was even better, for -the clash of armies was ever music in our ears. We sprawled over him -in our excitement as he read how 'in the gryming of a new-fa'en snaw' -Jamie Telfer of the fair Dodhead carried the 'fraye' to Branksome ha'. -Our tea was brought in, but the pile of bread-and-butter was hardly -diminished, for Father read on, sometimes laughing aloud in his delight -at what he read, sometimes stopping for a moment to drink some tea, but -his eyes never leaving the printed page. How could we eat when we were -hearing for the first time of Johnnie Armstrong going out to meet his -King in all good faith, only to find that death was to be his portion? -We howled like angry wolves when Father read: - - 'To seek het water beneath cauld ice, - Surely it is a great folie-- - I have asked grace at a graceless face, - But there is nane for my men and me.' - -When you came in, we only looked at you vaguely, and said, 'Go on, -Father, go on,' and he explained, These benighted children have never -heard the _Border Ballad_', Nell,' and then you sat down and listened -too.... D'you remember people in Glasgow, who owned big restaurants -all over the place--Webster, I think, was the name, and there was a fat -only son who sometimes came in to play with us? I don't know what Mr. -Webster was like in his home life, but that fat boy said to me very -feelingly, '_Yours is a jolly kind of father to have_.' It was -generous of him, for only that morning he had taunted me with the fact -that my father played a penny whistle, and I, deeply affronted, had -replied with a tasteful reference to the restaurants, 'Well, anyway, he -doesn't sell tuppenny pies like your father does.'" - -"Oh, that penny whistle!" said Mrs. Douglas, with a laugh and a sigh. -"He made wonderful music on it. There was always something of the Pied -Piper about your father. Down in the district the children used to -come up and pull at his coat and look up in his face; they had no fear -of him; and whenever he entered the hall on Band of Hope nights the -place was in an uproar with yells for a story. He would get up on the -little platform and, leaning over the table, he would tell them 'Jock -and his Mother,' or 'The Bannock that went to see the World,' or -'Maya'--fine stories, but not a moral to one of them." - -"That was the best of Father's stories: they never had morals," said -Ann. "The real secret of his charm was that at heart he was as much a -child as any of them. Once I was down in the district with him, and we -saw a very dirty little boy sitting on a doorstep. He greeted Father -with a wide grin, and beckoned to him with a grimy forefinger. Father -went obediently, and very slowly and mysteriously the little fellow -drew from his ragged pocket a handful of marbles (very chipped and -dirty ones) and said, 'Thae's whit ye ca' _bool_,' and Father, bending -over the small figure, replied, 'So they are, sonny, so they are!' - -"Yes, the fat boy was right: he was a jolly kind of father to have!" - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -"... When Rosamund was six months old we left Kirkcaple. It was a -great uprooting. You don't live thirteen years in a place in close -touch with the people without becoming deeply attached both to the -place and people--and in the last year of our stay at Kirkcaple we had -a wonderful experience. There was a great awakening of interest in -spiritual things--a revival--and we saw many enter into life...." - -Mrs. Douglas stopped abruptly and regarded her daughter. - -"Ann," she said, "why do you begin to look abashed and miserable if I -mention the word revival? Does conversion seem to you an improper -subject?" - -Ann screwed her face uncomfortably. "Oh, I don't know, but I confess I -do dislike to hear people talking glibly about that sort of thing. It -somehow seems rather indecent. You didn't realise, you and Father, how -miserable it was for us children going to so many evangelistic -meetings. We liked shouting Sankey's hymns, and the addresses were all -right, but oh! those 'after-meetings,' when we sat sick with fright, -watching earnest young men working their way down the church to speak -personally to us. How could we say we were on the road to heaven? And -we were too honest--at least the boys were too honest--simply to say -Yes, when asked if we were saved. I shall never think it right or -proper that any casual person should leap on one and ask questions -about one's soul. I should object to anyone, other than a doctor or -intimate friend, asking me questions about my bodily health, and why -should I be less select about my immortal soul? And it seemed to us so -dreadful that they should count the converts. I remember with what -abhorrence we once heard Mrs. Macfarlane tell how she and her husband -had both talked to a young man about his soul. 'And when we had shown -him the light'--you remember the sort of simper she gave--'and he had -gone on his way rejoicing, I said to Mr. Macfarlane, "George dear, is -it your soul or mine?"' In other words, 'My bird, sir.' I suppose she -was out for stars in her crown, but I would rather have none than cadge -for them like that." - -"Oh, Ann," cried her mother, "you don't know what you are saying. It -hurts me to hear you talk in that flippant way about----" - -"Mother, you needn't make a mournful face at me." Ann's face was -flushed, and she looked very much in earnest. "You've simply no idea -how difficult it is for a minister's family to be anything but mere -formalists. You see, we hear so much about it all. From our infancy -we are familiar with all the shibboleths, until they almost cease to -have any meaning. I used to think as a child that it was most unfairly -easy for the heathen. I pictured myself hearing for the very first -time the story of Jesus Christ, and I thought with what gratitude and -love I would have fallen on my knees to thank Him.... As it was, we -knew the message so well that our attention was chiefly directed to the -messengers, and you must admit, Mother, we had some very queer ones. -You can't have forgotten the big, red-haired evangelist, as rough as -the heather, who told us a story of a pump being 'off the fang,' and -finished remarkably with 'Ah, my friends, God's pump's never off the -fang.' I think it was the same man who said we were just like faggots, -'fit for the burning.' Oh, but do you remember the man in Glasgow who -illustrated the shortness of life with a story about 'Gran'papaw' who -..." - -"_Ann!_" - -Mrs. Douglas had finished her daily reading and sat with the pile of -devotional books on her knee, eyeing her daughter with a mixture of -disapproval and unwilling amusement. "Ann, you turn everything into -ridicule." - -Ann protested. "There's no ridicule about it. It is a very good -serious tale. 'Gran'papaw he gae two...'" - -Again her mother interrupted her. - -"I'm sure your father would be sorry to hear you laughing at -evangelists. He revelled in evangelistic work." - -Ann gave a squeal of rage. "_Mother_! D'you know what sort of picture -of Father you would give to anyone who didn't know him? Someone with a -smug face and a soapy manner, and a way of shaking hands as if he had a -poached egg in the palm. Could there be anything less like my father? -There was nothing unctuous about him, nothing of the professional -religionist. He was like a Raeburn portrait to look at... - - 'A face filled with a fine old-fashioned grace, - Fresh-coloured, frank----' - -and he never thought that because he was virtuous there should be no -more cakes and ale. He was a minister simply because the great fact of -his life was Christ, and he desired above everything to bring men to -Him. I never read of Mr. Standfast but I think of Father, for he, too, -loved to hear his Lord spoken of, and coveted to set his feet in his -Master's footprints...." - -Ann stopped and looked in a shamefaced way at her mother. - -"And now I'm preaching! It's in my blood--well, you were beginning to -tell me about the revival in Kirkcaple when I started to blaspheme. -Please go on." - -"Well, you may laugh at evangelists..." - -"_Who's_ laughing?" cried Ann. - -Her mother went on calmly. "But I assure you that was a wonderful time -in Kirkcaple. Night after night the church was crowded, and girls and -young men went as blithely to those meetings as ever they went to a -dance. You may talk as you like of 'emotionalism' and 'the excitement -of the moment,' but remember, this all happened nearly thirty years -ago, and the young people who decided for Christ then are the chief -support of the Church to-day. I am very certain they have never -regretted staying to the after-meeting and throwing in their lot with -Christ. How easy the church work was that winter! The Wednesday -prayer-meeting overflowing from the hall into the church, money -forthcoming for everything--you may know conversion is real when it -touches the pocket. We had a series of special meetings more or less -all through that winter, and, of course, all the speakers stayed with -us. Marget never grumbled at the extra work. One night, at a meeting -where testimonies were asked for, to my utter amazement she got up and -stammered out a few words. Long afterwards, in Glasgow, when she lost -her temper about something, she said, 'Eh, I say, I'll need to be -speakin' in the kirk again.' She had evidently found it beneficial. -We had all sorts of ministers and evangelists staying with us, some -delightful, others rather difficult. One week-end the great Dr. -Bentley came to preach, a very godly but a very austere man. Your -father was preaching somewhere, and I had to bear the brunt of him -alone. Immediately he had had tea he suggested that we should have a -little Bible-reading and prayer. It was a dreadful ordeal for me, for -he kept asking me what passage I should like read, and my mind went -blank and I couldn't think of any! Finally I managed to slip out of -the room, leaving him to rest, and not noticing that Robbie was playing -quietly behind the sofa. Shortly after that we heard an uproar in the -study, Dr. Bentley's voice in trumpet notes and yells of rage from -Robbie. With Ellie Robbie at my heels, I rushed to the rescue.... Dr. -Bentley met me with the words: 'I have had dealings with your son.' It -turned out that, seeing the old man sitting alone, Robbie had gone to -the bookcase, pulled out as large a volume as he could manage, and -carried it to him. Dr. Bentley told him to put the book back on the -shelf and bring no more. Robbie brought another and another, and Dr. -Bentley whipped him. Full of fury at the results of his well-meant -efforts to entertain him, Robbie kicked Dr. Bentley--kicked the great -Dr. Bentley--and was carried out of the room in Ellie Robbie's arms -quite unrepentant, shouting as he went, 'Abominable gentleman!'" - -Ann laughed with much enjoyment. "It isn't one of the duties of a -guest to beat his host's children, but he met his match in Robbie. You -must have had a dreadful week-end, poor Mother!" - -"Oh, dreadful! Everything went wrong. Dr. Bentley told me that he -didn't like a fire in his bedroom, but that he liked a fire in his bed. -This, he explained very solemnly, meant two hot-water cans and six -pairs of blankets. Marget put in one hot-water can (a 'pig' one) and -had gone to fill an india-rubber one, when Ellie Robbie, wishful to -help, and unaware of one 'pig' in the bed, slapped in another. They -met, and each halved neatly in two. The bed was a sea, and we were -looking despairingly at it when Dr. Bentley appeared in the doorway and -announced that he would like to retire for the night! ... Some time -afterwards Dr. Bentley was again in the neighbourhood and called, but -found no one at home. Marget, telling us about his visit, said, 'It -was thon auld man, I dinna mind his name; the yin the mistress is -fear't for.'" - -"With reason, I think," said Ann. "What an orgy of meetings you must -have had that winter!" - -"Yes, but I can't remember that there were any bad effects, or that we -sank into indifference when the stimulus of the meetings was removed. -Rather we went on resolved to do better than we had ever done, for the -Lord had done great things for us.... Then came the call to Glasgow, -and it was very difficult to decide what was for the best. We didn't -love cities, and we had no friends in the West; on the other hand, we -had to think about the education of you children. Your father was -going on for forty, and he felt, if he ever meant to take a call, now -was the time. You children were delighted. Any change seems a change -for the better to a child; you never gave a thought to the big, sunny -garden you were leaving, or the Den, or the familiar friendly house, or -the kind people. The day your father and I went to Glasgow to look for -a house you all stood on the doorstep and shouted after us, 'Be sure -and get one near a coal-pit.'" - -"Yes," Ann said; "the thought of a flitting enchanted us, and we began -at once to pack. Where was it Robbie had inflammation of the lungs? -Before we went to Glasgow, wasn't it?" - -"The year before--in spring. He had got hot playing football and stood -in the east wind. He was very ill, poor darling, and for long he -needed great care. I got to know my wild boy in a different way in -those days and nights of weakness." - -Ann left her writing-table and sat on the fender-stool. She pushed the -logs together and made them blaze, and, reaching over to the big basket -that stood by the fireplace, she threw on log after log until the whole -room was filled with the dancing light. - -"Now, that's something like a fire," she said. "A dull fire makes one -feel so despairing.... Robbie was so very proud of having had an -illness; he always called it 'my inflammation,' and when he broke his -arm his conceit knew no bounds. I'm afraid I broke it for him by -falling off the seesaw on to the top of him. We didn't know what had -happened, but we saw that his arm looked very queer, and Mark and I -brought him home and helped him to take off his boots, and were quite -unusually attentive to him. He didn't say a word about it hurting -until he heard that it was broken, when he began to yell at once, and -said, 'Will I die?--will I die?' Reassured on that point, he was very -pleased about his broken arm." - -"Two days later," said Robbie's mother, "he escaped from the nursery -and was found on the rafters of an unfinished house (how he managed to -climb with his arm in splints, I know not) singing 'I'm the King of the -Castle.'" - -Ann laughed softly. "He never let us forget his achievements, dear -lamb. If we quarrelled about the possession of anything, Robbie was -sure to say, 'Give it to me, for I've had the inflammation.' Mark made -a poem about him, which ran: - - 'And if in any battle I come to any harm, - Why, I've had the inflammation, I've had a broken arm.' - -It must have been no light task to remove us all from Kirkcaple to -Glasgow." - -Mrs. Douglas shook her head. "A terrible undertaking. But we were -young and strong. Mrs. Peat came up one day and found me crying as I -packed. 'Eh, my dear,' she said, 'you're vexed to go, and I'm glad to -see you're vexed to leave us all, but you're taking all your own with -you. You don't know what it means to leave a grave....' Everybody -made farewell parties for us, and we departed in a shower of presents -and good wishes. That was nearly thirty years ago, and only the other -day I met one of our Kirkcaple people in Edinburgh, and she said to me, -with tears in her eyes, 'Hardly a day passes in our house without a -mention of your name, and never a Sabbath comes but we say, "If only we -could hear Mr. Douglas' voice again!" Who says the ministry is not a -repaying job?' Well, we got to Glasgow--I think you children all went -to Etterick, didn't you?" - -"Only the boys," said Ann. "I went straight to Glasgow with you and -Baby Rosamund. It was a great experience for me. I boasted about it -for long. I was allowed to attend the Induction Soirée, and heard you -and Father praised by everyone. It was my first experience of Glasgow -humour, and very funny I thought it. I remember one old elder who -spoke told us of what a fine speech he had made the night before in his -bed. 'My,' he said, beaming round on the company, 'what grand speeches -ye can make in yer bed!' but it turned out he had forgotten it on the -platform. I thought the Glasgow accent fascinating, and I liked to be -told that I was a 'good wee Miss.' I began to like Glasgow people that -night, and I've gone on liking them better and better ever since." - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -"And now," said Ann, "we're done with Kirkcaple and must tackle -Glasgow. And the Tatler is sitting on my MS., and that won't improve -its appearance. Odd the passion that cat has for paper! Perhaps in a -previous existence it was an editor. If the soul of my grandam might -haply inhabit a bird, the soul of an editor--now he's done it! ..." -She flew to rescue the sheets that the Tatler had scattered on the -floor, while her mother put on large tortoise-shell spectacles and -knelt down to help. - -"Don't you think," Mrs. Douglas said, when the sheets had been -rearranged in order, "that you'd better read me what you've written?" - -Ann shook her head. "I think not. It's very majestical and not quite -true. You see, if you're writing a _Life_, it's no good making a bald -narrative of it. One has to polish it up a bit for the sake of -posterity. I'm making you a very noble character, I assure you. As -old Mrs. Buchanan said to me, after seeing me in some _tableaux -vivants_, 'My, you were lovely. I didna ken ye.' The children will be -proud to think you were their grandmother." - -Mrs. Douglas turned to take up her stocking, with a bored look. - -"I wonder," she said, "that you can be bothered talking so much -nonsense." - -"I wonder, too," said Ann, "with the world in the state it is in. But -I do agree, there is nothing so trying as a facetious person! I wish I -hadn't such high spirits. No wonder, Mother, that you are such a -depressed wee body: to have had a husband and family who were always in -uproarious spirits was enough to darken anybody's outlook on life. The -first thing I remember about Glasgow is that you had a curly yellow -coat and a sort of terra-cotta bonnet." - -Mrs. Douglas' face lit up with a smile that made her look almost -girlish. "That coat! I do remember it well. It was 'old gold' -trimmed with plush of the same shade. My father bought it for me. I -met him one day in Princes Street, and I must have looked very shabby, -for he looked me up and down and said, 'Nell, surely the Sustentation -Fund is very low,' and he took me into Jenner's, and got me that coat -and bonnet. He got you a coat, too, and a delicious little astrakhan -cap like a Cossack's. You were the prettiest thing in it, for your -hair curled out under it like pure gold." - -"I must have been a picturesque child," said Ann complacently, "for -several times, you remember, artists asked me to sit for them." Then -she laughed. "But I needn't boast about that, for my pride once got a -severe fall. One day, at Etterick, we came on an artist (he turned out -to be someone quite well known) sketching up the burnside. I -obligingly posed myself in the foreground, and--he gave me sixpence to -go away. _And I took it!_" - -Mrs. Douglas smiled at the reminiscence, but her thoughts were still -with the "old gold coat." - -"It always pays to get a good thing. That coat wore and wore until -everybody got tired of seeing me wear it, and it never really got very -shabby--the bonnet, too." - -"I suppose you would be about thirty," Ann said. "You said to us -walking down to church one day that you were thirty, and then you said -you would need to get a new bonnet. I looked at you and thought to -myself: 'I shan't say it, but I'm quite sure it isn't worth while for -Mother to get a new bonnet; she _can't_ live much longer.' I was -shocked to hear that you had attained to such a great age, for I -thought at thirty one was just toppling into the grave. Wasn't Glasgow -a great change from Kirkcaple? 'East is East and West is West, and -never the twain shall meet.'" - -"Oh, we hadn't much time to worry over East and West; we had our work -to do. We were very fortunate in getting a suitable house in a nice -district. We might have been miles from a city in that road of decent -grey houses, each in its own quiet garden. And the gardens all opened -into an avenue of beautiful trees that had once been the entrance to -the big house of the district. We couldn't have been more happily -situated, and it was a comfortable house with good-sized rooms -and--what your father specially prized--a well-placed staircase with -shallow steps. It also contained what we had never had before, a -basement flat; but it wasn't as bad as it sounded, for the house was -built on a slope, and the kitchen, though downstairs, was on a level -with the garden." - -"We children didn't mind the basement," said Ann; "it was a joy to us, -full of funny corners, excellent for hide-and-seek. One door had the -legend _Dark Room_ painted on it, and was an endless source of -speculation. Could the former tenant have been a Nihilist? or a -murderer? In the bright hours of the morning we liked to dally with -those thoughts, but when the shadows lengthened we told each other that -he was only a man who tried to develop his own negatives. We never -felt in the least cabined or confined in Glasgow. It was a joke -against me for long that when we first arrived I reproved Mark and -Robbie for walking on the garden wall, saying, 'We must be very genteel -now that we live in Glasgow.'" - -"You didn't live up to that counsel of perfection, my dear. Anything -less genteel than your behaviour! One of the first things you and Mark -did was to attend a wedding in the avenue--and when I say 'attend,' I -mean you stood outside the gate of the house with a lot of other -abandoned children and shouted, 'Hard up!' when the bride and -bridegroom left without scattering pennies. Jeanie Tod nearly wept -with shame when she told me of it." - -"I remember Jeanie Tod," said Ann. "She was small, but very -determined. She had a brother a sailor, and used to let me read his -letters. One of them described the writer riding in a rickshaw, and -finished: 'By Jingo, dear sister, you should have seen your Brother -that Day.' ... It must have been difficult for you, Mother, to leave -friendly Kirkcaple and go to a great city where you knew almost no one. -Weren't you lonely at first?" - -"Never for a moment; we just seemed to tumble in among friends." - -"The church people, you mean?" - -"Oh no--well, of course, they were friends--very dear friends--but you -need outside friends, too. I found three very good ones waiting for me -in Glasgow." - -"One was Mrs. Burnett!" said Ann. - -"Yes. Mrs. Burnett was my first friend. The day we arrived in the -avenue--we were next-door neighbours--was the funeral day of her eldest -daughter. With most women that would have been an excuse not to come -near us for months, but she came almost at once. She said that it made -a link between us, and that, in a way, our coming helped a little to -fill the blank left by the dear daughter's death. Her kindness and -interest were very grateful to me, a stranger in a strange land, or, as -Marget put it, 'a coo on an unco loan.' It was a great pleasure to run -in for an hour to the Burnetts'; it was such a big, comfortable, -perfectly kept house (the servants had been with them for twenty and -thirty years, and had grown into Mrs. Burnett's dainty ways), and there -was always a welcome awaiting one at any time." - -"They had a splendid garden," said Ann, "with a swing and all manner of -amusing things; and I think they really liked having children to tea. -I remember their Hallow-e'en parties!" - -"Mrs. Burnett looked like an abbess," Mrs. Douglas said. "She always -wore a soft black dress--cashmere or silk--and a tiny white lace shawl -turned back over her white hair. The style of dress suited her -perfectly, for she was very tall and graceful, and glided rather than -walked. I admired her very much, being so far from dignified myself, -and I used to wonder how she kept so perfectly tidy and unruffled when -I always looked as if I had been in the heart of a whirlwind." - -"Oh, Mother!" laughed Ann, "just look at the difference in the two -lives! Mrs. Burnett with her family grown up, a household running on -well-oiled wheels, and a serenity partly natural and partly gained -through long years' experience; you in the very forefront of the -battle, with an incredibly wild and wicked family, a church to run, -small means, and not an ounce of serenity anywhere in your little -active body." - -"Well, but now that I have leisure I'm not any more serene," Mrs. -Douglas complained. "But it was comfort unspeakable just to see Mrs. -Burnett, to know that she was near. We used to think that she sat and -wondered what she would send us next, she loved so to give." - -"I never smell a hyacinth," said Ann, "but I think of Mrs. Burnett. -She always sent us the very first pot of hyacinths that came out in the -greenhouse." - -Mrs. Douglas nodded. "Mrs. Burnett would like to be remembered by -spring flowers. She loved them as she loved all young things. Her one -little grandson, Jimmie, was the same age as Davie. Her great regret -when she was dying was that she wouldn't see the two boys grow up. Ah, -but if she could have known--they didn't grow up very far. Jimmie was -killed at the landing in Gallipoli, and Davie at Arras, when they were -still only little boys." - -"You have always been well off for friends, Mother," Ann said, breaking -a silence. "In Inchkeld, in Kirkcaple, Glasgow. It's because you are -such a friendly person yourself." - -"Oh, me! I often feel myself a poor creature, with little to give in -return for treasure-houses opened to me." - -Ann laughed unbelievingly and said, "I'm bound to admit we have had -some wonderful friends--Miss Barbara Stewart for one. She was one of -your three friends, wasn't she?" - -"Indeed she was! Miss Barbara--to say her name gives me a warm feeling -at my heart." - -"Miss Barbara," Ann repeated. "What a lot the name conjures up! I -don't know anyone who made more of life. She might have been a lonely, -soured old woman, for she was the very last of her family, wasn't she? -but to the great family of the poor and the afflicted she said, 'You -are my brothers and my sisters.' I wonder how many men in Glasgow owe -their start in life to Miss Barbara? I wonder how many lonely women -died blessing her that it was their own and not a workhouse roof that -covered them at the end? I wonder how many betrayed souls sinking -hopelessly into hell had a succouring hand held out to them by that -sharp-tongued spinster? How did you know Miss Barbara so well? She -didn't belong to the church." - -"Not in our time, but all her people had belonged. Miss Barbara had -gone to the other side of Glasgow, and it was too far for her to come. -She always took a great interest; but what good work was she not -interested in? She sat there in her vast, early-Victorian dining-room, -wrapped in innumerable shawls and woolly coats, for she suspected -draughts from every quarter, a tall woman, broadly made, with a large, -strong face. What would I not give now to go into that room and see -those whimsical, shrewd, kind eyes, and feel the wealth of welcome in -those big soft hands as she rose to greet me, with shawls falling from -her like leaves in Vallombrosa. She generally received me with abuse. -'What d'you mean by coming out on such a day? You'll go home with a -chill and bother your poor family by lying in bed. Here--see--sit down -in that chair and hold the soles of your boots to the fire,' all the -time doing things for one's comfort, ringing for tea to be brought in, -kneeling down to make fresh toast. She hated to trouble anyone; it was -almost an obsession with her, the desire not to be a nuisance. She had -a very aged cook, who had been in the Stewart family all her life, and -it was said that Miss Barbara, herself nearly eighty, got up every -morning and carried tea to her before she would let her rise to her -duties." - -"Dear Miss Barbara," Ann said, stroking the Tatler's smoke-grey fur, -"she wasn't only good, she was delightfully funny. Her passion for -cats!--not for well-fed, comfortable cats, but for poor, lean, homeless -ones. She used to send me into a butcher's shop to buy a quarter of a -pound of mince-collops, and then down area steps carrying it (the -horrid stuff oozing clammily through the paper) after some terrified -animal that fled from me, paying no attention to my blandishments. She -was utterly unlike the ordinary rich old woman, flattered and kowtowed -to for her money until she thinks she isn't made of ordinary clay. I -don't think Miss Barbara ever gave a thought to herself; she hadn't -time, she was so busy looking after other people." - -"In her youth," said Mrs. Douglas, "Miss Barbara was a great worker in -the slums of Glasgow, but when I knew her she wasn't able for that, and -people had to go to her. The clergy waited on her by the dozen, and -everyone else who wanted money for good works, not to speak of many who -were mere cranks and charlatans. Everyone who came was admitted, and -Miss Barbara wouldn't have listened to a word against any of them." - -"No," said Ann; "she would have said with Falstaff, 'Tush, man, mortal -men, mortal men'; or, rather, she wouldn't, for she had probably never -heard of Falstaff, and thought that anyone who could read Shakespeare -for pleasure was eccentric almost to madness. If you told her of a -book you had enjoyed, she would say, 'Is it true? No? Well, then----' -But everyone who went to No. 10 got a hearing." - -"Everyone got a hearing," said Mrs. Douglas, "and whatever else they -got, you may be sure a good tea was never wanting. Many a tired and -hungry voyager on life's ocean found sanctuary at No. 10. You remember -when I had that bad breakdown, and you were all worn out with me, how -Miss Barbara took me to No. 10 and coaxed and scolded me back to -health! And I was too miserably ill and weak even to pretend -gratitude, and, driving with her, I used to envy all the happy people -walking on their own feet, and one day she said to me, with an amused -twinkle in her eyes, 'Ay, and you never thought to pity the poor folk -in their carriages before.'' - -"I think she was funniest at Etterick," said Ann. "She kept regretting -all the time the street lamps and pavements, and the sight of Tweed -winding in links through the glens vexed her practical soul. 'What a -waste!' she said; 'couldn't it be cut straight like a canal?' Father's -face! How Miss Barbara would have hated the Green Glen!" She jumped -up to open the door for the Tatler. "He's tired of us. He wants to -try Marget and Mysie. Who was your third great friend, Mother? You -had so many, I'm interested to know which you considered your greatest." - -"Mrs. Lang." - -"Oh, of course--Mrs. Lang. She's been dead for a long time now." - -Mrs. Douglas sighed. "Nearly all my friends are dead." - -"Because," said Ann, "you always liked old people best, and made your -friends among women much older than yourself. And now you mourn and -say your friends are nearly all gone, and talk about the elect being -gathered in--but, elect or not, people are apt to be gathered in if -they are over eighty." - -Mrs. Douglas sighed more deeply, and, ignoring her daughter's bracing -remarks, said, "I can't care for new friends as I cared for the old; -they can't go back with me. I'm not interested in their talk.... Mrs. -Lang was a very good friend to me at my busiest time. What a capable -woman she was. There was nothing she couldn't do with her hands. When -the boys went to Oxford she practically made their outfits, and made -them beautifully. She used to say that it was a kindness to let her -help, for she had had such a busy life, she simply couldn't rest. I -know now what she meant." - -"I remember Mrs. Lang very well," Ann said--"a stately woman who rocked -a little when she walked. She had crinkly white hair parted in the -middle, and keen, blue eyes in a fresh-coloured face. I always think -of her as dressed in a seal-skin mantle trimmed with skunk and a Mary -Stuart bonnet." - -Mrs. Douglas laid down her stocking. "Yes. I remember her best like -that. I did like to see her come rocking in at the gate, though -sometimes I was a little afraid of her. Your father used to say she -was a typical Scotswoman of the old school--a type that has almost -disappeared. There wasn't a trace of sickly sentiment about her. She -was a stern, God-fearing woman, with a strong brain and a big heart and -an unbending will. She lived to be nearly ninety, and to the end her -mind was as clear as a bell. In the last letter she wrote to me: 'I go -out for a walk every day, no matter what the weather is, and I am twice -in church every Sabbath.'" - -"Didn't Mrs. Lang come from Fife?" Ann asked. "I know there was always -an east windy tang about her! She had nothing of the soft, couthy -Glasgow manner. I was really very scared of her. When she discovered -me hopelessly ignorant (as she was always doing) about something she -thought I should have known all about, like jam-making, she had a way -of saying: 'You amuse me very much,' which was utterly crushing. And -she was very much given to contradicting people flat, generally -prefacing her remarks with 'You will _pardon me_!' delivered like a -sledge-hammer. Well, it's too late to write anything to-night. Marget -and Mysie will be in for prayers in a few minutes, and I've an -interesting book to finish. To-morrow I shall add another stone to the -noble pile I am raising to you--but, no, it can't be to-morrow. -To-morrow I go to Birkshaw for two nights. Mother, why did I say I -would go? I can't bear to leave Dreams for two whole nights." - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -For two days it was as if an enchantment had been thrown over Dreams, -so great a quiet held the house. Marget and Mysie went about their -work hardly speaking at all; Mrs. Douglas sat alone with her stocking -and her books of devotion; the Tatler slept for hours together on -chairs that he knew well were prohibited; the very fire did not -crackle, but lay in a deep glow; the wind was hushed, and moved softly -round the white-faced house among the heather. - -The enchantment lifted when the pony-cart bringing Ann back was seen -coming up the hill. Mrs. Douglas at once began to pile the fire high -with logs and coal; the Tatler, as if aware of an impending upheaval, -awoke, stretched himself, and stalked out of the room, while in the -kitchen Mysie flew to make hot toast and Marget gave a final polish to -the already glittering silver. - -"Hear till her," Marget said to Mysie, with a broad grin on her face, -as Ann's voice was heard greeting her mother. - -"She was aye like that; aye lauchin', an' aye fu' o' impudence, the -cratur! It's like a death in the hoose when she's oot o't. Awa' ben -wi' the tea, Mysie woman; she'll want it afore she tak's off her -things." - -"Well," said Mrs. Douglas, some time later, "it is good to have you -back." - -She had got her "reading" over early, the pile of books was put away, -and she was ready to listen to Ann's news. - -"After two days!" said Ann, "you remind me of Davie when he was once in -bed with a bilious turn till lunch-time. The moment he got up he -rushed to the window and said, with a gasp of thankfulness, 'It's good -to see the green grass again.' You must have enjoyed the rest from my -long tongue. I needn't ask if anyone called." - -"Mr. Sharp came to tea with me yesterday." - -"Did he? Good man! You've got a very attentive pastor, Motherkin." - -"Yes," Mrs. Douglas agreed. "I must say I'm fond of that young man, -though he does read his sermons and his theology isn't as sound as I -would like. We had such a nice talk, and he told me all about his -people. They are evidently not at all well off, and he says they had a -great business getting the Manse furnished. But everything is paid -for. His father and mother are coming to visit him about New Year -time. We must try in every way we can to make their visit enjoyable. -He is so young, and there is something very innocent about him--he -reminds me a little of Davie." - -"And were you favoured with much of Marget's conversation?" Ann asked. - -"Oh yes. She came in and out; but Marget is very dull when you are -away. She used to say, when you were all at Etterick and the house was -peaceful and the work light, 'It's a queer thing: I like faur better -when oor bairns are a' at hame.' Well, and was Birkshaw nice? Tell me -all about it." - -Ann had seated herself on her favourite stool in front of the fire, and -she now turned round facing her mother, and nodded happily. - -"Birkshaw was very nice, and the Miss Scotts are exactly the kind of -hostesses I thought they would be. When I saw my room I was sure of -it. Some people's spare rooms are just free-coups full of pictures -that nobody else will allow in their rooms, chairs that are too hard -for anything but a guest to sit on, books that no one can read. And in -these spare rooms you generally find a corner of the wardrobe reserved -for somebody's parasols, and a fur coat in camphor occupies the only -really good drawer. My room at Birkshaw was a treasure. There was a -delicious old four-post bed, with a little vallance of chintz round the -top, and all the rest of the furniture in keeping. A nosegay on the -dressing-table, a comfortable couch drawn up to a blazing fire, a table -with a pile of most readable-looking books, and absolutely unencumbered -drawers. There were only three other people staying in the house--a -man and his daughter--Barnes was the name--English. Mr. Barnes was -very sprightly, and looked about fifty, and so, oddly enough, did his -daughter. Either she looked very old for her age or her father looked -much too young for his. She was a dull little lady with protruding -eyes and unbecoming clothes, and she appeared to me rather to have -given up the unequal contest. I have noticed--haven't you?--that very -vivacious parents have often depressed offspring, and _vice versa_. -Mr. Barnes, though English, was a great lover of Scotland, and an -ardent Jacobite. He confused me a good deal by talking about Charles -III. I found him very interesting, but I had the feeling that he -thought poorly of my intelligence. And, of course," Ann finished -cheerfully, "I am almost entirely illiterate." - -Mrs. Douglas looked mildly indignant. "Ann, when I think of the money -spent on your education----" - -"Oh, you spent money all right, but no one could make me learn when I -didn't want to. I don't know whether I was naturally stupid, or -whether it was sheer wickedness, but, anyway, it doesn't matter now, -except that intelligent people are bored with me sometimes----" - -"Who was the other person staying at Birkshaw? Didn't you say there -were three?" - -"Yes, a bachelor nephew of the Miss Scotts'--Mr. Philip Scott." - -"Young?" - -Ann screwed her face. "Youngish. Forty or thereabouts--forty-five, I -should think. Oh yes, because he told me he was thirty-eight when the -war came. He looked quite young because he was slim, and he wasn't -bald; rather a good-looking man." - -"Did you like him? Was he nice?" - -Ann laughed as if at the remembrance of something pleasant. - -"Oh yes, I liked him. He was very companionable, and it turned out we -had a good many friends in common. The Miss Scotts are extraordinarily -good company. There is no need to make conversation at Birkshaw; the -talk was so entertaining that we sat an unconscionable time over our -meals. And they never worry you to do things. If you prefer an -arm-chair by the fire and a book--well and good. You know how I hate -visiting, as a rule, but I really did enjoy my two nights away, and I -learned a lot about gardening." - -"Did you wear your new frock?" Mrs. Douglas asked. - -"Oh yes. You were quite right to advise me to take it. You never know -about people now. Some have never got over war-habits and still wear -sort of half-and-half things in the evening--rather tired-looking -afternoon dresses or jumpers; but the Miss Scotts came down charming in -lace and jewels and beautifully done hair. I do like that. Heaviest -of tweeds and thick boots in the daytime, but in the evening perfect in -every detail--so I was glad I had a pretty fresh frock to do them -honour." - -Ann stretched out her feet to the blazing fire. "But it's fine to be -back in this dear room, wearing slippers not quite in their first -youth, and a dress that no amount of lounging will hurt. Birkshaw -doesn't come up to Dreams, though it is several centuries older, and at -least three times bigger and full of priceless treasures in the way of -pictures and furniture and books----" - -Ann stopped to laugh at her own absurdity, and her mother said, "You're -like your father, child. He never saw anything to equal his own house. -He didn't know the meaning of envy----" - -"Ah, but I'm not like that. Envy! I'm sometimes chock-full of it----" - -The door opened and Marget came in. She was primed with an excuse for -her appearance, but Ann didn't give her time to make it. - -"Come away, Marget, and hear all about Birkshaw, and tell me what has -been happening since I went away. I've just been saying to Mother that -I'm very glad to be back." - -Ann pulled forward a chair, which Marget accepted primly. - -"I dare say ye are. We 'gree fine, the fower o' us." - -"And yet, Marget," said Ann, "I have just been reading a book by a very -clever woman in which she says that women cannot live together with any -profit. They fester. That is the ugly expression she uses." - -Marget gave a disgusted snort. "Mebbe thae saft scented weemen, -aggravatin' and clawin' at each other like cats, no' weemen wi' -self-respect an' wark to do. A' the same, I'm no' sayin' I'll no' be -glad when Maister Jimmie comes hame. I like a man aboot the hoose. -It's kin o' hertless work cookin' for weemen; hauf the time they're no' -heedin' what they're eatin'." - -"Ah, Marget," said her mistress, "it's not like the days when the boys -were all home from school and you couldn't make a pudding big enough." - -Marget shook her head sadly. "It is not, Mem," she said, and then, -turning suddenly to Ann, she asked, "Hoo's the _Life_ gettin' on?" - -Ann jumped up and went to the writing-table. "That reminds me I've no -business to be sitting roasting my face at the fire when I haven't -written a word for nights." - -She found a notebook and pencil and came back to the fireside. "The -Moncrieffs will be on us before we are half finished. We've got to -Glasgow, Marget. Tell me your first impression of that great city." - -Marget sat forward with one hand on each knee. - -"Eh, I thocht it was an awfu' place. D'ye mind, Mem, thon day you took -me awa' into Argyle Street to see the 'Poly'--a place mair like a toun -than a shop? I was fair fear't." - -Mrs. Douglas, picking up a stitch, stopped to laugh. - -"That was a great day, Marget. You suddenly found yourself looking -into a long mirror, and you turned to me and said, 'Eh, I say--there's -a wumman awfu' like ma sister.'" - -"Didn't you know yourself, Marget?" Ann asked. - -"No' me. I had never seen the whole o' masel' afore, an' how was I to -ken I was sic a queer-lookin' body?" - -"I know," said Ann. "I've had some shocks myself." She turned to her -mother. "I always sympathised with Trudi in _The Benefactress_ when -she looked into a mirror and was disgusted to find that she wasn't -looking as pretty as she felt. But, Marget, what else struck you -besides the size of the 'Poly' and its mirrors?" - -Marget was chuckling to herself. "I aye mind how affrontit I was in -the 'Poly.' I wanted to buy something, but the only thing I could mind -I wanted was a yaird o' hat elastic. A young man, like a lord, leaned -over the counter and says, 'What can I do for you, Madam?'" - -Here Marget became convulsed with laughter, and had to wipe her eyes -before going on. "'Aw,' says I, 'a yaird o' hat elastic,' an' says he, -'One penny, Madam.' I thocht fair shame to see a braw man like that -servin' me wi' hat elastic. I telt the mistress I wadna gang back -there till I needed a new goon or something wise-like. Ay, there was a -heap o' queer things in Glasgae that we hadna in Kirkcaple, but I likit -it fine. We a' settled doon rale comfortable, an' a'body that cam' to -Glasgae frae Kirkcaple cam' to oor kirk, so we never felt far frae -hame. Oh, I likit Glasgae rale weel when once I fund ma way aboot." - -"It's odd," said Ann, "to think of Glasgow as the 'Scottish Oxford' of -the seventeenth-century traveller. How pretty it must have been, with -gardens going down to the Clyde, a college in the High Street, an old -cathedral on a hill overlooking the city, and with so clear an air that -a mountain called 'Ben Lomond' could be seen by the shopkeepers of King -Street. Alack-a-day! the green places have been laid waste.... -Mother, do you remember on winter nights as we sat round the fire how -we sometimes used to hear men calling 'Call-er oy-sters? That is the -most vivid recollection that has remained with me of those Glasgow -days--a November evening with a touch of the fog that frost was apt to -bring, a clear fire burning in the nursery grate, books and games -scattered about, and through the misty stillness outside the cry, -'Call-er oy-sters.' I used to lift a corner of the blind to look out, -wondering if I would see some wandering sailorman with a pokeful of -oysters on his back--but there was nothing, nothing but the strangely -mournful cry." - -"Glasgae folk," said Marget, who had not been listening, but thinking -her own thoughts, "are awfu' easy to ken and rale nice, but they're no' -so hospitable as they get the name for bein'." - -"Why, Marget," cried Mrs. Douglas, astonished, "Glasgow people are -considered the very essence of hospitality." - -Marget set her mouth obstinately. "Weel, Mem, it's mebbe as you say, -but I've sat whole nichts in their hooses an' they never so much as -said to me, 'Collie, wull ye lick?' When ye went into a hoose at -Kirkcaple the first thing they did was to pit on the kettle. Glasgae -folk made a great fuss aboot ye, but they're no' great at offerin' ye -meat." - -"This," said Ann, sharpening a pencil, "is quite a new light on Glasgow -people. They are accused of many things, but seldom of inhospitality." - -"Well, I must say," said Mrs. Douglas, "that I missed in Glasgow the -constant interchange of hospitality that we had in Kirkcaple. For -instance, when your father exchanged with another minister it was -always a question of staying the week-end; and, if the minister who -came to help at the Communion was a friend, his wife (if he had one) -was always invited with him. And then we had endless parties, and -people dropping in casually all the time, as is the friendly country -way. In a big city everything is different. Ministers came to preach, -but we only saw them for a few minutes in the vestry; they had no time -to come out to us for a meal. Everything was a rush; we had all so -much to do that there was little coming and going between the different -ministers' wives. Almost our only meeting-place was the house in which -the Clerical Club was held once a month, when papers were read and we -had tea." - -"I liked when the Club was at our house," said Ann, "but I thought -ministers had very poor taste in jokes: they laughed so much at such -very poor ones. I remember one facetious minister saying to me, 'It -would be a grand job ours if it weren't for the Sabbaths,' and looking -startled when I cordially agreed with him. To a child of twelve the -writing of sermons does seem a waste of time. But, Mother, you knew -lots of ministers' wives in Glasgow. Why, Mr. Johnston is still a -bosom friend of yours. Oh, do you remember how you used to tease -Father by holding up Mr. Johnston as an example of what every minister -should be?" - -"I didn't mean it; your father knew that very well, and he didn't care -a scrap who was held up to him--but I wish now I hadn't done it. But -the Johnstons were really the most exemplary couple in every way, -almost provoking in their perfection. Their church was quite near -Martyrs, and their house was quite near ours, and we were very good -friends; but sometimes I couldn't help being envious a little. In -Inchkeld and Kirkcaple we had had prosperous, well-attended churches, -but in Glasgow that was changed. Our new field, so to speak, was a -difficult one. Martyrs was in the heart of the town, in a district -full of Jews and Roman Catholics, which meant that we had a very small -population to draw from, and most of our people came from distant -suburbs. When we came to Glasgow, Martyrs was known as 'the scrapit -kirk' because of its white, unpainted seats. No hymn had ever been -sung in it; rarely, if ever, a paraphrase. A precentor in a box led -the people in the Psalms of David. Everything was as it had been for -the last hundred years. The congregation looked a mere handful in the -great church, and I must say I quailed in spirit when I saw the -wilderness of empty seats." - -"Jeanie Tod, the nursemaid," said Ann, "always let me read not only the -letters she received, but the letters she wrote, and in one I read: -'The church is very _toom_, but Mr. Douglas will soon fill it.' It was -indeed _toom_, but every Sunday we expected quite suddenly it would -fill up and we would go in and find a crowd. It did fill up a little, -didn't it Mother?" - -"Oh yes, a lot of new people came; but it was never anything like full. -Mr. Johnston, with the very same difficulties to contend with, had his -filled to overflowing. He was a splendid organiser, and very wise and -prudent; and his wife was just as good in her own way. She was a -miracle for cutting out--I was no good at that--and her sewing-classes -and Mothers' Meetings, and indeed everything she attempted, were the -best in the district, and she was so pretty and neat that it was a -pleasure to look at her. If I held Mr. Johnston up to your father, I -held Mrs. Johnston up to myself." - -"But Father worked just as hard as Mr. Johnston," Ann said. - -"Oh yes, but he hadn't Mr. Johnston's business capacity. He was the -despair of those who look for the reality of things in minute-books and -financial statements. A small audience never troubled him. Every one -was there that the message was meant for, he sometimes told me. For -what the world calls success he never craved. I could see that it was -fine, but it was rather annoying, too." - -Ann laughed, and Marget said reminiscently, "It was a braw kirk when we -got it a' pentit and the seats widened, and a choir and organ and -hymns..." - -"Yes," said Mrs. Douglas; "gradually the service was brought into line -with present-day ideas. I confess I was rather sorry, and your father -would have been very pleased to leave it as it was. He infinitely -preferred the Psalms of David to mere 'human' hymns." - -"I should think so," said Ann. "Imagine singing a chirruppy hymn when -one might sing 'O thou, my soul, bless God the Lord,' to the tune of -'French.'" - -"'Deed," said Marget, "a buddy never gets tired o' the psalms; they're -wonderfu' comfortin', but some o' the hymns are ower bairnly even for -bairns. I've a fair ill-will at that yin aboot 'What can little eyes -do?' but I like fine to sing 'There is a happy land far, far away.' We -aye sung that on Sabbath nichts when ye were a' wee." - -"There's a lot in association," Ann said. "Words you have loved as a -child have always a glamour over them. I liked the sound of the -psalms, but I got dreadfully tied up in the hymns. I always sang: - - 'Can a woman's tender care - Cease towards the child she-bear?' - -with the picture in my mind of a dear fubsey bear being petted. D'you -remember Robbie always chose hymns that mentioned Satan?" - -"Ay," Marget said seriously. "Puir Maister Robbie had aye an awfu' -wark wi' Satan, when he was a wee laddie." - -Ann laughed, and, getting up from the fender-stool, went over to the -bureau. - -"Mother," she said, "I promised to ask Mr. Scott over to see our funny -little house. Would luncheon on Thursday be a suitable sort of time?" - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -Ann had been writing steadily for nearly an hour. - -Her mother, watching her, said: - -"I'm afraid, if you write so hard, your brain will go." - -Ann, as if glad of the interruption, laid her pen in a china dish, -pushed away the sheets of paper, sighed deeply, and, rising, came over -to the fire. - -"I know it will," she said. "I can feel it doing it. It's that old -_Life_ of yours--I can't make it sound right. Sir Walter Raleigh talks -somewhere of men whose true selves are almost completely obscured -beneath their ragged and incompetent speech. I'm afraid I'm concealing -you completely under my 'ragged and incompetent' words. If you live to -be ninety, as you threaten, it will be all right; the children will be -able to make their own estimate, but, if they have to depend on my -_Life_, I don't quite know what they'll make of you." - -Ann began to laugh in a helpless way. "It's funny. I know so well -what impression I want to give, but when I try to write it down it's -just nothing--stilted, meaningless sentences. I want to make a picture -of Dr. Struthers. I've been trying for the last hour, labouring in -rowing, covering my brow in wrinkles, with no result. How would you -describe him?" - -Mrs. Douglas thought for a minute. "It would be difficult to make a -true picture of him. If you simply told of the views that were his, -how he wouldn't sing a paraphrase, let alone a hymn, and held the -Sabbath day as something that must not be broken, you would give an -impression of narrowness and rigid conservatism that wouldn't at all be -the Dr. Struthers that we knew. When we heard that the Glasgow church -had a senior minister, we thought it was a drawback; your father rather -wondered how he would comport himself as a 'colleague and successor,' -but we didn't know Dr. Struthers then. Sometimes, in Glasgow, when we -were inclined to regret Kirkcaple and the flourishing congregation, and -the peaceful time we enjoyed there--but when I say peaceful I mean only -comparatively, no minister's wife ever attains to peace in this -world!--your father would say, 'But if we had stayed in Kirkcaple we -would never have known Dr. Struthers,' and that closed the matter. -When I first met him I thought he was more like some fresh, hearty old -country laird than a parson. But he was really very frail, and to walk -even a short distance was a great effort. He had a place about fifty -miles from Glasgow, Langlands, and as long as he was able he came to -preach in Martyrs about once a month. The old congregation adored to -have him come, but the newcomers, who had no romance about the old man, -thought his sermons much too long. And they were too long as sermons -go now. We are not the patient listeners our forefathers were. Dr. -Struthers once said to me that no man could do justice to a subject -under fifty-five minutes, and we used sometimes to think that he was -done before his allotted time, but he just went on." - -"We children dearly loved Dr. Struthers," said Ann; "but we did not -appreciate the length of his sermons. My friend, Mrs. Smail--the -butcher's wife, you remember?--used to sit with a most forlorn face -while he preached; thinking, I expect, that she would be half an hour -late, and that the numerous young Smails would have fallen in the fire. -Dear me, it's a long time since I thought of Mrs. Smail. I liked her -very much. There was a sort of bond of sympathy between us, and she -invited me sometimes to tea-parties where we got tea and cookies and -penny cakes and hot roast beef. I never learned to appreciate the -combination, but the rest of the company seemed to enjoy it. I sat -beside one gentleman who, after doing full justice to the meal, wiped -his forehead with a red silk handkerchief, and, turning to me, said, 'A -grand house this for flesh.' After the 'flesh' we all contributed -songs and recitations--great evenings. Well, what I mean to say is -that Mrs. Smail represented the new people who were impatient of Dr. -Struthers and impatient of all the old traditions of the church which -the original members clung to with such pathetic loyalty." - -"But in time," said Mrs. Douglas, "the new-comers got to see how very -fine the old man was, and everybody was sorry when he got too frail to -preach. It was quite extraordinary how fond you children were of him, -for he never told you stories or played with you." - -"No," said Ann thoughtfully, "he never did anything to make himself -popular. We didn't expect it any more than we would have expected a -god from Mount Olympus to jest with a mortal. They say we needs must -love the highest when we see it, but that isn't true; often the highest -simply irritates. I think it was his simple goodness that made us fond -of him, and a certain understanding and sympathy that he had for bad -children. And he never talked down to us or became facetious." - -Mrs. Douglas nodded. "I know. Children like to be taken seriously, -and Dr. Struthers was certainly not given to making fun of them." - -Ann clasped her hands round her knees and looked into the fire. - -"One thing we liked about the Glasgow Sundays was that we stayed down -in the vestry for lunch. It was our weekly picnic, and the fact that -it was eaten in the church premises gave a touch of solemnity to the -occasion. When Dr. Struthers was preaching, we had a more elaborate -meal. Strong beef-tea was made at home and brought down in a bottle to -be heated, for he was often very exhausted after preaching. One -never-to-be-forgotten day I was told to watch the pan of beef-tea -heating, and I had evidently begun to dream, for the pan fell into the -fire and the contents were lost. I felt as badly about it as any of -you, but I only made a sulky face. I knew it was a real deprivation -for the old man, though he made light of it, and said cocoa would be a -nice change, and I felt very unhappy all through lunch. There was a -particularly fine orange among some apples on a plate, and you asked -Dr. Struthers to take it, but he looked across at my small sullen face -and said, with that most delightful smile of his, 'I think we must give -this orange to Ann.' I never forgot the way he did it; the 'pretty and -sweet manner' of it quite conquered me and made me far sorrier for my -carelessness than any scolding would have done. I don't believe -scoldings ever do any good, only harm." - -"Some children," said Mrs. Douglas, "are the better of scoldings. Mark -always 'took a telling,' but the more you and Robbie were scolded, the -worse you got.... Generally Dr. Struthers stayed with his daughter, -but now and again he stayed with us. We liked having him, but it made -rather an upheaval in our modest establishment. You see, he had to -bring his man, Samuel Thomson, with him, and Samuel Thomson was such a -very superior, silver-haired, apple-cheeked gentleman's gentleman, we -could hardly ask him to take his meals in the kitchen, so the boys' -study had to be given up to him. Davie was very fond of sitting with -him, and I once overhead Samuel Thomson reading aloud to him from the -Bible some Old Testament story, and commenting on what he read. Those -were grand angels, Master David,' he was saying. It was the time when -Davie cared for nothing but to be like a jockey." - -"'Angels!' he said, 'I thought you were talking about horses,' and he -straddled away in deep disgust." - -Ann laughed. "Davie was very much against all things religious at that -time, and he wouldn't even say his prayers. Marget used to toil up -from the kitchen to reason with him, and when he heard her coming he -would give a wicked wallop in his bed and say, 'That's Marget comin' to -convert me.' You know, Mother, in some ways Davie was a much more -abandoned character than we were as children. We reverenced the -Covenanters, but Davie said he preferred Claverhouse, and most -blasphemously said of John Brown, of Priesthill--he must have got the -expression from Marget--'I think John Brown was a _gey lawd_.' -Speaking of conversion, I think Dr. Struthers was the only person we -didn't mind 'speaking personally' to us. We realised that he, like -Nehemiah, 'feared the Lord above many.' When Mark told him he meant to -go to Oxford and then to the Bar, he said, 'Look higher than the -Woolsack, Mark.' He spoke kindly to Jeanie Tod about her home in -Kirkcaple, and said, 'Do you ever think where you are going?' and I -shall always remember how one day he laid his big soft hand on my -unruly head and said, 'Little Ann, _take Jesus_.' Do you remember one -day when he was preaching I announced that I had a sore throat and -couldn't possibly go to church, and was allowed to remain at home? Dr. -Struthers missed me, and asked why I wasn't there, and you--not greatly -believing, I daresay, in the excuse--said I had a sore throat. Mark -rushed home between services to tell me that Dr. Struthers had prayed -for me in church, prayed that my bodily affliction might pass from me! -Guiltily aware of perfect health--my sore throat hadn't kept me from -eating apples and reading a story-book--I didn't know what awful -consequences the prayer might have. Anyway, I flew upstairs, flung on -my coat and hat, and was in my place for the afternoon service, -determined to ward off any more petitions on my behalf. But I was -never frightened for Dr. Struthers after I found he liked adventure -books and didn't even mind the swear words. He was surely a very rich -man, Mother? Ministers don't as a rule have places like Langlands, and -man-servants and maid-servants. A house and a wife, and a stranger -within the gates are about all they ever attain to." - -"Yes, he was rich, but I never met anyone who gave one so little an -impression of great possessions. Having his treasure laid up where -thieves cannot break through and steal, he cared little for the gold of -this world. He gave largely, but so unobtrusively that it wasn't until -his death that we realised the extent of his givings. He was the -humblest of men, lowly and a peacemaker." - -"Once," said Ann, "Robbie and Jim and I went from Etterick to spend the -day at Langlands. It was after Mrs. Struthers died, and Miss Calder -kept house. I somehow think we weren't expected. There was something -queer about it, anyway, and Miss Calder, although she was kind, as she -always was, looked very worried. She had some engagement in the -village that morning, so she sent us up the hill to play till luncheon. -We went obediently up the hill, but as soon as we saw Miss Calder walk -down the avenue, back we pranced. Samuel Thomson saw us, and, -conducting us to the croquet lawn, advised us to have a game. He -helped us to put out the hoops, and we began to play. Unfortunately -Robbie and I soon fell into a discussion about the right and wrong way -to play, and I regret to say I kicked Robbie, who at once retaliated, -and the next thing the horrified eyes of Samuel Thornton saw was Robbie -and me hitting one another with croquet mallets. It was only the -beginning of a thoroughly ill-spent day, and if Dr. Struthers and Miss -Calder hadn't been the most patient and forgiving of people we would -never have been asked back." - -"It was odd," said Mrs. Douglas; "but you and Robbie could never behave -properly if you were together. I wonder I was so rash as to let you go -away for a whole day, and to Langlands of all places. Its beautiful -tidiness seemed to act on you in a pernicious way. It was always a -treat to me to go to Langlands. I enjoyed the beauty and the peace of -it, and it seemed exactly the right setting for Dr. Struthers. I was -thankful that, when the end came, it came at Langlands, suddenly, -painlessly, and most fittingly on the Sabbath day. 'I am going,' he -said to Samuel Thomson, and in a minute he was gone, almost 'translated -unaware.'" - -"What a beautiful way to die," said Ann. "His task accomplished and -the long day done. Without weariness of waiting, with no pain of -parting, suddenly to find his boat in the harbour and to see his Pilot -face to face." - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -The arrival of the post was almost the only excitement at Dreams, and -on the days that the Indian and South African mails came, Mrs. Douglas -could do nothing but pore over the precious letters. She pounced on -them when they arrived, and read them anxiously; after luncheon she -read them again, and in the evening she read them aloud in case she or -Ann had missed a word. - -One evening she sat with a pile of letters on her lap, her large -tortoise-shell spectacles on the top of the pile, and said, with a -satisfied sigh: - -"This has been a good day--news from all quarters. I am glad Jim is -having this tour. He does love to see the world, and to be able to -combine business and pleasure makes a holiday ideal. Charlotte and -Mark seem to be enjoying their trip greatly, but I can see Charlotte's -thoughts are always with the children. She says she knows they won't -be missing her, but I think she is wrong. I dare say they are quite -happy, but they must feel a lack. Charlotte has such pretty ways with -her children, and I think they realise that they have got rather a -special mother, though Rory says, 'Poor Mummy's English, but we're -Scots.' I do wonder, Ann, when Rory is going to begin to write better. -This letter is a disgrace, both in writing and spelling, and his school -report said that he cared for nothing but cricket and food." - -"What does it matter, Mother?" said Ann comfortably; "he is only nine. -I'm glad he isn't precocious, and I like his staggering little letters. -He said to me once, 'P'r'aps you notice that I always say the same -thing in my letters?' I said that I had noticed a certain lack of -variety in his statements, and he explained, 'You see, those are the -only words I can spell, and I don't like to ask people.' It isn't in -the least that he lacks brains. He knows all sorts of things outside -his ordinary lessons: about the ways of birds and beasts you can't -fickle him; and he reads a lot and has his own ideas about things. He -hates Oliver Cromwell and all his works. One day at table some one -mentioned that great man, and Rory's face got pink all over, and he -said, 'I hate him, the sieve-headed brute.' It was funny to see Mark, -whose admiration for Oliver Cromwell is unbounded, surveying his small -son. A more unjust accusation was never made, but Rory is a born -Royalist." - -Mrs. Douglas shook her head. "He ought to write better than he does. -I don't think children are taught properly now. Have they copy-books? -I used to write copperplate; indeed, I got a prize for writing." - -"I know," said Ann, "and one for spelling, and one for dictation, and -one for composition, and one for French. You used to reel them off to -me when I came home without a single one. The only prize I got was for -needlework, and I fear it was more by way of a consolation prize than -anything else. No wonder I feel for poor old Rory. Alis is more of -your school of thought; she is a clever child." - -Mrs. Douglas refused to be optimistic. "Alis picks things up almost -too easily. I'm afraid she will be a Jack-of-all-trades. Did you read -Nannie's letter? Rob and Davie seem to be thriving. Charlotte will -find a great difference in the little pair." Mrs. Douglas put on her -spectacles and took up a letter to read extracts, but Ann caught her -hand. - -"Not now, Mother, please; we must talk of Glasgow now. I want to -finish your _Life_ this week and get begun to my Christmas presents. -You'll read the letters to us when Marget and Mysie come in to -prayers.... I wish you would give me your advice, for, after all, it -is your affair. So far I have drawn your portrait as a very efficient, -very painstaking, and, I fear, very dull minister's wife. You see, -that side of you is so easy to draw. But the other side is so much -more _you_. If I could only write about you as I remember you at home -with us, anxiously doing your best for every one, slaving away with -Sales of Work and Mothers' Meetings, incorrigibly hospitable, -pretending deep and abiding pessimism, but liable at any moment to -break into bursts of delightful nonsense and rash talking--the person -who never talks rashly is a weariness to the flesh--a most excellent -mimic--when you came in from visiting, you made us see the people you -had been seeing--with a rare talent for living..." - -Mrs. Douglas laid down her stocking and gasped at her daughter: - -"_Ann_! I don't know what you mean. There never was a more ordinary -woman, and if you try to make me anything else, you are simply -romancing. I'm sure you have always said that you would know me for a -minister's wife a mile away." - -"In appearance, my dear lady, you are a typical minister's wife, but -your conversation is often a pleasing surprise. And, oh! surely, -Mother, all ministers' wives don't behave to congregations as you did. -_Given to hospitality_ should be your epitaph. I remember when we left -Glasgow, Mrs. Nicol, bemoaning to me your going away, said, 'Well, -we'll never get another like her. Who else would have bothered to have -me and my wild boys in her house?' and I, remembering John and -Mackenzie, could have echoed, '_Who, indeed?_'" - -Mrs. Douglas was about to speak, but Ann hurried on: - -"No, Mother, don't defend them. You can't have forgotten that black -day when the Nicol family arrived to spend the afternoon--John and -Mackenzie, ripe for any wickedness. The house had just been spring -cleaned, and was spotless, and those two boys went through it like an -army with banners. It was wet, and they couldn't go out to the garden, -and they scoffed at the very idea of looking at picture-books. They -slid down the banisters, they tobogganed down the white enamelled -stairs, they kicked the paint off the doors. They broke Davie's -cherished air-gun, and their mother, instead of rebuking them, seemed -to admire their high spirits. Utterly worn out, I left them to work -their wicked will in the box-room--I thought they would be -comparatively harmless there; but presently we smelt burning, and found -them in your bedroom with the towel-horse on fire. No man knows how -they accomplished it, for a towel-horse isn't a particularly -inflammable thing, but if I hadn't managed to throw it out of the -window, I believe the house might have been burned down." - -Mrs. Douglas laughed, and told her daughter not to exaggerate. - -"Mrs. Nicol was a particularly nice woman, and there was nothing wrong -with John and Mackenzie except high spirits. Mackenzie came to see us -at Priorsford--I think you must have been away from home--such a quiet, -well-mannered young fellow. Both he and his brother are doing very -well. The Nicols were mild compared to the Wrights--you remember Phil -and Ronald?" - -Ann threw up her hands at the mention of the names. - -"The Wrights," she said, "were really the frozen edge. The only thing -Mrs. Wright had ever been able to teach her offspring was to call her -'Mother dear,' which they did religiously. Davie was no model, but he -sat round-eyed at the performance of the Wrights when they came to tea. -They mounted on the table and pranced among the butter and jam dishes, -and to all their mother's anguished entreaties to desist they replied, -in the broadest of accents, 'We wull not, Mother dear--we wull not.' -They thought Davie's accent rather finicking--Davie's accent which at -that stage was a compound of low Glasgow and broad Linlithgow picked up -from the nursemaid--and asked, 'Is Davie English, Mother dear?' - -"'No, no, darlings' (Mrs. Wright's own accent was all that there was of -the most genteel), 'he only speaks nicely.' Marget used to shake her -head over the Wrights and say, 'Eh, I say, thae bairns need a guid -skelpin'.'" - -"Yes," said Mrs. Douglas; "but the last time I saw the Wright boys they -were the most glossy-looking creatures--you know the kind of young men -whose hair looks unnaturally bright and whose clothes fit almost too -well; don't you call them 'knuts'?--with supercilious manners and -Glasgow-English voices, and I rather yearned for the extremely bad but -quite unaffected little boys they once had been." - -"I know; one often regrets the 'lad that is gone.' Boys are like pigs, -they are nicest when they are small. Talking of the Wrights reminds me -of a children's party we once gave, to which you invited a missionary's -little girl, and two black boys. You had never seen them and thought -they would be quite tiny, and when they came they were great strong -creatures with _pointed teeth_. Somebody told us they had teeth like -that because they were cannibals, and, after hearing that, it was a -nightmare evening. We played hide-and-seek, and every one screamed -with terror when caught by the poor black boys. It was terrible to see -them eating sandwiches at supper and reflect on what they would have -_liked_ to eat." - -"Oh, Ann! The poor innocents! They weren't cannibals; they were -rescued by the missionaries when they were babies. But I must say I -was rather alarmed when I saw how big they were. They didn't realise -their own strength, and I was afraid they might hurt some of the little -ones. I spent an anxious evening, too." - -"Mother," said Ann, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and -her face supported in her two hands, "you were dreadfully given to -spoiling the look of my parties. The boys didn't mind, but I was a -desperate little snob. It seemed impossible for me to have the kind of -party other girls had, with all the children prettily dressed, and -dancing, and a smart supper. At the last moment you were always -discovering some child who was crippled and didn't get any fun, or some -one who hadn't a proper party frock and hadn't been asked to any -parties. You told them it didn't matter what they wore to our house, -and insisted on their coming--'compelled them to come in.' Oh, you -were a real 'highways and hedges person'! As a matter of fact, it -wasn't at all kind to ask those children. They felt out of it and -unhappy, no matter how much one tried. If you had asked them when -there wasn't a party, and they could have had all the attention, it -would have been infinitely better." - -"Oh, I dare say," said Mrs. Douglas. "I've spent my life doing -impulsive things and regretting them. But, Ann, though you laugh at me -about having so many people to the house, the trouble we took was -nothing compared to the pleasure it gave. In our church there were so -many who needed encouragement: single women fighting for a living and -coming home after a long day's work to cook their supper over a -gas-ring were glad at times to get a well-cooked and daintily served -meal, with people to talk to while they ate; and mothers cooped up in -tiny flats with noisy children liked to walk to a green suburb, and get -tea and home-made scones and jam; and it does make a difference to boys -from the country, living in lodgings, if they know there is some house -they can go to whenever they like." - -"True, my dear, true, and I don't suppose you ever denied yourself to -anyone, no matter how tired, or ill, or grieved you were feeling. You -welcomed them all with 'gently smiling jaws.' Do you remember the only -occasion on which we said 'Not at home'? We had been at the church -hall all afternoon preparing it for a church 'At Home' and had just -come in for tea and a short rest, with the prospect of three hours' -solid smiling later in the evening. When I found the housemaid going -to answer the door-bell I hissed at her, 'Say not at home,' and by -sheer bad luck the caller turned out to be a minister's wife from a -distance, who had depended on being warmed and fed at our house. She -had gone home cold and tealess and, as a consequence, got a bad chill, -and we felt so guilty about it we trailed away to see her, and on -hearing she had a sale of work in prospect--when has a minister's wife -not a sale of work in prospect?--we felt bound to send her a handsome -contribution. I sadly sacrificed on the altar of remorse some pretty -silver things I had brought from India, feeling it an expensive -pleasure to say 'Not at home.' But of course you are right. Now that -it is all over and we have long hours to read and write and think long -thoughts, it is nice to feel that you helped a lot of people over rough -bits of the road and didn't think of how tired it made you." - -Mrs. Douglas looked at her daughter with unsmiling eyes. "Do you know -what I feel?" she asked. "I feel that I have done nothing--_nothing_. -All the opportunities I was given, I can see now how I missed them; -while I was busy here and there, they were gone. And I grumbled when I -trudged down to the sewing-class on Monday nights, leaving all you -children. I used sometimes to envy the mothers who had no kirk, and no -meetings, and could spend their evenings at home. I had to be out so -many nights of the week. No wonder poor little Davie said, 'I wish I -had a mother who didn't go to meetings.' And it was such a long way -home. Standing shivering in the wind and rain at the corner of Bridge -Street, waiting for a car, I wondered if there would ever come a time -when I would sit at my ease in the evenings with no late meetings to -bother about. I didn't know how blessed I was. 'The Almighty was -still with me, and my children were about me.' How could I know when I -yearned for ease and idleness that when I got them I should sit bereft, -and ask nothing better than the old hard-working days back----" - -Ann said nothing for a minute, but sat scribbling on a corner of her -paper; then she looked at her mother, and her eyes were half sad, half -merry: - -"It's an odd thing, Motherkin, that only very good people feel their -own shortcomings. Now, I, covered as with a garment by sins of -omission and commission, am quite perky and well pleased with myself. -I walk on my heels and think what a noble creature I am, and how much -people must admire me. Try being complacent, my dear, for a change! -It's much more comfortable. You know, Mother, you should have been a -Roman Catholic, then you could have worn a hair shirt, and done all -sorts of little penances and kept yourself happy." - -"Oh, Ann!" Mrs. Douglas gave a laugh that was almost a sob. "You do -talk such utter nonsense, but you look at me with your father's eyes..." - -"Well, what I want is to get some information about the Glasgow part of -your life. You started a lot of new things, didn't you, in connection -with the church?" - -"Oh yes, a sewing-class and a mother's meeting, and a fellowship -meeting and a literary society--I forget what else, but they were all -more or less successful. Martyrs people were delightful to work -with--so appreciative." - -"And very amusing," said Ann; "I always enjoyed their remarks about -things. I overheard one young man say, as he wiped his heated brow -after a thoroughly unventilated evening spent looking at magic-lantern -slides of various mission stations--'My! I'm fair sweatin' comin' -through thae Tropics.' We always called him 'Tropics' after that. -What they thoroughly enjoyed was being asked to our house. It wasn't -till I grew up that I appreciated those parties, but I very distinctly -remember some you gave at the time of your silver wedding to let every -one see the presents. We tried to assort the people--young men and -women in the evening, and matrons in the afternoon. It wasn't always -easy to find suitable topics to converse on with the matrons, but one -afternoon some one started the subject of washing clothes, and it -called forth a perfect flood of eloquence. Every one had something to -say, and we thrashed out the subject from the first stage of soaking -the clothes until they were starched and ironed and put away. There -didn't seem to be one more word that could be said about it when the -arrival of some newcomers made rearranging the room necessary. As I -moved about, I saw one woman hitch her chair nearer her neighbour and -heard her say thrillingly, 'Speakin' aboot washing, Mrs. Law, did ye -ever try----' It became a favourite saying with us. When Robbie -wanted to change the subject he always began, 'Speakin' aboot washing, -Mistress Law----'" - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -When Mr. Philip Scott came to lunch at Dreams he stayed a long time--so -long that Marget remarked to Mysie in the kitchen, "That man is surely -het at hame that he's sittin' here so long clatterin'." - -He had had a good lunch, had been shown the house and what would be the -garden, had walked with Ann a little way along the hill road and duly -admired the view, and had then returned to the living-room, where he -sat talking and listening till tea was brought in, stayed for an hour -after tea, and even then had seemed loath to go away. - -"Well," said Mrs. Douglas, when the guest had at last departed, "it's a -blessing there is a moon--and that he knows the hill road well. It -will take him all his time to be at Birkshaw in time for dinner." - -"You shouldn't have made yourself so agreeable, Mother. He couldn't -bear to leave your interesting conversation." - -"As to that," said Mrs. Douglas, "it does one good to see a man -sometimes and hear a man's talk." - -"Mother," laughed Ann, "you dearly love a man, and you have all the -Victorian woman's reliance on a man's opinion. You love doing things -for their benefit; you positively _pander_ to them." - -Mrs. Douglas refused to be abashed by this accusation. - -"Well, why not? I think men are the lords of creation, and I do like -them to have the best of everything. I like the old-fashioned way of -doing everything for one's men-folk--seeing that their bags are -properly packed and their clothes kept in perfect order. I can't bear -the modern way of letting a man look after himself; it is so nice to -feel that one's men are dependent on one for their comfort." - -Ann groaned and, sitting down on the rug pulled the Tatler into her lap. - -"Cat, d'you hear that? Lords of creation, indeed! Those are your -sentiments, too, aren't they?" - -The Tatler blinked sleepily, and stuck his claws into Ann's arm. - -Ann pushed him away and got up. "Ah yes, Mother, I know you of old. I -didn't mind running errands for Father when he came in tired, but I did -resent being told: 'Run and pack Mark's bag.' 'Get Robbie a clean -handkerchief----' That was 'fair ridiculous!'' - -"Yes, but, on the other hand, the boys were always being told, 'Give it -to Ann; she's the girl.' You were utterly spoiled, and there's one -thing, Ann, I must ask you. When I'm asking a blessing for tea, don't -go on filling cups." - -"But I don't," Ann said indignantly, "though what you want with a -blessing for tea, I don't know. Nobody I ever heard of has a blessing -for tea except Miss Barbara, and I generally had taken a large bite out -of a scone before she began, and it lay on my plate and looked at me -reproachfully. Poor Mr. Scott spoke right through your blessing -to-day; he didn't know what you were doing." - -Mrs. Douglas sighed deeply. "Ah, well, Ann, I don't suppose I'll be -with you very long to worry you with my old-fashioned ways." - -"Oh, Mother, that's not fair. You're hitting below the belt." - -"But you may be away first," continued Mrs. Douglas, "and then I shall -be left to regret." - -"Well, then," said Ann flippantly, "we'll arrange that neither of us -will regret anything. You and Mr. Scott made great friends, Mother. -He has very nice manners, hasn't he?" - -Mrs. Douglas laid down _Hours of Silence_, which she had taken up to -begin her evening's reading, and removed the large spectacles which -made her look like a little owl. - -"I liked him, Ann. There is something very likeable about him. He -reminded me just a little of Robbie." - -"I wondered if that would strike you," Ann said. "It isn't that there -is any resemblance, but he has some of Robbie's ways.... He was -tremendously interested about your _Life_, Mother, so I gave him what I -had written to look over. Oh, you needn't feel hurt about it. It's -only that he may give me some advice. He writes himself, you know. As -you say, it is nice to talk to a man again--one's own kind of man. Mr. -Sharp is a dear, but it isn't much fun making conversation with him." - -There was silence in the room as Mrs. Douglas began to read her evening -portion out of each of her many volumes, and Ann sat watching the -flames leap, and thinking, thinking. - -"Mother," she said suddenly, "you said a little while ago that I was -spoiled as a child, but I wasn't. Dear me, I was a regular burden -bearer, and Mark christened me 'The Patient Cuddy'! You see, I was -hampered with always having a small brother to lug about; I could never -harden my heart enough to leave them at home. An only girl in a family -of brothers has really a harassed existence. It would have been -different if Rosamund had lived. She was too tiny to come into our -games, though she meant a great deal to us--much more than we realised." - -Mrs. Douglas laid down her book. "She loved being allowed to play with -you," she said, "and you were good about making games that she could -join in. But, somehow, she was more a companion to her father and me -than your playfellow. For one thing, she shared your father's love of -gardening. The rest of you helped sometimes in the garden, but you -always let it be seen that it was a penance. You hardly knew one -flower from another, and you sped like arrows from a bow whenever you -were released. But Rosamund trotted about happily for hours, utterly -contented to be with her father and the flowers. We used often to say -to each other, your father and I, how different she was to you and the -boys. You were healthy, ordinary children who never thought of saying -pretty things to your parents or anyone else. You found the world so -full of a number of things that your days were passed in a sort of -breathless investigation. Rosamund was a revelation to us. She was -rather dignified and aloof with strangers, but for her own people her -heart was a treasure-house of love. I never knew of so young a child -having such strong yet discerning affections. She wasn't in the least -priggish; indeed, she could be naughty in a peculiarly impish way, and -you children were always teaching her rude expressions, which she used -to Marget, who adored her, but all Marget said was, 'D'ye think I'm -gaun to quarrel wi' you, impident little thing that ye are?' She and -Marget were great friends, and there was nothing she liked better than -to help Marget work, and bake little dough rabbits with currants for -eyes. The big black cat--christened by Mark, 'William Tweezer, Earl of -Scullery'--superintended operations, and Marget would say to him when -he got in the way, 'Awa' oot and play yersel', Weellum, like a man.' -We had a game that the fairy Whuppetie Stourie hid in the nursery -chimney and when little girls were good laid a present on the -hearth-rug. I didn't realise it was all real to her until Jeanie Tod -set the chimney on fire, and Rosamund, with a white face, sobbed, -'Jeanie, you forget I've a friend up there.' I can hear her voice now." - -"How you remember, Mother. I wish I could! I can see her still, but I -can't hear her voice. You see, I was only about thirteen when she -died, and children forget so soon. I can remember looking down into -her face and thinking that her eyes were like violets; and I remember a -little white dress trimmed with 'flowering,' and a blue cloak with a -hood. I remember at breakfast-time she used to walk round the table -and ask for tops of eggs. She only got a whole egg on Sundays, and she -never forgot to pray, 'Bless my whole egg next Sabbath day.' She was a -very happy child. I think she enjoyed the little short time she had in -the world, but she was very shy and timid, wasn't she? You remember, -when Mrs. Lang asked her to a tea-party alone, it quite preyed on her -mind? The day of the party she summoned up courage to ring the Langs' -bell, but when the servant came she had no words. Three times she rang -the bell without being able to give a message, and the third time Mrs. -Lang came herself and said, 'Now, Rosamund, you are a naughty child, -and you must not ring the bell again until it is time for the party.' -Poor little Rosamund crept away without ever being able to explain that -all she wanted to ask was that I might go with her! Rather unlike -Robbie, when Mark and I were invited to a party, and he called at the -house to ask if there had been any mistake that he hadn't been invited." - -"Dear Robbie," said Mrs. Douglas, then fell silent. In a little she -spoke again: - -"Christmas to me, even now, always seems Rosamund's time. It is odd to -think that she was only with us for five short years, and she has been -away more than twenty, and yet the thought of her is always with me. -She lives to me so vividly that it seems only yesterday that it all -happened. As Christmas drew near, you were all excited, but Rosamund -seemed utterly possessed with the spirit of the season. She wanted to -give presents to every one she knew, and couldn't understand why any -limit should be put to the size of our Christmas party. She loved -dolls--unlike you, Ann, who never knew how to hold a doll!--and I -dressed her two great big ones for her fourth Christmas, a wax one -called Muriel, and Black Sam. Old Mrs. Hamilton in the church made her -a wonderful rag-doll, as big as a baby, with arms and legs complete, -only the face had a gruesome lack of profile. I dressed up like Father -Christmas and brought all the presents into the room in a big basket, -and made speeches as I gave them out, and Rosamund was speechless with -delight. She could hardly tell me about it when I came into the room a -few minutes later, and her great regret was that I had happened to be -out of the room; she thought it was such bad luck for me. When she was -dying she said, 'When Father Christmas comes this year, tell him you -have no Rosamund, and ask him to give my presents to Ann.'" - -Ann moved quickly in her chair, and busied herself for a little in -putting some papers in order. Then she burst out, "Why did she die, -Mother? What made her ill?" - -Mrs. Douglas shook her head. "Ah, my dear! We have these treasures in -earthen vessels. I suppose the time had come for us to give her back. -It began so simply. She was a very healthy child and rarely ailed -anything, but one day she got her feet wet playing in the snow, and -that brought on a slight chill. It seemed to be nothing, and passed, -but after that we noticed her droop a little. I didn't get the doctor -at once, for I had so often got him on false pretences, and I knew he -thought me an absurdly anxious mother, and when he came I was quite -apologetic, expecting to be told I had been fussing again. But he -didn't make light of it. He said it was slight gastric fever, and she -must go to bed. That was in February. She seemed to get over it -quickly, and was soon up and playing as busily as ever, but we noticed -that she got tired. We had never heard the child own to being tired -before, and it chilled our hearts to see her go and sit down quietly in -her little chair. Then we found that her temperature had begun to rise -in the afternoon. In the morning it was subnormal, but as the day -advanced it crept up. We got one specialist after another, but no one -seemed able to stop the horrible creeping fever. It was a very hard -winter; the snow lay on the ground well into March, and I used to sit -with Rosamund on my knee at the window while you children built -snow-men to amuse her. There were some little wild kittens that had -been turned out of their home in a stable, and Rosamund worried about -them, so you built a little house for them of orange boxes in the -shrubbery and made it very cosy with a bit of old carpet. She could -watch them creep in and get warm. On your walks you always went to the -streets so that you might glue your faces to shop windows and decide -what your scraped-together pennies would buy for Rosamund." - -"I know," said Ann. "One day, to my joy, I found in a small grocer's -shop tiny pots of jam and marmalade that cost one penny each, and -Rosamund loved them for her dolls' tea-parties. If we could find -anything to interest or amuse her, we were so proud. At first she was -able to have us play quietly with her, then she began not to be able to -walk about, and Mark carried her round the garden to look at the -snowdrops and crocuses. We never owned to ourselves or each other that -she wouldn't recover. We said, 'Rosamund will be all right when the -spring comes,' but the spring came---- Mother, it must have been -terrible for you to see the spring flowers come and your little -Rose-of-the-world fade." - -Mrs. Douglas covered her eyes for a minute with a hand that shook, but -when she spoke her voice was steady. - -"It was the most beautiful spring and summer that I think I ever -remember, and we all went away to Etterick in April. It seemed that -the sun and the fresh winds and the quiet of the hills must heal, and -at first she did seem to improve. But it was only for a little. The -dreaded fever returned, and every Monday, when your father came back -from preaching in Glasgow, he knew her to be losing. She liked being -out all the time, and our days were spent by the burnside or on the -hills. We had an old pony and a low basket carriage which she found -comfortable, and we sometimes drove by the banks of the Tweed until we -came to some place which she liked specially, when we would lift her -out into a nest of cushions and she could sit and listen to the voice -of the Tweed as it slipped past. And we had lunch with us, and the -boys fished, and you read aloud fairy-tales, and we were almost happy -in spite of the cloud that covered us.... She had her 'well days' and -her 'ill days,' but she never complained; indeed, I think her patience -was almost the hardest thing to bear. One day she said to me, 'I'm -talking to Whuppetie, Mother. I talk to God when I'm ill and to -Whuppetie when I'm well.' The year before, her great joy had been to -go to the water meadow, where the banks of the ditch were blue with -forget-me-nots. I had always avoided the place in her illness, and she -had never asked to be taken; but one day, when we were driving past, we -heard the little Crichton girls say to their mother, 'Come after us -when you're ready, Mummy; we're going down to the water meadow to get -forget-me-nots.' Rosamund turned and looked at me, and there was such -utter sadness in her eyes that my heart seemed as if it must break.... -One very lovely day in June we had been out till quite late, for she -wanted to see the sunset. It was so wonderful in its rose and gold and -amethyst that Rosamund, looking with wistful eyes into the glory, said -that she thought she could see the twelve gates, every gate a pearl. -The beauty seemed to comfort her, but she said to me: 'Mother, if you -could only go with me! If there are twelve gates, how shall I know -which one to watch for you at?' ... Mark carried her up to bed that -night, and you all sat about on the floor for a little, talking and -laughing, and she smiled at you happily while she sipped her milk. It -was a very hot night, and a corn-crake was calling in a hayfield near -the window. Rosamund slept a little, and woke about three. I sponged -her face and hands to cool her, and put lavender water on her pillows; -the windows were wide open, but she seemed to be breathless. Her -father heard us moving, and came in from the dressing-room, and -Rosamund held out her hands to him. The dawn was beginning to break, -and he said, 'The night has passed, darling; it is morning.' She -nodded. 'There's that corn-crake corn-craking yet,' she said, and then -she gave a little cry. I caught her in my arms, and her head fell on -my breast like a dead bird's...." - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -With the last days of November winter descended with real earnest on -the Green Glen. For thirty-six hours snow fell, blotting out the -paths, piling great drifts in the hollows, making the high road almost -level with the tops of the hedges. The carts from the shops, the -butcher, the baker, the grocer, had to remain in the town, the postman -could not come near, Mr. Sharp stayed snugly in his Manse, and Dreams -was entirely cut off from the rest of the world. - -When the frost came, hardening the snow, Ann got out her toboggan and -spent glorious hours flying down the hillside and toilful ones dragging -the toboggan up again. Glowing with health and self-satisfaction, she -came in in the frosty twilight, to drink tea and upbraid her mother for -electing to remain by the fire. - -"How can you frowst by the fire, Mother, when you might be out looking -at the most glorious sunset and drinking in great draughts of air that -is like champagne? What? Cold? Not a bit, once you are out; indeed, -I was almost too warm. The mistake about tobogganing is that the rush -down is so short and the toil up so long. I must demand, like the -Irishman, that all roads be either level or downhill. What a delicious -muffin this is! May I have the jam?" - -Ann rose to get herself another cup of tea, and looked out of the -window on the way. "It's bitter hard to-night--you know the frost is -very severe when the snow creaks. 'Hech, sirs, it's winter fairly.' -Do come and look out, Mother. It's glorious being in Dreams in -snow--like living in the heart of a crystal." - -Mrs. Douglas shivered as she looked out at the waste of snow. "Draw -the curtains, Ann, and shut it out. I never did like snow: cold, -unfriendly stuff, making everything uncomfortable, blocking roads and -killing sheep and delaying trains; and when it goes away, burst pipes -and dripping misery. But you children always loved it. At Kirkcaple, -when it came, you were out before breakfast snowballing the milkman." - -Ann finished her tea and lay back in her chair regarding her mother, -who was finishing her "reading" for the day, taking sips of tea and -reading _Golden Grain_ at the same time. - -"Mother," said Ann, "did you ever give yourself good times? You began -your married life without a honeymoon, and I'm afraid you continued on -the same principle. I don't seem to remember that you ever got rid of -us all and had a real holiday alone with Father." - -Mrs. Douglas finished what she was reading and laid the little book on -the pile before she answered her daughter. Then she took off her -spectacles and took up her cup of tea, and said: - -"Oh yes; when Jim was a baby we went to London for a fortnight to stay -with an uncle and aunt of your father's. Don't you remember them? -Uncle John and Aunt John, we always called them--why, I don't know. -Uncle John was rather old when he married, and had a weak heart, and -Aunt John warned me that it was safer not to contradict him. Not that -it would have entered into my head to do such a thing. I was in too -great awe of them both. They were a handsome couple, and Uncle John -had a pair of trousers for every day of the week--shepherd-tartan ones -for Sunday. Aunt was very tall, with a Roman nose, her hair parted at -one side, and was always richly dressed in silks that rustled. - -"They were devoted to each other, and made such a touching pair of -middle-aged lovers, coquetting with each other in a way that amazed us, -staid married people that we were--I suppose I was about -five-and-twenty then. I overheard Aunt say to Uncle one day when she -came in with a new hat: 'How do you like my _chapeau_, Jackie?' and -always at breakfast she greeted him with a resounding kiss, as if she -had never set eyes on him from the night before. We must have been a -great nuisance to them, such a countrified couple as we were. Your -father was always fit to go anywhere, but I must have been a quaint -figure, in a lavender dress trimmed with ruching, and a black silk -dolman and a lavender bonnet. They were the efforts of the little -dressmaker in Kirkcaple, one of our church members, and we had thought -them almost alarmingly smart in the parlour behind the shop; but when I -saw myself reflected in long mirrors and shop windows, I had my doubts." - -Ann sat forward in her chair, her eyes alight with interest. - -"I had forgotten about the London visit. Had you a good time? Were -they kind to you?" - -"They were kindness itself. Every morning Uncle planned out things for -us to do, and arranged that we should lunch somewhere with him--that -was to save our pockets. And Aunt's housekeeping seemed to me on a -scale nothing short of magnificent. When I went marketing with her it -thrilled me to see her buy salmon and turbot as I might have bought -'penny haddies,' and she seemed to me to give a dinner-party every -night. And the servants were such aloof, superior creatures. It was -all very awe-inspiring to me, a timorous little country mouse." - -Ann laughed. "'Wee modest crimson-tippit beastie,' as Charlotte -renders Burns. But tell me what you saw, Mother. All the sights, I am -sure. But did you do anything exciting?" - -"Oh yes. We went to hear Spurgeon, and one evening Uncle took us to -the Crystal Palace and we saw fireworks." - -Ann hooted. "Mother, you are a pet! I asked you if you had done -anything exciting--meaning had you seen Ellen Terry and Irving and -heard Patti sing--and you tell me you heard Spurgeon and went to -fireworks at the Crystal Palace!" - -"I don't see why you should laugh," Mrs. Douglas said, rather -affronted. "These were the things we liked to do. At least, I think -what your father really liked best was to poke about in the old -book-shops, and he did enjoy the good food. I liked it all, but the -going home was best of all. I had felt very small and shabby in -London, but when we came off that long night journey and found you all -waiting for us as fresh as the morning, you and Mark and Robbie and -Jim, I felt the richest woman in the world. I quite sympathised with -the mother of the Gracchi, though before I had always thought her -rather a fool." - -"Yes," Ann said profoundly. "Sometimes things you have read and -thought merely silly suddenly become true--and did the London fortnight -last you a long time?" - -"The next summer I had my trunk packed to go with your father to -Switzerland, but at the last moment I found I couldn't leave you, and -he had to go alone. It was very silly, but, anyway, I always saw that -he had a good holiday, and I was happy with you children at Etterick. -But as you grew older and went away to school I often got away for a -little. One great ploy was to go to the Assembly; sometimes we stayed -with people, but we greatly preferred to have rooms in a Princes Street -hotel. I don't mean to _lichtly_ people's hospitality, but it is a -relief when you come in tired not to have to put on a bright, -interested expression and tell your hostess all about it." - -"I do so agree," said Ann; "'a bright, interested expression' is far -too often demanded of ministers' wives and families. What a joy to -scowl and look listless at a time. You know, Mums, a manse is a -regular school for diplomatists. It is a splendid training. One -learns to talk to and understand all sorts of people--just think what -an advantage that gives one over people who have only known intimately -their own class! And you haven't time to think about yourself; you are -so on the alert to avoid hurting anyone's feelings. You have to try -and remember the affairs of each different member, how many children -they possess, and all about them, and be careful to ask at the right -moment for the welfare of each. To say to a very stout lady living -alone, 'Are you all well?' savours of impertinence.... Yes, well, you -went to a hotel to avoid having to look 'bright and interested,' wise -people; and what did you do there?" - -"But, Ann," Mrs. Douglas protested, having been struck with her -daughter's remarks on her early training, "you spoke as if you were -brought up to be hypocrites, and I'm sure that is the very last thing -your father and I wanted you to be----" - -"Oh, well," said Ann lightly, "the best people are all more or less -hypocrites. The world would be a most unpleasant place if we had -all--like Lo, the poor Indian--untutored minds and manners. Honesty is -sometimes almost a crime, and the man who feels it necessary to speak -what he is pleased to call his mind in season and out of season is a -public nuisance. Hold your peace if you have nothing pleasant to say. -People need encouraging far oftener than you think; even bumptious -people are often only bumptious because they are uncertain of -themselves. As the White Queen said, 'A little kindness and putting -their hair in curl papers' would work wonders for them. But I don't -know why I am chattering like a swallow when what I want is to hear -about you and Father at the Assembly." - -Mrs. Douglas had taken up her knitting, and with a happy smile on her -face and her fingers working busily she said: - -"I remember one particularly happy Assembly. Davie was about five, and -you were at home to keep things right, so my mind was quite at ease, -and I had got a smart new coat and skirt--black, trimmed with grey -cloth and braided, and a black hat with grey feathers." - -"A most ministerial outfit," said Ann, making a face. "I would rather -have seen you in the lavender and the dolman." - -"It was very suitable for a minister's wife, and it must have been -becoming, for almost every one we met said I looked so young, and that -pleased your father, though, of course, it was nonsense. We were in a -mood to enjoy everything--those May mornings when we came down to -breakfast, hungry and well and eager for a new day, and sat at a little -table in a bow window looking out on the Castle, and ate fresh herring -'new cam' frae the Forth,' and bacon and eggs and hot rolls." - -Mrs. Douglas stopped and said solemnly: - -"Ann, if I had a lot of money, do you know what I would do? I would -send fifty pounds anonymously to all the ministers--not, of course, to -those with big stipends, and certainly not to the ones with rich -wives--to let the minister and his wife have a week at the Assembly. -It would pay their fare and hotel bill, and leave something over to -shop with. Dear me, I wonder rich people don't give themselves a good -time by doing happy things like that." - -"It's a game that never palls," Ann said; "planning what you would do -if you got a sudden fortune. I'm quite sure the real owners of riches -don't get half as much pleasure out of their wealth as the paupers who -have it only in dreams. And what followed after the large breakfast? -Did you spend the whole day in the assembling of yourselves together? -Attending the Assembly is like some sort of insidious drug: the more -you do it, the more you want to do it. Since I have been your -companion at its deliberations I have found that I can sit in it quite -happily for hours. You wouldn't miss the Assembly week for a lot even -now, would you? It is odd how the sight of ministers in the mass seems -to do you good. Absolutely you get quite sleek by merely looking at -them. Do you remember when you were so very ill in London you kept -worrying Sir Armstrong to know if you would be better for the Assembly, -and the poor doctor said to Mark, 'Your mother is very anxious to go to -some assembly; but she _couldn't dance_?'" - -Mrs. Douglas laughed and then sighed. "I enjoy it still," she said; -"but the Assembly Hall is a place of ghosts to me now. There are so -few of the faces that once I knew. I look up at my old place in the -Ladies' Gallery--I never aspired to the Moderator's Gallery in those -days. I always sat in the same seat, and then your father knew where -to look up and smile to me during debates. I often sat very nervous, -for he had a dreadful way of always being on the wrong side--I mean by -that the unpopular side--and it wasn't nice for me to hear him shouted -at. I thought he cared far too little for what people thought; he had -no interest in which way the cat was going to jump; he never thought of -taking the safe course simply because it was safe and would pay best. -I remember after one stormy debate in which he had held the most -unpopular view a lady beside me said, 'Can you tell me who that -unpleasant minister is?' and I said, 'I think he comes from Glasgow.' -But my sins found me out almost at once, for, on his way out to vote, -your father stood and grinned up at me, looking like a mischievous -schoolboy who knows he's going to get a row, and I had to smile at -him--and the lady beside me glared at us both suspiciously." - -"It was odd," said Ann, "that in public he was such a fighter, for in -his home life, if ever man carried in his right hand gentle peace, it -was my Father. There was a time, when Mark and I first grew up, that -we thought we knew infinitely more about everything in heaven and earth -than our parents. There was a time when Father's beliefs filled me -with a kind of tender scorn: they were so hopelessly out of date. I -used to argue with him in my pert way that Free Will and Election could -not be reconciled, and he would reply, with a twinkle, 'Ann, I -sometimes think you are a very ignorant creature. Give me another cup -of tea.' I remember Father's _innocence_ amused us very much. He was -so far away from the ugliness and the vulgarity and the idiotic -smartness of modern life. He once heard Robbie singing an absurd song, -and asked him to repeat the words--I forget what they were, something -very silly and rather funny about: - - 'How often to myself I've said, - Cheer up, Cully, you'll soon be dead, - A short life but a gay one.' - -Father listened and said gravely, 'If the wretched fellow had had any -hope of an after life...' - -"And we said, 'Isn't Father _quaint_!'" - -"And when he was no longer there to stand up for his old-fashioned -beliefs there wasn't one of us but would have died gladly for those -same beliefs because they had been his.... When Robbie got the cable -of his death he wrote from India: 'The best man in Scotland is -gone--now he knows what his beliefs meant to all of us'; and Davie, -that advanced young thinker, once came back from hearing a preacher of -renown, and said fiercely, 'No, I didn't like him. He _sneered at the -Shorter Catechism_.'" - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -"Here's a nice state of things," said Ann. - -"Is anything wrong?" asked her mother. - -"Well, I don't know whether you would call it wrong or right. Mr. -Philip Scott sends me back my MS., with his criticism of it. I agree -with most of the things he says: my language is too incorrigibly noble, -my quotations _are_ very frequent----" - -"But if they're good quotations," Mrs. Douglas interrupted. - -"Oh, they're good quotations. 'It was the best butter,' as the poor -March Hare said. But what he objects to most is the sweetness of it. -He says, 'Put more acid into it.'" - -"Into me, does he mean?" - -"I suppose so. Mr. Scott evidently finds you insipid. We must change -that at once. Tell me, now, about all the people you hated and who -hated you." - -Mrs. Douglas looked bewildered, and more than a little indignant. -"Nonsense, Ann. I'm sure I'm very glad to hear you have made me -sweet--anything else would have been most undutiful; and as for hating -people, I never was any good at that. I couldn't keep up grudges, -though I was sometimes very angry at people. I dare say it was a -weakness in my nature. But I think, if Mr. Scott is to be allowed to -criticise, I might be allowed to read my own _Life_." - -"It's so _dull_," said Ann, looking discontentedly at the MS. "And -you're not a dull woman, Mother! Rather a comic, really. See, read -for yourself." - -Ann plumped the packet on to her mother's lap and retired to the -fender-stool with the _Times_; but she could hardly have done justice -to the leaders, for her eyes often wandered from the printed page to -the expressive face of her mother reading her own _Life_. - -For half an hour Ann waited; then her patience gave out, and she leant -forward and put her hand across the page. - -"That's enough, Mums. Surely you can tell me now how you think it -goes." - -Mrs. Douglas smiled at her daughter. "Why did you do that? I'm -enjoying it immensely, and----" - -"Oh, if anybody could find it interesting, you would; but don't you -find it rather stilted?" - -"Not stilted exactly, but if you would write in a more homely way, it -might be better. Take the reader more into your confidence. I'm not -clever enough to explain quite what I mean; but I think you are writing -from the outside, as it were. Try to be more--is subjective the word I -want? And don't say too much about me. After all, my life was my -husband and the children. Write about your father and the boys. Never -were brothers more loved by a sister. As for Davie--you brought him -up." - -Ann's eyes filled suddenly with tears, but in a minute she said lightly: - -"You see, Mother, Mr. Scott asks what I am working up to in this _Life_ -of yours; how am I going to finish it, he wants to know. I hadn't -thought of that. I was just going to leave loose ends--like life. I -suppose there ought to be something--some idea that binds the whole -thing together. Oh, it is all too difficult. I'd better burn all that -I've written, and start again in an entirely new way. How would it do -to put your life into scenes? The young girl in a royal blue silk -dress and a locket and a black velvet ribbon, meeting her future -husband. The wedding. A nursery scene--very effective this!--and then -we might have scenes from your church life--you holding a Mothers' -Meeting or a Girls' Club, or your first address to the Fellowship -meeting. Do you remember you began (as you begin most things) with a -deep sigh, and it sounded rather like _Hooch_, and Robbie said you -reminded him of Harry Lauder?" Ann chuckled at the recollection, and -her mother said: - -"No wonder I was nervous. It was a great ordeal to speak before you -scoffing young things. No; I don't like the idea of 'scenes.' I -prefer it as it is. How far are you on?" - -"I've got us all at school, and I was going to write about Davie being -born. It was the summer after Rosamund died, wasn't it? I was at -school when I got the news, and some of the girls condoled with me, and -said a new baby in the house would be a dreadful nuisance, and I -pretended to be bored by the prospect, when really I could hardly -contain my excitement. I had to get home for a week-end to see him." - -"Poor little baby, to think that we were actually disappointed when he -came. We had wanted another girl so much, and a fourth boy seemed -rather unnecessary. Of course that was only at the very beginning. He -was the plainest looking baby I ever saw, and we would not have had him -in the very least different." - -"I thought he was lovely," said Ann. "When Mark saw him for the first -time, he said, 'Hullo, Peter,' and Peter he was called for years. When -I came home from school he was about three years, and he became my -special charge. You were so very busy at that time with the house and -church work, as well as a great scheme that the Member of Parliament -for the district started to teach working women how to make savoury -dinners out of nothing. You were so keen about it that you tried all -the new dishes on your family, and we nearly perished as a family. I -can remember some of the dishes. _Stuffed cod's head_--one glance at -its gruesome countenance was enough. _Mock kidney soup_, made with -grated liver, which, instead of being the rich brown proper to kidney -soup, was a sort of olive green. Sea-pie--so-called, Mark said, -because the sea was a handy place when you had eaten it. I once went -with you to see a demonstration by the principal cooking teacher, a -buxom lady with quantities of glossy black hair coiled round her head. -She showed us first what she called 'a pretty puddin'.' Instead of -sugar she had grated carrots in it, or something surprisingly like -that. Then she made shortbread, and when the cakes were finished and -ready to go into the oven she wanted something to prick them with, and -nothing was at hand. She wasn't easily beaten, for I saw her withdraw -a hairpin from the coils on her head and prick them with that. When -they were taken from the oven, and I saw that they were to be handed -round and tasted, I unobtrusively withdrew. You had noticed nothing, -and ate your bit quite happily." - -"Oh, Ann, you always saw far too much. That's all nonsense about the -things we made. Everything was excellent and very cheap, and the women -in the district enjoyed the lectures amazingly, and constantly asked to -have them repeated. I enjoyed them myself. Anything to do with -cooking interests me, and I read every recipe I see." - -"You are the sort of guest, Mother, who would appreciate a cookery book -in her bedroom. It seems an odd taste to me. I can make porridge, -smooth and soft, with no knots, and fry quite nice bacon and eggs, and -I can make some rather smart meringuey puddings, and there I end. -D'you remember how difficult it was to get Davie to eat when he was -tiny? I had to feed him with every meal, or I don't think he would -have eaten anything. He was such a thin little slip of a thing--like -an elf. At one time I got so desperate about his thinness that I took -to rubbing him all over every night with olive oil. What a mess it -made of everything! We took tremendous care of him, didn't we? He -never went out in his pram with only the nursemaid; I generally went, -too, in case anything happened to him. It's a wonder to me that we -didn't spoil him utterly." - -"He was a dear, ugly wee laddie," Mrs. Douglas said. "When Mark came -down from Oxford he used to sit and study him from the other side of -the table, and say, 'How has that child acquired such a Mongolian cast -of countenance?'' - -"It was too bad," said Ann, "and Davie so admiring of Mark and all his -Oxford friends. He used to amuse them a lot. I once overheard him -explain to a man how he happened to live with us. 'I was playing quite -quietly in heaven one day when God came up to me and said, "Peter, -you've to go and live with the Douglases." I said, 'The Douglases! -_Good Lord!_' The weary boredom in his voice was delightful." - -"Many a fright he gave me," said Davie's mother. "He picked up the -most extraordinary expressions, and seemed to know when to use them -with the most disastrous effect. By the time Davie was born I had -grown tired of training, besides it was impossible to do anything with -him when you older children, who should have known better, laughed at -and encouraged him. He was a plaything to you all." - -"Yes," said Ann; "there's something about the baby of a family that's -different. The youngest never grows up, and to each of us Davie seemed -almost more a son than a brother, and we never lost for him--even when -he was grown up and a soldier--the almost passionate tenderness that we -had for the little delicate boy. He was the delight of our lives, -always. I remember when I arrived in India almost the first thing -Robbie wanted to be told was Davie's latest sayings. He had a name for -each of us peculiarly his own. Nobody ever called me 'Nana' but Davie, -and why he christened Jim 'Ney' no one ever knew. But, Mother, it was -only as a baby that he was so very plain. Later he developed a sort of -horsey look, and we dressed him in a 'horsey' way, with a snooty bonnet -and a fawn overcoat. I remember he got a very neat suit to go to a -party at Anthony's house, his first real party--brown with a corduroy -waistcoat--which he described in imitation of Mark and his friends as -'me blood waistcoat'--and short, tight trousers. As we dressed him we -noticed that the shirt he was wearing had been patched at the elbow, -but it was clean, and we didn't change it. When he came home he told -how this one had sung and that one had recited, and 'What,' we asked, -'did you do?' 'Oh, me,' said Davie, 'I only took off my coat and -showed them my patched shirt.'" - -"It didn't matter at Anthony's house," Mrs. Douglas said; "the -Cochranes were well accustomed to the vagaries of small boys. Anthony -and Davie made a funny couple. Anthony was so solemn and fat, and so -ashamed of Davie's eccentric behaviour. Davie's way of telling himself -stories 'out loud,' and going round the room gesticulating wildly, -really shocked Anthony, who was a most self-contained child. He never -showed surprise, indeed he rarely ever showed emotion of any sort. -When he and Davie were very small and met outside, each took off his -hat to the other and made a low bow. At the first party we gave for -Davie, the child was greatly excited, and talked without ceasing, -jumping up and down in his chair. Anthony was sitting next him at the -tea-table in a green velvet suit, and he stood this Jack-in-the-box -behaviour as long as he could, then he turned very quietly, slapped -Davie's face and resumed his tea without having said a word. And Davie -bore him no ill-will; they were fast friends from that moment. D'you -remember the two going alone to a party in a cab, and they were so -thrilled about it that--we were told afterwards--they refused to do -anything but sit in the hall and wait for the cab coming back?" - -"I loved Anthony," said Ann. "He took things so calmly and was so -speechless. One afternoon when he was with us people began to flock up -to his front door, carriages and motors arrived, and we called to him -to come and tell us what occasion this was. Anthony looked at the -commotion for a minute, and then said, 'It must be a party,' and not -another word passed his lips. One night we said 'Anthony will recite.' -He said neither yea nor nay, and we led him into the middle of the -room. Still he made no protest, but stood, drooping like a candle in -the sun, while large tears coursed quietly down his face. It must have -been good for Davie to have such a phlegmatic friend. But I've seen -Anthony wakened to enthusiasm. I came home once full of _Cyrano de -Bergerac_, and, of course, told Davie all about it--I was so pleased -when I heard Davie say after he was grown up, 'It was Nana made me like -poetry'--and it became his favourite game. He and Anthony would crouch -behind the sofa, 'behind the walls at Arras,' and then jump wildly up -shouting, 'Cadets of Gascony are we...' Mother, I think you and I -could talk for weeks on end about Davie...." - -The door opened and Marget came in. "It's no' nine o'clock yet," she -said; "but Mysie has rin oot doon to the cottages--what wi' the mune -and the snaw it's near as light as day--an' I cam' in to speer about -your _Life_, Mem. Hoo's Miss Ann gettin' on wi't?" - -"Not very well, Marget," Ann answered for herself. "I'm going to -finish it, but it's a much harder job than I expected." - -Marget sniffed. "I dinna see ony hardness aboot it. You hev a' the -facts; a' that you've got to dae is write them doon." - -"It certainly sounds very easy put in that way," Ann said; "but facts -alone are dull things." - -"But ony thing else wad juist be lees." - -Ann began to laugh. "But, Marget," she protested, "I could put all the -facts of Mother's life into one page--born, married, number of -children, and so on; but that wouldn't be any sort of record to hand -down to the children. You want all sorts of little everyday touches -that will make them see the home that their father was brought up in." - -"Everyday touches," Marget repeated; "d'ye mean what we hed for oor -denners an' aboot washin' days? But thaes no things to write aboot. I -could tell ye some rale fine things to pit in a book. One Setterday I -let in a young man to see the maister--a rale weel pit-on young man he -was, an' I showed him into the study, an' what d'ye think was the very -first thing he said to the maister?" - -Marget leant forward impressively. "He said that he had had a veesion -to kill a man an' had been guided to oor Manse. Eh, I say! Sic a -fricht I got when I heard aboot it! It juist lets ye see how carefu' -ye should be aboot lettin' folk in even if they look respectable." - -"And how did Father get rid of him?" Ann asked. - -"You tell her, Mem." Marget nodded towards her mistress, and Mrs. -Douglas said: - -"He was a poor fellow whose brain had gone from over-study. Your -father talked quietly to him, and said that Saturday morning was a bad -time to come, and suggested that he should put it off till Monday. He -went away quite peaceably, and your father went out after him and had -him followed, for he was a dangerous lunatic. On the Sunday we were -afraid to leave anybody in the house in case he came back, so we all -went to church--even Jim the baby! On the Monday we heard that he was -in an asylum. It was a tragic case." - -"We got some awfu' frichts in the Kirkcaple Manse," said Marget; "but I -dinna mind nane in Glesgae; we had folk a' round us there. Eh, Mem, -d'ye mind the day the maister brocht in the auld-claes wife?" - -Mrs. Douglas began to laugh, and she and Marget sat and shook in silent -convulsions while Ann demanded to know what they were laughing at. - -At last Mrs. Douglas steadied her voice enough to say: - -"You know your father was always being accused of not being cordial to -people--he had naturally rather a dry manner. One day I was standing -at the study window and saw an old-clothes woman--Mrs. Burt was her -name--who came regularly to ask if we had anything for her, standing at -the gate as if hesitating whether or not to come in. Then I saw your -father approach, raise his hat, saw him go up to the startled woman and -shake her warmly by the hand, and then conduct her into the house. -'Nell,' he shouted, 'here's an old friend to see you--Mrs. Beattie from -Kirkcaple! She must have some lunch.'" - -"Mrs. Burt turned to me a distressed, red face, and I stared at her -wondering which of us had gone mad. - -"'Mrs. Burt...' I began, and then it dawned upon your father what he -had done. There was a faint resemblance between the old-clothes woman -and our old friend Mrs. Beattie, who had been such a help to us in the -Kirkcaple Church. For a moment he was absolutely nonplussed, and then -he began to laugh, and he and I reeled about while Mrs. Burt looked -more alarmed every minute. We recovered in time, and begged Mrs. -Burt's pardon for the mistake, and saw that she had a good dinner; but -your father said he had got enough of trying to be 'frank'----" - -Marget wiped her eyes. "Eh, I say," she said, "it was an awfu' set -oot." - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -The thaw came suddenly, and, almost in a night, the snow went, leaving -the moorlands like some vast sponge. The air was full of the rushing -of a great west wind and the noise of running water, as burns, heavy -with spate, came tumbling down the hillsides. - -Ann stood looking out at the wide view, at the hills purple-dark, with -drifts of snow still in the hollows and at the back of dykes. - -"'As dull as a great thaw,'" she quoted. "It's like a giant's washing -day--such a sloppiness and dreariness, and that horrible steamy feeling -that a house gets when the frost goes suddenly and leaves everything -damp, even the walls and the furniture. A new-made road is no great -treat in a thaw. I stuck, and nearly left my big boots behind me this -morning. I wish it would get dark and we could draw the curtains and -have tea." - -"I don't want to grumble," Mrs. Douglas said, turning the heel of a -stocking with a resigned air, "but these last few days have been very -long. No post even! That was the last straw. I've knitted a pair of -stockings for little Davie, and I've written a lot of letters, and I've -tried each of the library books in turn, but nowadays nobody writes the -sort of book I like. No, they don't, Ann." - -"But what kind of book pleases you, Mother? I thought we had rather a -good selection this week. One or two are quite interesting." - -"Interesting!" repeated Mrs. Douglas. "They seemed to me the very -essence of dullness. I don't think I'm ill to please, but I do like a -book that is clean and kind. I put down each of those books in -disgust; they're both dull and indecent. Is it easier to be clever and -nasty than clever and clean?" - -"Oh, much," said Ann promptly. "It's a very hard thing, I should -think, to write a book that is pleasant without being mawkish, whereas -any fool can be nasty and can earn a reputation of sorts by writing -what Davie used to call 'hot stuff.'" - -"Well, I wish some one would arise who would write for the middle-aged -and elderly; there are a great many in the world, and they are -neglected by nearly every one--fashion writers, fiction writers, play -writers--no one caters for them. I like domestic fiction, gentle but -not drivelling, good character drawing and a love story that ends all -right." - -"In other words," said Ann, "good print and happy ending. What about -me? Why shouldn't I become the writer for middle-aged women? I might -almost call myself a writer now that I have wrestled for weeks with -your _Life_, and I believe I would find it easier to write fiction than -biography--to leave what Marget calls 'facs' and take to 'lees.' Facts -crib and cabin one. Given a free hand I might develop an imagination." - -"Who knows? Only don't begin anything else until you have finished the -job you are at. I do hate to leave unfinished work." - -"Oh, so do I," said Ann, "and I mean to plod on with the _Life_ to the -bitter end--but I had better take bigger strides and cover the ground. -From Davie's birth--do you remember he used to say when we complained -of his accent, 'Well, you shouldn't have borned me in Glasgow'--on till -you went to South Africa nothing of importance happened." - -Mrs. Douglas stared at her daughter. "Seven years," she said. "Did -nothing important happen in those years?" - -"_Nothing_," Ann said firmly, "except that the boys left school and -went to Oxford----" - -"Oh, but Ann, don't hurry on so. You must put in about the boys doing -so well at school and getting scholarships and almost educating -themselves. It might spur on that lazy little Rory to hear about them -... and you grew up." - -"My growing up wasn't much of an event," said Ann. "Indeed it was -something of a disaster. I had been rather attractive-looking as a -schoolgirl because my hair fluffed out round my face, but when I put it -up I dragged it all back into a little tightly hair-pinned bump. The -change was startling. I was like a skinned rabbit. The boys hung -umbrellas on the bump and the church people came to you and asked you -to make me let down my hair again because they couldn't bear the look -of me. And I wore a thick brown coat and a brown hat with red in it, -and I had no more notion how to dress myself becomingly than a Kaffir -woman. I was a poor little object and I knew it. Then one night I -went to a party--an ordinary Glasgow party, full of jokes and good -things to eat--and there I met an artist; I suppose she would be about -thirty--I longed prodigiously to be thirty when I was eighteen; it -seemed to me the ideal age--and she wore a wonderful flowing gown, and -her red hair was parted in the middle and lay in a great knot of gold -at the nape of her neck. I had never seen anything like this -before--all your friends had their hair tightly and tidily done up and -wore bodices with lots of bones--and I sat and worshipped. I suppose -she had recognised worship in the eyes of the awkward, ill-dressed -young girl, for she came and sat beside me and talked to me and asked -what I meant to do in the world. I hadn't thought of doing anything, I -told her; I had a lot of brothers and a busy mother, and I helped at -home. She told me she would like to paint me, and I was flattered -beyond belief and promised to go to her studio the very next day. -Margot Stronach and everything about her were a revelation to me. I -thought her flat--which was probably rather tawdry and pinned together: -she confessed to me that she seldom bothered to sew things--the last -word in Art. Divans made out of discarded feather beds, polished -floors, white walls and blue jars with cape gooseberries--what could -one want more? I felt my clothes singularly out of place in such -surroundings, and I gave you no peace until I had got a long -straight-hanging white frock with gold embroideries which the boys -called my nightgown and in which I felt perfectly happy. Margot -certainly did improve my appearance vastly, you must admit that, -Mother. She made me take a few dozen hairpins out of my poor hair, -part it in the middle and fold it lightly back, and she taught me the -value of line, but she turned me for the time being into a very -affected, posing young person. It was then that I turned your nice -comfortable Victorian drawing-room upside down and condemned you as a -family to semi-darkness! I can't think why you were so patient with -me. The boys hooted at me, but I didn't mind them, and you and Father -meekly stotted about, until Father one afternoon fell over a stool and -spilt all his tea, whereupon he flew into one of his sudden rages, -vowed that this nonsense must cease, and pulled up the blinds to the -very top." - -Mrs. Douglas laughed softly. "Poor Ann, we didn't appreciate your -artist friends much, but----" - -"Oh, but Mother," Ann interrupted, "Margot wasn't a real artist--not -like Kathleen and Jim Strang, or any of the serious artists. She was -only a woman with a certain amount of money and a small talent, good -looks, and a vast amount of conceit. Even my foolish young eyes saw -that very soon." - -"She put me very much about," Mrs. Douglas said; "she had such a -wailing, affected way of talking. I never could think of anything to -say in reply. Besides, I knew all the time she was thinking me an -ignorant, frumpish woman, and that didn't inspire me. You admired her -so much that you even copied her voice...." - -Ann began to laugh. "It must have been terrible, Mother. I remember -Davie meeting Margot on the stairs, and she knelt down and began to -talk to him in that wailing, affected voice. Davie was a little fellow -and easily frightened, and he suddenly clutched my dress and burst into -tears, sobbing 'Nana, Nana, it's the _bandarlog_.' Fortunately Margot -didn't know her 'Jungle Book,' so she missed the allusion." - -"What happened to her?" Mrs. Douglas asked. - -"Oh, Kathleen told me she had met her somewhere quite lately. She -married a rich business man, stout and a little deaf--that was all to -the good!--and, Kathleen said, looked very fat and prosperous and -middle-aged. She said to Kathleen, 'Still painting away?' and -Kathleen, greatly delighted, replied, 'Still painting away.'" - -"Oh, yes, Kathleen would appreciate that remark.... What was your next -phase, Ann?" - -"I had no more _phases_," said Ann, and got up to get a paper to hold -between her face and the fire. "I began to go to London for a month in -the spring, and Uncle Bob took me with him when he went abroad, and -Mark took me to Switzerland to climb--that was absolutely the best -holiday of all--and I had a very, very good time." - -"Yes," said her mother, "I remember a poor bed-ridden girl in the -church saying to me wistfully, 'Miss Ann's life is just like a fairy -tale.'" - -Ann nodded. "It must have seemed so to her, poor child! And indeed I -was very fortunate; I had such wonderful brothers. But I never really -liked going away from home unless we went as a family. I hated to -leave Davie. How quickly we all seemed to grow up after we left -Kirkcaple, Mother!--Robbie especially. It seems to me, looking back, -that he sprang quite suddenly from an incredibly mischievous, rough -little boy into a gentle, silent schoolboy." - -Mrs. Douglas stopped knitting and looked thoughtfully into the fire. -"Robbie," she said--how soft, thought Ann, her mother's voice was when -it named her boys--"Robbie changed quite suddenly. Up to thirteen he -was the firebrand of the household. Your father alone never lost -patience with his wild laddie. 'Let him alone,' he would say, 'he'll -be the best of the lot yet.' Marget used to say, 'There's naething for -it but to make him a sodger; the laddie canna get his fill o' -fechtin'.' I don't know what changed him. I think he just got sense. -Children do, if you let them alone. He began to be keen to take a good -place at school. Robbie had lots of brains, Ann." - -"Oh, brains! He was one of the most capable men I ever knew. In India -there was no limit to the expectations his friends had for him." - -"Oh, Ann, I wish he hadn't gone to India, but his heart was set on it -always. The Indian Army! How he used to talk to me about it, and beg -me not to make a fuss about letting him go! I would have been so -pleased if all my boys had been ministers. I used to picture to -myself, when you were all little, how I would go from manse to manse, -and what a proud mother I would be. I never could bear the Army as a -profession; your father and I never saw eye to eye about that----" - -"Poor Mother, it was too bad! You wanted nice little clucking barndoor -fowls, and you found yourself with young eagles! I know. It would -have been a lovely life for you to do nothing but visit manses. I can -see you doing it. But even you stretched your wings a little. Was the -South African trip a silver-wedding jaunt?" - -"Yes; don't you remember? The congregation gave us a cheque at your -father's semi-jubilee, and that was how we spent it." - -"Oh, the semi-jubilee!" said Ann. "That was a great occasion. A -social meeting, with tea and cakes and speakers and presentations. -Eminent men brought from a distance to say complimentary things to you -and Father, and all sorts of old friends from Inchkeld and Kirkcaple -came with offerings, and so many of them stayed with us that the family -had to be boarded out! We acquired a lot of loot at that time in the -way of fitted dressing-cases and silver things, and we had a gorgeous -silver-wedding cake. Robbie had thought that you couldn't have a -bridescake unless you were being married, and when he found he had been -mistaken he said the only reason for marrying was gone! It was a -glorious cake. The boys were all at home for the Christmas holidays, -and when they got hungry in the forenoon they would go and cut chunks -off it with a pen-knife--until we had to hide it. You didn't go away -directly, Mums. It was the next November before you left for South -Africa, and what a business it was getting you away!" - -"'There's muckle adae when cadgers ride,'" Mrs. Douglas quoted. "And -it was a great undertaking. I didn't in the least want to go, but your -father was as keen as a schoolboy, and I couldn't let him go alone, and -I couldn't leave Davie, so the three of us went. Mark had gone to -London and was settled in his rooms in the Temple. Robbie and Jim were -studying, and you had invitations to fill up all the time." - -"I only visited between the boys' vacations, then we were all together -at Uncle Bob's. What angels he and Aunt Katharine were to us! The -rest of the time I paid visits, and very nearly had a bad nervous -breakdown through having to be consistently pleasant for nine months at -a stretch. You see, I stayed with such very different people, and the -effort to adjust myself to each in turn was rather wearing. When the -boys went back for the summer term, Uncle Bob took Aunt Katharine and -me over to Touraine. We stayed at Tours, and made expeditions all -round to the lovely old châteaux, and came home by Paris and London and -finished up at Oxford for Eights' Week. Wasn't it kind of Uncle Bob? -Oh, I do wish all the nice people weren't dead! Each one that goes -takes so much of the light away with him.... You didn't regret taking -the trip, Mother?" - -"Not for a minute, except, perhaps, when Davie supped a whole tin of -condensed milk and nearly perished, and your father was poisoned by a -mosquito bite and was blind for two days. It did me a world of good to -come across people who had never heard of the United Free Church of -Scotland and who had no desire to hear about it, and who interested me -enormously by the way they looked at life. Mark always used to tell me -that with me journeys ended in Mothers' Meetings, and I was too much -like that. I hadn't, perhaps, realised that people might be opposed to -everything I thought right and proper and yet be good people. I -worried a good deal about you children at home--it wouldn't have been -me if I hadn't had a trouble--but your father and Davie were blissfully -happy." - -"You wrote splendid letters," said Ann, "telling every detail. Father -hated writing letters--we used to tell him that he would rather walk -five miles than write a p.c.--and his efforts were quite short and -chiefly confined to statements such as: 'What a beautiful blue the -ocean is'; 'the veldt is much what I thought it would be.' Davie wrote -delicious letters on oily scraps of paper--oily because he was -generally anointed with a lotion for mosquito bites--which invariably -ended: 'Now I must finch up.' He never ceased to mourn the little -mongoose that died before he could bring it home, but he did fetch a -giant tortoise, which snowked about at Etterick until a specially cold -winter finished it. And you brought home a gorgeous fur rug and piles -of ostrich feathers. How did you collect so many presents?" - -"Well, you see, part of the time your father was taking services for a -minister home on leave, and the kindness and hospitality of the people -were boundless. And I felt so mean about doing so little to entertain -them when they turned up in Glasgow. We had a few to stay, but most of -them were only asked to luncheon, and it sounded so shabby." - -"Oh, but it's different out there," Ann said comfortably. "I felt I -could never repay the hospitality of the people I met in India. But -Robbie didn't at all take up that attitude. 'It's jolly nice for them -to have you,' was what he said, and I suppose he meant that visitors -from 'home' are sure of a welcome from exiles from 'home.' You are a -stranger in the land of their adoption, and they want you to see the -best side of things. It is different when they come back, then we are -all at home together. Aha, tea at last, and Marget bringing it in!" - -"Ay," said Marget, putting the kettle on the spirit-lamp, and carrying -the covered dish of muffins to the brass stool in the fireplace. -"Mysie went awa' doon to the village, seein' it was fresh again. She's -young, ye ken, and juist deein' for a crack wi' some o' her frien's. -There's a mune, and somebody'll see her hame I've nae doot. Will I -licht the lichts the noo?" - -Mrs. Douglas smiled at the old woman. "I think we'll have tea in the -firelight, Marget. I'm glad Mysie has gone out for a little. It's a -dull life up here for a young girl." - -"Oh, her," said Marget, dismissing her niece and her possible dullness -with a gesture. "D'ye mind, Mem, the maister never likit his tea in -the dark. He said he couldna see the road to his mooth. 'Marget,' he -would say to me, 'let's have some light on the subject.' That was aye -what he said." - -Marget stood in the firelight and looked at the two women at the -tea-table. - -"D'ye ken what I was thinkin' this afternoon when I was ma lane? I was -thinkin' how queer it was that a' oor men-folk are awa' and three -weemen's a' that's left." - -"Marget," said Ann, "what a croaking old raven you are! We're not -alone for always. Mr. Mark and Mr. Jim will be back in the spring." - -Marget shook her head gloomily. "I've nae comfort in thinkin' aboot -folk awa' ower the sea. It's a terrible dangerous thing to travel." - -"Yes, Marget," said her mistress, "we've just been talking, Miss Ann -and I, about our trip to South Africa. You washed your hands of us -then." - -"Me! I never thocht to see ony o' ye again. An' takin' wee Davie into -sic danger! A' the sailin' I ever did was from Burntisland to Granton -afore they pit up the Forth Bridge." - -"You're as bad as little Tommy Hislop," said Ann. "I spoke to him the -other day--you know he is going out with his mother to join his father -in South Africa?--and asked him how he would like the big ship. 'I'm -no gaun in a ship,' he said; 'I dinna like them. I'm gaun roond the -road in a cairt wi' ma Uncle Jake.'" - -"He's a wise laddie," said Marget. "But it was an awfu' set-oot when -you gaed awa' to Africa. An' we thocht we'd better try and let the -hoose for the winter and keep it fired, an' some queer American folk -cam' aboot it, kin o' missionaries they were, an' the maister said they -were decent folk and let them get it." - -"Yes, and we knew nothing about them," said Mrs. Douglas. "They -belonged to some sort of religious sect in America, and had come over -here to do propaganda work. They seemed to live like the early -Christians, having all things in common and taking no thought for the -morrow, and they could only offer us a nominal rent; but your father -talked to them and thought them sincere and liked them, so we gave them -the house. We had a cellar full of coal and a cupboard full of jam, -and we asked them if they would care to take them both over. They said -they would have to ask the Lord, and they came back and said: The Lord -says we may take the coal, but not the jam,' and we felt so sorry for -the funny little people that we gave them the jam. They had the -wildest of accents, and we had difficulty in understanding them when -they asked, 'Is there a crack in the door to let the mail through?' and -'Has the yard been spaded over this fall?'" - -"Wasn't it like our daft ways," said Ann, as she sipped her tea, "to -let our house at a ridiculously low rent to people we knew absolutely -nothing about? You know, Mother, they held meetings in the -drawing-room, and the neighbours, watching the people troop in, -shuddered for our carpets. I think it was some sort of faith-healing -that they did. When they left, a month before you were expected back, -Aunt Agatha and Jim and I went to see what the house was like, and -arrange about having it thoroughly cleaned. We found it in perfect -condition. Two of the women came to see us the night we were there, -and told us something of the work. I asked them how they had kept the -carpets so fresh, and they said quite simply, 'We asked the Lord.' I -shall never forget poor Aunt Agatha's face of utter terror--you know -her almost insane horror of infection--when one of those Bible -Christians said, 'Would you believe it, we cured a case of smallpox in -this very room?' They had replaced everything they had broken, so they -did very well by us. It's nice not to have to think hardly of -Christians, whatever sect they belong to." - -"That's true," said Marget, "but I think the puir bodies had leeved on -cocoa. Sic a cocoa-tins they left in a press!" - -"Ann," said Mrs. Douglas, "I've just been thinking, you should tell -about old Christina in my _Life_. She was a most interesting -character." - -Ann shook her head as she rose from the tea-table. "I've too many old -women in it already. Besides, I'm not going to write just now. I'm -going to lie in the most comfortable chair the room contains and read -an article in the _Times Literary Supplement_ called 'Love and -Shakespeare.' Does that sound good enough?" - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -The next evening when Ann sat down with an air of determination at the -writing-table she asked: "Shall I make another stride, Mother? Go on -another seven years? It's fine to wear seven-league boots and stride -about as one likes among the years. What I ought to do, really, before -I write any more, is to read one of the books Mr. Philip Scott sent me -this morning. They are lives of different people, and he thinks they -might help me a lot with yours." - -"It was kind of him to send them," Mrs. Douglas said. - -"Oh, thoughtful, right enough, as Glasgow people say. I shall thank -him in a sentence I found in Montaigne--here it is. 'They who write -lives,' says Montaigne, 'by reason that they take more notice of -counsels than events, more of what proceeds from within doors than of -what happens without ... are the fittest for my perusal.' Mr. Scott -will be rather impressed, I should think." - -Mrs. Douglas appeared to take little interest in Montaigne. She was -looking over a book that Mr. Sharp had brought her to read that -afternoon. - -"Mr. Sharp was telling me," she said presently, "how good the Miss -Scotts are about helping with anything in the village. He is very keen -about getting up a club for the young men, and he told them about it, -and they at once promised to have that empty house at the top of the -village put in order, and their nephew, Mr. Philip Scott, sent a sum of -money and is going to supply papers and books and magazines. Mr. Sharp -was quite excited about it, quite boyish and slangy when he told me -about the football and cricket clubs he hoped to start; you would -hardly have known him for the shy, douce young man coming solemnly as a -parson to talk to an old woman. I hadn't realised how young he was -until to-day." - -"I wish I had seen him," said Ann. "I hadn't thought of him as caring -for football and cricket. When do his people come?" - -"Oh, not till just before New Year. And the housekeeper has already -begun to hold it over his head that the extra work will probably prove -too much for her, and says that perhaps she ought to go now." - -"Better not tell Marget that," Ann warned her mother. "She is so sorry -for Mr. Sharp that she is quite capable of going to the Manse and -publicly assaulting the woman. But he would be much better to get rid -of her at once; there shouldn't be much difficulty about getting -another." - -Mrs. Douglas looked doubtful. "Better rue sit than flit," she quoted. -"Unless there happened to be a suitable woman in the district, I'm -afraid it wouldn't be easy to induce one to come to such an out-of-way -place. And they ask such outrageous wages now. When Marget came to me -she said, 'I doot ye'll think I've an awfu' big wage. I've been -gettin' seven pound in the half-year.' And she said it in a hushed -voice as if the very sound of the sum frightened her." - -Ann laughed and quoted: - - "'Times is changed,' said the cat's-meat man. - 'Lights is riz,' said the cat's-meat man.' - -The days are over when people could be passing rich on fourteen pounds -in the year. Mother, are you quite sure you want to stay here over -Christmas? It is such a deadly time at the best. Won't you go and -stay with some of the people who have asked us?" - -"No, I think not. I wouldn't like to be with anyone but my very own at -Christmas time, and it would be ridiculous to bring the children so -far--so we shall just stay quietly here." - -"Very well," said Ann. Then, after a pause, "I'm asking you, Mother, -but you won't pay any attention, where shall I begin to-night? I have -written about the South African trip, shall I go on another seven -years?" - -"Seven years," her mother repeated. "That makes Mark thirty-one. Oh, -a tremendous lot happened in those seven years, Ann. Robbie went to -India; Jim left Oxford and had just finished his law studies when Uncle -Bob died and he had to take his place; Mark married; you went to India. -And you talk glibly about writing it in one evening." - -"It is rather a spate of events," Ann confessed. "Did they really all -happen in seven years, before Davie was fourteen? First, Robbie sailed -for India. One of the church people who deeply deplored his going -said, 'He's far ower bonnie a laddie for India.'" - -"So he was," said Robbie's mother. "It was like cutting off a right -hand to let him go." - -"But, Mother," Ann said, "I don't think we need grudge the years he was -in India, for he was never really divided from us, his heart was always -at home. People there told me that though he loved his work he was -always talking of Scotland, his heart was full of the 'blessed beastly -place' all the time. D'you remember his first leave? Long before it -was sanctioned he had engaged a berth and given us elaborate -instructions about writing to every port. It was only three -months--six weeks at home--but it was enough, he said, to build the -bridge. He was just the same, the same kind simple boy, eager to spend -his money buying presents for every one; then, of course, his money -went done! I can see him now, lying on the floor with a bit of paper -and a pencil trying to make out if he had any money to go back with.... -I wonder what made Robbie so utterly lovable? If we could only -recapture the charm and put it into words--but we can only remember it -and miss it. I think it was partly the way he had of laughing at -himself, and the funny short-sighted way he screwed up his eyes--when -he missed a shot he would call himself a 'blind buffer.' I always -remember his second leave as being, I think, almost the happiest time -in my life." - -"Yes. It was the last time we were all together--two years after -Mark's marriage. Mark took Fennanhopes, which held us all comfortably, -and there was good shooting. Alis was a year old, and the idol of her -uncles. Davie was about fourteen, I suppose. Robbie was particularly -pleased that Davie showed signs of being a good shot, and poor Davie -was so anxious to please that he fired at and brought down a snipe, and -then suffered agonies of remorse over killing what he described as -'that wee long-nebbit bird.'" - -"I remember that," said Ann. "Mother, wasn't it odd how like Robbie -and Davie were? Plain little Davie and Robbie who was so good-looking. -After Robbie was gone, when Davie and I were together in a room, I used -to shut my eyes and make myself almost believe it was Robbie talking to -me--and both were so like Father. It must have been the way they -moved, and the gentle way they touched things--and the way they fell -over things! Mark called Davie 'light-footed Ariel,' from his capacity -for taking tosses. They were such friends, Father and the four boys, -and Father was the youngest of the lot." - -Mrs. Douglas sat with her hands clasped in her lap, looking straight -before her. When she spoke it was as if she were speaking to herself. - -"Robbie used to say that it was a mistake for a family to be too -affectionate, for when we were parted we were homesick for each other -all the time. But he wrote once: 'Foreign service must be a cheerless -business for the unclannish....'" - -"Mother," Ann said gently, "I think you can almost say Robbie's letters -by heart. It wasn't so bad saying good-bye to him, after his first -leave--at least, not for me, for I was going out to him for the next -cold weather. And Mark's marriage was our next excitement; we were -frightfully unused to marriages in our family, for you had no brothers -or sisters married, and Father had none. Had you and Father proved -such an awful example?" - -"It is odd," Mrs. Douglas agreed; "but some families are like that. -Others flop into matrimony like young ducks into water. Mark's -engagement gave me a great shock. It came as a complete surprise, and -we knew nothing about Charlotte, and it seemed to me that it must break -up everything, and that I must lose my boy." - -"It might have meant that, Mother, if Charlotte hadn't been Charlotte. -I know young wives who have taken their husbands completely away from -their own people. I don't think Mark would have allowed himself to be -taken, and I am very sure that Charlotte never tried. How odd it is to -remember that first visit she paid to us after she got engaged. None -of us had ever seen her, and we wondered what we would talk to her -about for a whole fortnight. And if it was bad for us to have a -stranger come in amongst us, how infinitely worse it was for poor -Charlotte to have to face a solid phalanx of--possibly hostile--new -relations! We have often laughed at it since, and Charlotte has -confessed that she had a subject for each of us. To you, Mums, she -talked about the poor; to Jim, poetry; to Father, flowers; Davie needed -no conversation, only butter-scotch; my subject was books. The great -thing about Charlotte was that she could always laugh, always be -trusted to see the funny side if there was one, and as a family we -value that more than anything. And we are pagans in our love for -beauty, and Charlotte was very good to look at. We weren't really -formidable, Charlotte says. Father she loved at once. Having no -brothers of her own, she was delighted to adopt Robbie and Jim and -Davie. You and I were the snags, Mother." - -"I?" said Mrs. Douglas in a hurt voice. "I'm sure I tried to be as -kind as----" - -"Of course you did, you couldn't be anything else if you tried; but you -had just a little the air of a lioness being robbed of its whelps--and -you sighed a good deal. Mark and I had been so much to each other -always that it wouldn't have been surprising if Charlotte had disliked -the person that she was, in a way, supplanting--but we both liked Mark -too well to dislike each other, so we became friends. I never hear a -joke now but I think 'I must remember to tell Charlotte that,' and I -never enjoy a book without thinking 'I wish Charlotte were here that we -might talk it over.' We have laughed so much together, and we have -cried so much together, that I don't think anything could come between -us. And she has been so good about letting us share the children--What -an event the wedding was! D'you remember the hat you chose for it in -the middle of a most tremendous thunderstorm? It didn't seem to matter -much what hat you took for we expected to be killed any minute, and it -always rather solemnised you to put it on." - -"It was too youthful for me," Mrs. Douglas said gloomily. "Weddings -always depress me, and when it's one of your own it's worse." - -"You enjoyed it in spite of yourself," said her daughter. "I know I -enjoyed it--one of the seven bridesmaids in pink and silver, and I know -Davie enjoyed it, flying about in his kilt. It was his very first -visit to London, and we took him to _The Scarlet Pimpernel_, to a -_matinée_. When we came out into the sunny street after three hours' -breathless excitement, he was like an owl at noonday; I think he had -forgotten entirely that he lived in the twentieth century. It was hard -luck that Robbie couldn't be at the wedding. He was so amused when we -wrote to him about Father kissing the bride--kissing was an almost -unheard-of thing with us in those days. He wrote: 'To think of my -elderly, respectable father kissing his daughter-in-law and jaunting -over to Paris! He'll be losing his job one of these days.' We went on -to Paris after the wedding and then to the Lakes, and all got more or -less seedy. Father and I were the only two who kept quite well, and we -had to go and buy hot-water bags for the rest of you. Davie was in -Jim's room, and in the middle of the night, feeling ill, he thought he -would go and tell me about it, and on his way to my room he saw in the -moonlight a statue on the landing, and in his fright he fell down a -whole flight of stairs. And none of you could eat the good dinners--it -was all very provoking." - -"Yes," said Mrs. Douglas; "it is very provoking to pay for meals you -haven't eaten. And no sooner did we get home than we were all as -hungry as hunters! We had to begin after that to get your clothes -ready for going to India." - -"That was great fun. I did enjoy getting all the new frocks and the -hundred and one things I needed. My bridesmaid's frock made a very -pretty evening-dress, and I had a white satin one for my presentation, -and a pale green satin that was like moonlight. Robbie was dreadfully -given to walking on my train when we went out to dinner; I was usually -announced to the sound of the rending of gathers. I wonder if other -people find as much to laugh at in India as Robbie and I did? -Practically everything made us laugh. I can never be sufficiently -thankful that I was allowed to have that six months alone with him. It -is something precious to remember all my life.... But the leaving him -was terrible. By some wangling he managed to get down the river with -me; that gave us a few more hours together. He had just left me, and I -was standing straining my streaming eyes after the launch, when another -boat came to the side of the ship and a man sprang out and came up to -me. It was one of Martyrs' young men, Willie Martin, a clerk in a -shipping office, who had watched for my name on the passenger list and -had come to say good-bye. It was very touching of him. I expect I -reminded him of home." - -"His people were so pleased that you had seen him," Mrs. Douglas said. -"You had to go the minute you came home and tell them all you could -about him. He never came home, poor boy! When war broke out he joined -up in India, and was one of the missing." - -"I know. A decent laddie he was. When we were in Calcutta Robbie and -I invited him to tea one Sunday afternoon, and he came, and was so nice -and modest and shy; Robbie was loud in his praises because he went away -directly after tea. You see, I had got the names of several young men -from Scotland who were in business in Calcutta, and we asked them to -tea on Sunday afternoons, when they were free, and Robbie didn't like -the ones who sat on and on making no move to go away. Some we had to -ask to dinner because they hadn't gone away at eight o'clock!" - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -"... It was our favourite occupation, your father's and mine, when we -had an hour together by the fire, to dream of the good times we would -have when he retired. When we got very tired of plodding along with -our faces against the wind, when people seemed indifferent about our -efforts and ungrateful, when something we had taken immense pains about -proved a failure, when term-time came and family after family whom we -had learned to count on moved away to outlying suburbs, leaving gaps -that couldn't be filled, your father would say to me, 'Never mind, -Nell; it'll be all over some day and we'll get away to the country,' -and we would talk about and plan what we would do when we had no longer -a congregation to tend. But, inside me, I was always sceptical about -the dream ever coming true. I knew he wouldn't leave his work until he -had to; and I had visions of going on and on until we were old and -grey-headed. One should never let oneself weary in this world, for -everything stops so soon." - -Ann sat on the fender stool sharpening a pencil, very absorbed in the -point she was making. When it was done to her satisfaction she turned -round to her mother. - -"Did you really ever weary in well-doing, Mother? Ah, well! 'Rejoice -that ye have time to weary in.' But it was a pretty uphill job you and -Father had in that district. There was one thing, though the -congregation was small it was tremendously appreciative. You remember -Mr. Gardner, the elder? I used to like to watch his face when Father -preached--it was a study. He had the nicest little doggy face, with -honesty written all over it. And his friend, great big Mr. Law who sat -in the seat behind him--he was exactly my idea of the Village -Blacksmith." - -"Mr. Law should have been put into a book," Mrs. Douglas said. "Don't -you remember how he used to stand up and square his great shoulders and -speak in broad Lowland Scots?" - -"I should think so. Mr. Law's addresses were our great delight. He -began one on Evolution with: 'Some folk say that oor great-grandfathers -hoppit aboot on the branches.' He always talked of 'the Apostle Jims,' -and do you remember the description he gave us of some picture he had -seen of the 'Last Judgment,' by Michael Angelo? I don't know where -this masterpiece is hung, but Mr. Law said that it depicted 'Michael -Angelo creepin' oot o' a hole aneath the throne and a look o' hesitancy -on the face of God!' And he told us one day that he was sure the -Apostle Paul had never been to Scotland or he most certainly would have -put on record that Ben Lomond was the finest hill that he had ever set -eyes on." - -Mrs. Douglas smiled. "Mr. Law was a fine man and a most original -speaker, but he felt so strongly on certain things that he was apt to -upset other members." - -"Ah," said Ann, shaking her head wisely, "one dreads that class of lad -in a church." - -"John Gardner, on the other hand," Mrs. Douglas went on, "was an -undiluted blessing in the church. He was willing to do--indeed he -liked doing--all the work that brought no kudos, all the dull jobs that -most people try to evade. And he was always there. No matter how bad -the night, you were always sure that his 'doggy' face would beam on -you. 'Thank God,' your father used to say, 'thank God for the faithful -few.'" - -"Yes," said Ann. "I remember I was discussing with the boys, in our -usual rather irreverent way, who of the people we knew would be -'farthest ben' in the next world. We denied admittance to quite a -number of people famous for their good works; others, we thought, might -just scrape in. 'But,' said Mark, 'I back Father and Dr. Struthers and -wee Gardner to be sitting on the very next steps of the Throne.'" - -"Oh, Ann!" her mother expostulated. "I never did like the way you and -the boys spoke of sacred things; it sounded so flippant. But 'wee -Gardner,' as you call him, was a great gift to us. Oh, and there were -others almost as good. And the young men and women were really rather -special." - -"They were," said Ann. "The books they read and the wideness of their -interests put me to shame. You know, Mother, it must have been very -interesting for them, for they found their whole social life in the -church. What fun they had at the social meetings! I almost envied -them. At one social a girl said to me that she wished the men would -come up--I suppose they were talking and smoking in the lower hall--and -I said, stupidly, that I thought it was nicer without the men, and the -girl replied with some sagacity, 'you wouldn't say that if they were -your own kind of men.' A church is a great matchmaker. Old Mrs. -Buchanan, talking one day of the young men and maidens in the choir, -said, 'They pair _just like doos_.' There is one good thing about a -small congregation--everybody knows everybody else. We were like one -big family. It is touching to hear them talk now about those days; -they look back on them as a sort of Golden Age. And the presents they -gave us! And they were so poor. Each of the boys got a gold watch and -chain when they left home, and when I went to India I had quite a -collection of keepsakes, some very odd, but all greatly valued by me, -their owner. Mother, why are you sitting 'horn idle,' as Marget would -say? Have you finished your knitting?" - -Mrs. Douglas looked at her idle hands. "My knitting is like Penelope's -web," she said; "there is no end to it. I'm simply sitting idle for a -change, sitting thinking about days that are past, and about people I -shall never see again on this side of time. I think a great deal of -Martyrs, and I feel very humble when I think of the affection and -loyalty given to us." - -"But, Mother, you can't have liked everybody in the church. The -thing's not possible. Think of Mr. Philip Scott and the 'acid' he -thinks necessary, and say something really unkind.... You know you -never liked Mrs. Marshall, the elder's wife--she was a terrible -tale-bearer, and always making mischief." - -"Yes, she was, poor body. But, Ann, she was kind when Rosamund was -ill, and----" - -Ann threw up her hands. "Mother, you are hopeless. I'm not going to -try to put any acid into you. You're just like strawberry jam. I'm -afraid I've got your share of acid as well as my own, that's why I've -such an 'ill-scrapit tongue.'" - -But Mrs. Douglas wasn't listening. She was looking before her, -dreaming. Presently she said: - -"Ann, it doesn't seem a very complimentary thing to say to you, but I -look back on the winter you were in India with very great pleasure. We -were quite alone, your father and I, for the first time almost since we -were married, and he often said, laughing, 'We're never better than -when we're alone, Nell.' The letters were such a pleasure--Mark's -every morning, Jim's every other morning, a curious scrawl from little -Davie once a week, and on Saturday Robbie's letter and your great -budget. Oh, Ann, Ann, why was I not deliriously happy? All of you -well, all of you prospering, my man beside me, and life full of -sunlight." - -"Ay, Mother, you should have been down on your knees thanking heaven -fasting--and if the truth were known I dare say you were. But it's -only afterwards you realise how happy you have been!" - -"Yes, afterwards," said Mrs. Douglas. "It was when you came home from -India that you noticed that your father was failing. Living with him I -had noticed nothing." - -"There was hardly anything to notice. He didn't walk with the same -light step. He sometimes wondered why his congregation always chose to -live up four flights of stairs, and one night he said to me, half -laughing, half serious: 'I'm beginning to be afraid of that which is -high.' But he was well for a year or two after that, till he had the -bad heart attack, and the doctor warned us that it was time he was -thinking of giving up his work." - -Ann got up and stood with both hands on the mantelshelf looking into -the fire. - -"I remember," she went on, "the curious unreal feeling I had, as if the -solid earth had somehow given way beneath my feet when I realised that -Father's life was in danger. And then, when days and weeks passed, and -he didn't seem to get worse, we just put the thought away from us and -told ourselves that doctors were often mistaken, and that if he took -reasonable care all would be well." - -"He was only sixty-one," Mrs. Douglas said, "and the doctors assured us -that if he gave up preaching he might have years of fairly good health. -He had worked himself done. Twenty-two years in Glasgow had been too -much for him." - -Ann nodded. "He never said a word, but the fact was Father hated -cities. Rosamund used to call the Park 'the policeman's country,' -because of the notices to keep off the grass, and she called Etterick -'God's country.' Father longed all the time for 'God's country.' He -would have been supremely happy as minister of some moorland place, -with time to write, and time to love his books and flowers, and instead -he had to spend his days toiling up and down endless stairs, never -getting away from the sight of squalor and misery, doing the King's -work through the unfeatured years. And yet he was perfectly content. -He was able to find a Sabbath stillness in the noise, and from some -hidden spring he could draw wells of living water to make in that -dreary place a garden 'bright with dawn and dew' to refresh a haggard -world.... You must have felt very bad about leaving Martyrs, -Mother?--after all those years." - -"Oh.... We felt it to be almost treachery on our part to leave some of -those poor people. They depended on us. We considered whether we -ought to stay on in Glasgow and still help a little, unofficially, as -it were, but you were all against that, and finally we took a house in -Priorsford to be near Jim. I was glad when it was settled, and glad -when those last months in Glasgow were over. It was miserable work -dismantling the house and packing up and saying good-bye." - -"Everything has an end," said Ann, "'and a pudden has twa,' to quote -Marget's favourite saying. But I could hardly believe we were finished -with Martyrs, that we would tramp no more that long road, and sit no -more in that back pew to the side of the pulpit, and look up at Father -Sunday after Sunday--Mother, surely Father was a very good preacher?" - -Mrs. Douglas sat up very straight, as if she were challenging anyone to -contradict her, and said proudly: "He was the best preacher I ever -heard. And if he were here he would laugh at me for saying so." - -"He would," said Ann; "but I think I agree with you." - -"A communion in Martyrs," her mother went on; "what an occasion it was! -Except for length--our services were always short--I expect it was the -same service that the Covenanters held, fearfully, as hunted men. -'Following the custom of our fathers'--can't you hear him say it?--your -father always 'fenced' the tables and read the warrant. Then we sung -those most mournful words: - - ''Twas on that night when doomed to know - The eager rage of every foe'; - -and your father took his place among the elders round the table in the -choir seat. He always held a slice of the bread, and, breaking it, -said, 'Mark the breaking of the bread,' and after the tables were -served he said a few concluding words. I used to listen for his voice -falling on the stillness--'Communicants!' It seemed to me very -beautiful." - -"I know. But what will always remain with me is the way he said the -Benediction. He was a very vigorous preacher, my father. There was no -settling down to sleep 'under' him. Sometimes he would describe the -fate of those who wilfully refused salvation, very sadly, very -solemnly, and then he would shut the big Bible and, leaning over the -side of the pulpit, he would say, 'But, brethren, I am persuaded better -things of you.' Then came the Benediction, and I listened for the -swish of the silk of the Geneva gown as he stretched his arms wide over -the people, and his voice came healing, soothing, restful as sleep: -'May the peace of God which passeth all understanding...' On that last -Sunday--the last time he ever preached--he gave us no farewell words, -and I was thankful, for he had an uncanny gift of pathos; but he -offered us, as he had offered us every time he preached in that pulpit, -Christ and Him crucified. We sang 'Part in Peace,' and then he looked -round the church, slowly, searchingly, round the wide galleries and -through the area. Was he seeing again all those brave old figures who -had so loyally held up his hands until they had to step out into the -Unknown? In twenty-two years one sees many go. Then he held out his -arms--the swish of the Geneva gown--and for the last time the listeners -heard that golden voice saying, 'May the peace of God which passeth all -understanding keep your hearts and minds.' ..." - -There were tears standing in Ann's grey eyes as she said, "I know it's -a ridiculous thing to say, but it seems to me that the people who knew -Father and were blessed by him have a better idea of what that peace -means--oh, Mother, aren't we a couple of foolish women sitting lauding -our own!" - -"No," Mrs. Douglas said stoutly; "we're not. If Martyrs' people were -in the room now I'm sure they would say 'Amen' to all you say of your -father. And I lived with him for thirty-four years and I couldn't -imagine a better man. He was a saint, and yet he was human and funny -and most lovable, and that isn't too common a combination. There can -be nothing more terrible than to be married to a sanctimonious saint. -Imagine being _forgiven_ all the time! Every time you lost your temper -or spoke maliciously or unadvisedly, to see a pained expression on his -face!" - -"It would drive one to crime," said Ann solemnly. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -Marget stood in the middle of the room pleating her black silk apron -between her fingers. She wanted to be asked to sit down, for she had -heard Ann and her mother talking of the removal from Glasgow, and she -felt that what she had to say on the subject was of value. - -"Cornel and Mrs. Moncrieff 'll be comin' next week," she reminded them. -"I'm airin' the rooms an' pitten' bottles in the beds noo for I'm never -verra sure aboot unused rooms in a new hoose. Ye'll no' can write when -they're here, Miss Ann. It'll tak' ye a' yer time to crack wi' the -Cornel." - -"Oh, but it's a long time till next week, Marget," Ann said, as she -went over to the bureau to address a parcel she had been wrapping up. -"I'll have finished my writing by then." - -"Is that sweeties for the bairns?" Marget asked, eyeing the parcel and -sitting down as if by accident. "Ye'll file their stomachs." - -"It's only Miss Smart's tablet. I never go to Priorsford without -getting them some tablet at their dear Miss Smart's. Rory said to me -solemnly the last time he was here, after a very successful visit to -the shop, 'There's nobody in England like Miss Smart.'" - -"I dare say not," said Mrs. Douglas. "London shops don't encourage -small boys to poke in behind the counter. Miss Smart is so -good-natured that her shop is a sort of Aladdin's Cave to all young -Priorsford--Ann, have you remembered to put in my _Life_ about Alis and -the others being born?" - -"Goodness gracious, I have not," cried Ann. "But I haven't got to that -time yet, have I? You shouldn't give me unnecessary frights, Mother. -Imagine leaving out Alis! Davie would have been annoyed. He was the -proudest young uncle--was he thirteen?--and Alis adored him. 'My saucy -Uncle Boy' she named him, when she could speak; and they were -inseparable. He was a mixture of playmate and kind old Nannie to her. -If anyone made Alis cry, in a moment Davie appeared and snatched her up -and dried her tears. 'You don't know how I love my Uncle Boy,' I heard -her telling some one. 'He's my favourite of men.' No, Davie wouldn't -like Alis forgotten." - -"I used to hear Alis boast," Mrs. Douglas said, "about her young uncle -to Mary Elizabeth, and when Mary came to stay she warned her, 'He is my -Uncle Boy, you know, Mary, not yours,' and Mary said nothing until she -got Davie alone, then she whispered to him, 'Uncle Boy, will you be my -Daddy,' and thought she had scored off poor Alis completely." - -"A' the bairns likit Davie," Marget put in. "He had sic a cheery face -an' he was aye lauchin'. I've seen me lauch mysel' in the kitchen when -I heard him lauchin' up the stairs. He fair hated to be vexed aboot -onything. Ye mind when you were ill, Mem, he took it awfu' ill-oot." - -"All our troubles began after we left Glasgow," Ann said gloomily. -"All those years we had been extraordinary healthy; doctors would have -starved if they had had to depend on us. I know I used to look -pityingly at sick people and wonder to myself if they wouldn't be quite -well if they only made an effort. We talked bracingly about never -having people ill in bed in our house. 'We treat our patients on their -feet,' we said, with what must have been an insufferably superior air. -And then we had been so lucky for so long; the boys got everything they -tried for, and everything prospered with us, so I suppose it was time -we got a downing; but that didn't make it any easier when it came. We -left Glasgow knowing that father's health would always be an anxiety; -but we didn't bargain for your crocking up, Mums." - -"I'm sure I didn't want to 'crock up' as you call it," said Mrs. -Douglas, looking aggrieved. - -"Of course you didn't," Ann hastened to soothe her mother's ruffled -feelings. Then she began to laugh. "But it was rather like you, -Mother, to go and take a most obscure disease! We can laugh at it now -because you got better, but we put in a terrible year. First the -removing to Priorsford in May--taking the books alone was like removing -mountains, though we gave away armfuls to anyone who could be induced -to take them--and we were no sooner settled down in our new house than -you began to feel seedy. It began so gradually that we thought nothing -of it. You looked oddly yellow, and seemed to lose strength; but you -said it was nothing, and I was only too glad to believe it. When at -last we got the doctor he said you were very seriously ill, sent you to -bed, and got a trained nurse." - -"Eh, I say," Marget began. "I'll never forget that winter. We juist -got fricht efter fricht. It was something awfu'. It was a guid thing -we left the new hoose and gaed to live wi' Mr. Jim." - -"It was," said Ann; "we needed Jim beside us. Those awful attacks of -fever when you lay delirious for days at a time! We dragged you -through one turn and got you fairly well, only to see you take another. -It was most disheartening. No wonder poor Davie stamped with rage. -Doctors and nurses walked in and out of the house, specialists were -summoned from Edinburgh and Glasgow. All our money was spent on -physicians, and, like the woman in the Bible, you were none the better, -but rather the worse. None of them gave us any hope that you would -recover. One evening we were told you couldn't live over the night, -and Mark and Charlotte came flying up from London, only to find you -sitting up knitting a stocking! I never really believed that you -wouldn't get better. You weren't patient enough somehow; indeed, my -dear, there was nothing of the story-book touch about you at all when -you were ill. What a thrawn, resentful little patient you were! You -occupied your time when you were fairly well upbraiding me for keeping -the house so extravagantly. You said you were sure there was great -leakage. I'm sure there was, but I couldn't help it. It took me all -my time to nurse you and keep things comfortable in the house and see -that Father didn't over-exert himself. Marget's whole time was taken -up cooking--illness makes such a lot of extra work--and, fortunately, -we had a very good housemaid. But if you didn't shine as a patient, I -certainly didn't shine as a nurse. I'm afraid I hadn't the gentle, -womanly touch of the real ministering angel, smoothing pillows and such -like. I knew nothing about nursing, and you said I heaved hot-water -bags at you." - -"So you did; but you were an excellent nurse for all that. But, oh, I -did feel so guilty keeping you hanging round me. It was more than a -year out of your life, just when you would have been having such a good -time." - -"Oh," said Ann, "I don't grudge the year--I've had heaps of good times. -The only really bad times were when the attacks of high fever came and -you got unconscious; then you wouldn't let a nurse into the room. Jim -and I had to sit up with you for nights on end. But you were very -brave, and you never let your illness get on our nerves. You just -bounded up from an attack like an india-rubber ball. The doctors -simply gasped at you. You said good-bye to us so often that we began -to take it quite casually, merely saying, 'Well, have some beef-tea -just now, anyway'; and Father used to laugh and say, 'You'll live and -loup dykes yet.'" - -"I'm sure I wasn't at all keen to live, Ann. When you get very far -down dying seems so simple and easy; but I did want to see Robbie -again. I think that kept me alive. When did you take me to London? -In spring, wasn't it?" - -"Yes, in March. You weren't getting a bit better, and some one told -Mark about the vaccine treatment, and he thought it might be worth -trying. We were told that the journey would certainly kill you, but -you said, 'No such thing,' so off we set, you and I, all on a wild -March morning. You stood the journey splendidly; but two days after -you arrived you took the worst fever turn of all. The London doctors -came and told me you wouldn't live over the night, and I really thought -they were going to be right that time. I telephoned to Priorsford, and -it was Davie answered me, 'Is that you, Nana?' I was sorry to worry -the boy, but I had to tell you were very ill, and that I thought Jim -should come up by the night train. But you warstled through again, and -then Mark brought Sir Armstrong Weir to see you. We had seen several -London doctors, very glossy and well dressed, with beautiful cars, and -we wondered if this great Sir Armstrong would be even smarter. But the -great man came in a taxi, and wasn't at all well dressed--grey and bent -and very gentle." - -"He looked old," Mrs. Douglas said; "but he couldn't have been so very, -for he told me his own mother was living. He was very kind to me." - -"He cured you," said Ann. - -"Oh no," said Mrs. Douglas. - -"Well, it was partly his vaccine and partly your own marvellous pluck." - -"Oh no. It wasn't pluck or vaccine or anything, but just that I had to -live more days on the earth." - -"'Deed ay," said Marget, nodding in agreement with her mistress. "Ye -never did ony guid until ye had given up doctors a'thegither. As soon -as we got quat o' them ye began to improve." - -"Now, now, Marget," said Ann, "you get carried away by your dislike of -doctors. We've been very thankful to see them many a time." - -"Oh, they're a' richt for some things; but whenever it's ony thing -serious ye canna lippen to them. When there's onything wrang wi' yer -inside naebody can help ye but yer Maker." - -Ann laughed. "What a gloomy view to take, Marget. You remind me of -the old lady who said that she gave to Dr. Barnardo's Homes 'because he -has no one to help him but God.' I won't let you malign doctors. The -best kind of doctor is about the highest type of human being. What are -you snorting at, Marget?" - -"I could wish them a better job! Hoo onybody can like clartin' aboot -in folks' insides! Doctorin's a nesty job, and I'm glad nane o' oor -laddies took up wi't. They a' got clean, genteel jobs." - -"Such as soldiering?" - -"Oh, I'm no' heedin' muckle aboot sodgerin' aither," said Marget. -Then, turning to her mistress, she said, "As you say, Mem, nae doctor -can kill ye while there's life in the cup. D'ye think it was mebbe the -flittin' that brocht on yer trouble? Ye ken ye washt a' the china -yersel'." - -Mrs. Douglas smiled at her. "All the years you've known me, Marget, -have you ever heard of housework doing me any harm? No. It was some -sort of blood-poisoning that went away as mysteriously as it came. -Though what I was spared for I know not. If I had died, how often you -would have said of me, 'She was taken from the evil to come.'" - -"Poor darling!" said Ann. "Do you think you were spared simply that -you might receive evil things? Say, rather, that you were spared to -help the rest of us through the terrible times.... Father, mercifully, -had kept wonderfully well through your illness. He had accepted his -limitations and knew that he must not attempt a hill road, or fight -against a high wind, or move quickly; and really, looking at him, it -was difficult to believe that anything ailed him." - -"But it must have been very bad for him, Ann, all the scares he got -with my illness. It's dreadful for me to think that the last year of -his life was made uncomfortable and distressed by me." - -"But you mustn't think that. Even in those stormy days he seemed to -carry about with him a quiet, sunny peace. What a blessing we had him -through that time; the sight of him steadied one." - -"And I'm sure I couldn't have lived through that time without him," -Mrs. Douglas said; "although I sometimes got very cross with him -sitting reading with a pleased smile on his face when I felt so -miserable." - -"I think he really enjoyed his restricted life," said Ann. "To be in -the open air was his delight, and he was able to take two short walks -every day and spend some time pottering in the garden, going lovingly -round his special treasures, those rock plants that he was trying to -persuade to grow on the old wall by the waterside. We wanted him to -drive, but he hated driving; he liked, he said, to feel the ground -under his feet. He never looked anything but well with his -fresh-coloured face." - -"He got younger lookin'," Marget said. "I suppose it was no havin' a -kirk to worry aboot, the lines on his face got kind o' smoothed oot. -D'ye mind when he used to come into the room, Mem, you aye said it was -like a breath o' fresh air." - -"Yes, Marget, I mind well. Neil Macdonald said when he was staying -with us once that when Father came into the room he had a look in his -eyes as if he had been on a watch-tower, 'As if--Neil said, in his -soft, Highland voice--'as if he had been looking across Jordan into -Canaan's green and pleasant land.'" - -Ann smiled. "I know what he meant. D'ye remember Father's little -Baxter's _Saints' Rest_ that he carried about with him in his pocket -and read in quiet moments? And his passion for adventure books? I -think Jim got him every 'thriller' that was published. And the book on -Border Poets that he was writing? He always wrote a bit after tea. No -matter who was having tea with us, Father calmly turned when he was -finished to the bureau, pulled forward a chair--generally rumpling up -the rug, and then I cried, 'Oh, _Father_!'--and sat quietly writing -amid all the talk and laughter. He had nearly finished it when he -died.... That last week he seemed particularly well. He said his feet -had such a firm grip of the ground now. I didn't want him to go out -because it was stormy, and he held up one foot and said, 'Dear me, -girl, look at those _splendid_ soles!'" - -Marget put her apron up to her eyes. "Eh, lassie, ye're whiles awfu' -like yer faither." - -There was a silence in the room while the three women thought their own -thoughts. - -At last Ann said, "What pathetic things we mortals are! That Saturday -night when we sat round the fire my heart was singing a song of -thankfulness. You were still frail, Mother, but you were wonderfully -better, and to have you with us again sitting by the fire knitting your -stocking was comfort unspeakable. Jim had been reading aloud the -_Vailima Letters_, and the letters to Barrie and about Barrie sent us -to _The Little Minister_, and I read to you Waster Luny's inimitable -remarks about ancestors, 'It's a queer thing that you and me his nae -ancestors.... They're as lost to sicht as a flagon-lid that's fa'en -ahint the dresser.' I forget how it goes, but Father enjoyed it -greatly. I think anything would have made us laugh that night, for the -mornin's post had brought us a letter from Robbie with the unexpected -news that he had been chosen for some special work and would be home -shortly--he thought in about three months' time. And as I looked at -you and Father smiling at each other in the firelight I said in my -heart, like Agag, '_Surely the bitterness of death is past!_' and the -next day Father died." - -Mrs. Douglas sat silent with her head bowed, but Marget said, "Oh, -lassie! lassie!" and wept openly. - -In a little while Ann spoke again: - -"It isn't given to many to be 'happy on the occasion of his death,' but -Father was. His end was as gentle as his life. He slipped away -suddenly on the Sabbath afternoon, at the hour when his hands had so -often been stretched in benediction. He died in his boyhood's home. -The November sun was going down behind the solemn round-backed hills, -the familiar sound of the Tweed over its pebbles was in his ears, and -though he had to cross the dark river the waters weren't deep for him. -I think, like Mr. Standfast, he went over 'wellnigh dry shod.' And he -was taken before the storm broke. Three months later the cable came -that broke our hearts. Robbie had died after two days' illness on his -way to Bombay to get the steamer for home." - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -They had been talking of many things, Ann and her mother, and had -fallen silent. - -The wind was tearing through the Green Glen, and moaning eerily round -the house of Dreams, throwing at intervals handfuls of hail which -struck against the panes like pistol-shots. - -"A wild night," Mrs. Douglas said, looking over her shoulder at the -curtained windows, and drawing her chair nearer the fire. "This is the -sort of night your father liked to sit by the fireside. He would lift -his head from his book to listen to the wind outside, look round the -warm, light room and give a contented sigh." - -"I know," said Ann; "it was very difficult doing without Father. He -had always enjoyed the good things of life so frankly there seemed no -pleasure any longer in a good dinner, or a fine morning, or a blazing -fire, or an interesting book, since he wasn't there to say how fine it -was. Besides his very presence had been a sort of benediction, and it -was almost as if the roof of life had been removed--and it was much -worse for you, poor Mother. We were afraid you would go, too." - -"Oh, Ann," Mrs. Douglas, clasping _Hours of Silence_, raised tearful -eyes to her daughter, "I'm sure I didn't want to live. I don't know -why I go on living." - -Ann caught her mother's hands in her own. "You funny wee body! You -remind me of the Paisley woman who told me she had lost all her sons in -the war, and was both surprised and annoyed that she hadn't died of -grief. 'An' ma neebor juist lost the one an' _she_ de'ed, and folk -said she niver liftit her heid efter her laddie went, and here wis me -losin' a' mine and gaun aboot quite healthy! An' I'm sure I wis as -vext as whit she wis. It's no want o' grievin' for I'm never dune -greetin'--I begin early i' the mornin' afore I get ma cup o' tea.'" - -"Oh, the poor body!" said Mrs. Douglas. "I know so well what she -meant. It sounds funny, but it isn't a bit.... Your father's death -was sheer desolation to me. I remember, a long time ago at Kirkcaple, -going to see a widow who had brought up a most creditable family, and, -looking round her cosy kitchen, I said something about how well she had -done, and that life must be pleasant for her with her children all up -and doing well. And the brisk, active little woman looked at me, and I -was surprised to see tears in her rather hard eyes. - -"The bairns are a' richt," she said; "but it maks an awfu' difference -when ye lose yer pairtner....' And then I have so many things to -regret...." - -"Regret?" Ann laughed. "I don't think you have one single thing to -regret. If ever a man was happy in his home it was my father." - -"Ah, but I was bad to him often. I pretended to be a Radical--a thing -I never was really--simply from contrariness. If I had him back----" - -"Now what would you change if you could?" Ann asked. - -"Well, for one thing I would never contradict him, or argue..." - -"Oh, how Father would have loathed that. Arguing was the breath of -life to him, and he hated to be agreed with." - -Mrs. Douglas went on. "And I would never worry him to do things that -went against his judgment. When people took a _tirravee_ and sent for -their lines he always wanted to give them to them at once, but I used -to beg him to go and reason with them and persuade them to remain. -They generally did, for they only wanted to be made a fuss of, but I -see now I was quite wrong; people so senseless deserved no -consideration. And I wouldn't worry him to go and ask popular -preachers to come to us for anniversary services and suchlike -occasions! That was the thing he most hated doing." - -"I don't wonder," said Ann. "To ask favours is never pleasant, and -popular preachers are apt to get a bit above themselves and condescend -a little to the older, less successful men who are living in a day of -small things. But I don't think any of us, you least of all, need -reproach ourselves with not having appreciated Father. And yet, when -he went away it seemed quite wrong to mourn for him. To have pulled -long faces and gone about plunged in grief would have been like an -insult to the happy soul who had finished his day's work and gone home. -It wasn't a case of - - 'Better by far you should forget and smile, - Than that you should remember and be sad.' - -It was simply that we had so many happy things to remember we couldn't -but smile. We wouldn't have had anything changed. To the very end his -ways were ways of pleasantness and all his paths were peace. But when -Robbie died----" - -Ann stopped, and her mother took up her words: - -"When Robbie died we seemed to sink into a black pit of horror. We -didn't want to see anyone. We could hardly look at the letters that -poured in; their lamentations seemed to add to our burden. Only Miss -Barbara's was any use, and all she said was, 'I have prayed for you -that your faith fail not.'" - -"It seemed so _unfair_," Ann said slowly. "In a shop one day the woman -who was serving me asked so kindly for you, and wanted to know how you -were bearing up. Then she said suddenly: 'When thae awfu' nice folk -dee div ye no juist fair feel that ye could rebel?' Rebel! Poor -helpless mortals that we are!" - -Mrs. Douglas shook her head. "If there is one lesson I have learned it -is the folly of kicking against the pricks. To be bitter and resentful -multiplies the grief a thousandfold. There is nothing for it but -submission. Shall we receive good at the hand of the Lord and not -receive evil? There is an odd text that strikes me every time I come -to it: '_And David was comforted concerning Ammon because he was -dead_.' I don't know what it means, perhaps that Ammon fought with -David so David was glad he was dead, but it always has a special -meaning for me. We had to come to it, Ann, you and I, when we tramped -those long walks by Tweedside rather than sit at home and face callers -and sympathy. It was Robbie himself who helped us most. The thought -of him, so brave and gay and gentle, simply _made_ us believe that in a -short time he had fulfilled a long time, and that God had taken him -against that day when He shall make up His jewels. We could only cling -to the fact that God is Love, and that it was to Himself He had taken -the boy who seemed to us so altogether lovely." - -Mrs. Douglas took off her spectacles and rubbed them with her -handkerchief, and Ann said: - -"Yes, Mother, at moments we felt all that, and were comforted, but -there are so many days when it seems you can't get above the sense of -loss. Those nights when one dreamed he was with us, and wakened. -There's not much doubt about Death's sting.... But what kept me from -going under altogether was the thought of Davie. I tried never to let -him see me with a dull face. All his life the child had dreaded -sadness, and it seemed hard that he should so early become 'acquainted -with grief.' After Robbie's death, when he came into a room the first -thing he did was to glance quickly at our faces to see if we had been -crying, and if we looked at him happily his face cleared. If anybody -mentioned Robbie's name he slipped quietly out of the room. Jim was -the same. I think men are like that. Women can talk and find relief, -but to speak about his grief is the last thing an ordinary man can do. -That's why I was sorrier for the fathers in the war than the -mothers.... I was glad Davie was at college and busy all day. I think -he dreaded coming home that Easter." - -"But I don't think he found it bad, Ann. He had his great friend -Anthony with him, and we all tried our best to give him a good time. -And at seventeen it isn't so hard to rise above trouble." - -"Oh no," said Ann; "and Davie was so willing to be happy." She -laughed. "I never knew anyone so appreciative of a joke--any sort of -joke. When he was a tiny boy if I said anything which I meant to be -funny, and which met with no response, Davie would say indignantly: -'Nana's made a joke and nobody laughed.' He always gave a loud laugh -himself--'Me hearty laugh,' he called it." - -"Oh, I'd forgotten that," cried Davie's mother; "'me hearty laugh.' We -all treated Davie as a joke, and didn't bother much whether his school -reports were good or only fairly good. He wasn't at all studious -naturally, though he was passionately fond of reading, and I'm afraid -we liked to find excuses to let him play. Only Robbie took him -seriously. You remember when he was home on leave he protested against -Davie bounding everywhere and having no fixed hours of study. 'We've -got to think of the chap's future,' he said." - -"Robbie and Davie adored each other," Ann said. "They were so funny -together--Davie a little bashful with the big brother. I remember -hearing Davie telling Robbie about some Fabian Society that he belonged -to, and what they discussed at it, and Robbie stood looking at him -through his eyeglass with an amused grin on his face, and said, 'Stout -fellow!' That was always what he said to Davie, 'Stout fellow!' I can -hear him now.... But the odd thing was that Davie seemed to take no -interest in his own future. It was almost as if he realised that this -world held no future for him. Mark, always careful and troubled, used -to worry about a profession for him. He wanted him to go into the -Navy, but you vetoed that as too dangerous; it mustn't be India, -because we couldn't part with our baby." - -Mrs. Douglas leaned forward to push in a falling log. "I was foolishly -anxious about Davie always; never quite happy if he was away from me. -I worried the boy sometimes, but he was patient with me. 'Poor wee -body,' he always said, and put his arms round me--he learned that -expression from Robbie." - -"I have an old exercise book," said Ann, "in which Davie made his first -efforts at keeping accounts--David _Douglas in account with self_. It -is very much ornamented with funny faces and not very accurate, for -sums are frequently noted as 'lost.' It stops suddenly, and underneath -is scrawled, 'The war here intervened.' We didn't need to worry about -his work in the world. That was decided for him when-- - - 'God chose His squires, and trained their hands - For those stern lists of liberty.'" - - -Mrs. Douglas caught her breath with a sob. "At once he clamoured to -go, but he was so young, only eighteen, and I said he must only offer -for home defence; and he said, 'All right, wee body, that'll do to -start with,' but in a very short time he was away to train with -Kitchener's first army." - -"He was miserable, Mother, until he got away. Jim was refused -permission from the first, and had to settle down to his job, but for -most of us the bottom seemed to have fallen out of the world, and one -could settle to nothing. In the crashing of empires the one stable -thing was that fact that the _Scotsman_ continued its 'Nature Notes.' -That amused Davie.... He began an album of war poetry, cutting out and -pasting in verses that appeared in the _Times_ and _Spectator_ and -_Punch_ and other papers. 'Carmina Belli' he printed on the outside. -He charged me to go on with it when he went away, and I finished it -with Mark's poem on himself: - - 'You left the line with jest and smile - And heart that would not bow to pain-- - _I'll lay me downe and bleed awhile, - And then I'll rise and fight again_.'" - - -Ann got up and leaned her brow on the mantel-shelf, and looking into -the fire, said: - -"D'you know, Mother, I think that first going away was the worst of -all, though he was only going to England to train. Nothing afterwards -so broke me down as seeing the fresh-faced boy in his grey tweed suit -going off with such a high heart. I don't know what you felt about it, -but the sword pierced my heart then. You remember it was the Fair at -Priorsford! and the merry-go-rounds on the Green buzzed round to a tune -he had often sung, some ridiculous words about 'Hold your hand out, you -naughty boy.' As I stood in my little swallow's-nest of a room and -looked out over the Green, and saw the glare of the naphtha lamps -reflected in the water, and the swing-boats passing backwards and -forwards, through light into darkness, and from darkness into light, -and realised that Davie had been born for the Great War, every chord -seemed to strike at my heart." - -"Oh, Ann," Mrs. Douglas cried, "I never let myself think. It was my -only chance to go on working as hard as ever I was able at whatever -came to my hand. I left him in God's hands. I was helpless." - -The tears were running down her face as she spoke, and Ann said, "Poor -Mother, it was hardest for you. Your cry was the old, old cry: 'Joseph -is not, Simeon is not, and ye will take Benjamin away....' But our -Benjamin was so glad to go. And he never found anything to grumble at, -not even at Bramshott, where there was nothing fit to eat, and the huts -leaked, and the mud was unspeakable, and his uniform consisted of a red -tunic made for a very large man, and a pair of exceedingly bad blue -breeks. When he came at Christmas--he made me think of one of Prince -Charlie's men with his shabby uniform and yellow hair--how glad he was -to have a real wallowing hot bath, with bath salts and warm towels, and -get into his own tweeds. He was just beginning to get clean when he -had to go again! In a few weeks he got his commission, and in the -autumn of 1915 he went to France--'as gentle and as jocund as to jest -went he to fight.'" - -There was a silence in the pleasant room as the two women thought their -own thoughts, and the fire crackled and the winter wind beat upon the -house. - -Mrs. Douglas spoke first. "It was a wonderful oasis in that desert of -anxiety when Davie was wounded and at home. Those nights when we had -lain awake thinking of him in the trenches, those days when we were -afraid for every ring at the bell, and hardly dared look when we opened -the hall door after being out, in case the orange envelope should be -lying on the table. To have all that suddenly changed. To know that -he was lying safe and warm and clean in a white bed in a private -hospital in London, 'lying there with a face like a herd,' Mark wrote, -with nothing much the matter with him but a shrapnel wound in his -leg--it was almost too much relief. And we had him at Queensferry all -summer. We were greatly blessed, Ann." - -"And it wasn't quite so bad letting him go the second time," Ann said. -"He had been there once and had got out alive and he knew the men he -was going to, and was glad to go back; and Mark wasn't far from him, -and could see him sometimes." - -"His letters were so cheery. From his accounts you would have thought -that living in the trenches was a sort of jolly picnic. Oh, Ann, do -you remember the letter to me written in the train going up to the -line, when he said he had dreamt he was a small boy again, and 'I -thought I had lost you, wee body, and I woke up shouting "Mother," to -the amusement of the other men in the carriage?'" - -"Some people," said Ann, "go through the world afraid all the time that -they are being taken advantage of. Davie never ceased to be amazed at -the kindness shown him. He was one of those happy souls whose path -through life is lined with friends, and whose kind eyes meet only -affectionate glances. His letters were full of the kindness he -received--the 'decent lad' in his platoon who heard him say his dug-out -was draughty, and who made a shutter for the window and stopped up all -the cracks; the two corporals from the Gallowgate who formed his -bodyguard, and every time he fell into a shell-hole or dodged a crump -shouted anxiously, 'Are ye hurt, sirr?' You remember he wrote: 'These -last two years have been the happiest in my life,' and other men who -were with him told us he never lost his high spirits." - -"That was such a terribly long, hard winter," Mrs. Douglas said. "The -snow was never off the hills for months. And then spring came, but -such a spring! Nothing but wild winds and dreary sleet. We hoped and -hoped that Davie would get leave--he was next on the list for it--but -he wrote and said his leave had gone 'very far West.' We didn't know -it, but they were getting ready for the big spring offensive. Then one -day we saw that a battle had begun at Arras, and Davie's letter that -morning read like a farewell. Things may be happening shortly, but -don't worry about me. I've just been thinking what a good life I've -had all round, and what a lot of happiness I've had. Even the sad -parts are a comfort now....'" - -"Mother, do you see," said Ann, "there's your text about Ammon. Out -there, waiting for the big battle, Davie didn't feel it sad any more -than Father and Robbie had gone out of the world--he was _comforted -concerning them because they were dead_. We were thinking of him and -praying for him every hour of the day, but he felt them nearer to him -than we were." - -"To think that when that letter came he was dead! To think that I was -in Glasgow with Miss Barbara talking of him nearly all the time, for -Miss Barbara loved the boy, and nothing told us he was no longer in the -world. To think of the child--he was little more--waiting there in the -darkness for the signal to attack. He must have been so anxious about -leading the company, so afraid----" - -"Anxious maybe," said Ann, "but not really afraid. Don't you remember -what his great friend Captain Shiels wrote and told us, that while they -waited for the dawn Davie spoke 'words of comfort and encouragement to -his men.' I cry when I think of that...." - -"My little boy--my baby. Away from us all--_alone_...." - -"No. No, Mother, never less alone; 'compassed about with a great cloud -of witnesses.' I have a notion that all the great army of men who down -through the centuries have given their lives for our country's bright -cause were with our men in that awful fighting, steeling the courage of -those boy-soldiers.... And Father and Robbie were beside him, I am -very sure, and Father would know then that all his prayers were -answered for his boy--the bad little boy who refused to say his -prayers, the timid little boy who was afraid to go into a dark -room--when he saw him stand, with Death tapping him on the shoulder, -speaking 'words of comfort and encouragement to his men.' I think -Robbie would say, 'Stout fellow.' That was the 9th. The telegram came -to us on the afternoon of the 11th. Jim and I were terribly anxious, -and I had been doing all the jobs I hated most with a sort of lurking, -ashamed feeling in my heart that if we worked our hardest and did our -very best Davie might be spared to us." - -Ann stopped, and went on, half-laughing, half-crying: - -"Like poor Mrs. Clark, one of my women. She told me how she had gone -out and helped a sick neighbour, and coming home had seen some -children, whose father was fighting and whose mother was ill, playing -in the rain, and she had taken them in and given them a hot meal. As -they were leaving the postman brought her a letter saying her son was -dead in Mesopotamia. She said to me, defiantly, as if she were scoring -off Providence, 'I'm no gaun tae _pray_ nae mair,' and I knew exactly -what she felt." - -"Oh, the poor woman," said Mrs. Douglas weeping. - -"I thought," Ann went on, "that if no wire came that day it would mean -that Davie had got through--but at tea-time it came. I went into -Glasgow next morning by the first train to tell you. Phoebe was -washing the front door steps at No. 10, and she told me you and Miss -Barbara were in the dining-room at breakfast. I stood in the doorway -and looked at you. You were laughing and telling Miss Barbara -something funny that had been in one of Davie's letters. I felt like a -murderer standing there. When I went into the room your face lit up -for a moment, and then you realised. 'It is the laddie?' you -whispered, and I nodded. You neither spoke nor cried, but stood -looking before you as if you were thinking very deeply about something, -then 'I would like to go home,' you said...." - -"And to think," Mrs. Douglas said, breaking a long silence, "that I am -only one of millions of mothers who will go mourning to their graves." - -"I know, Mother. I know. But you wouldn't ask him back even if that -were possible. You wouldn't, if you could, take 'the purple of his -blood out of the cross on the breastplate of England.' Don't you love -these words of Ruskin? It's the proudest thing we have to think about, -and, honestly--I'm not just saying this--I believe that the men who lie -out there have the best of it. The men who came back will, most of -them, have to fight a grim struggle, for living is none too pleasant -just now, and they will grow old, and bald, and ill-tempered, and they -have all to die in the end. What is twenty more years of life but -twenty more years of fearing death? But our men whose sacrifice was -accepted, and who were allowed to pour out the sweet, red wine of -youth, passed at one bound from glorious life to glorious life. 'Eld -shall not make a mock of that dear head.' They know not age or -weariness or defeat." - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -The December day had run its short and stormy course and the sun was -going down in anger, with streaks of crimson and orange, and great -purple clouds. Only over the top of the far hills was one long line of -placid pale primrose, like some calm landlocked bay amid seas of -tumbling waters. - -Mrs. Douglas, crossing the room to get a paper from the table, paused -at the wide window and looked out. Desolate the landscape looked, the -stretch of moorland, and the sodden fields, and the empty highroad -running like a ribbon between hills now dark with rain. - -She sighed as she looked. - -Ann was writing at the bureau, had been writing since luncheon, -absorbed, never lifting her head, but now she blotted vigorously the -last sheet, put the pen back in the tray, shut the lid of the -ink-bottle, and announced: - -"Now, then, Mother, that's your _Life_ written!" - -Mrs. Douglas looked at the finished pile of manuscript and sighed again. - -Ann got up and went over to the window. "You are sighing like a -furnace, Mother. What's the matter? Does it depress you to think that -I've finished my labours? Oh, look at the sunset! It bodes ill for -the Moncrieffs ever getting over the door, poor lambs! Look at that -quiet, shining bit over the Farawa, how far removed it looks from -tempests! D'you know what that sky reminds me of, Mother? The story -of your life that I've just finished. The clouds and the angry red -colour are all you passed through, and that quiet, serene streak is -where you are now, the clear shining after rain. It may be dull, but -you must admit it is peaceful." - -"Oh, we are peaceful enough just now, but think of Jim in South Africa, -and Charlotte and Mark in India--who knows what news we may have of -them any day? I just live in dread of what may happen next." - -"But, Mother, you've always lived in dread. Mark used to say that the -telegraph boys drew lots among themselves as to who should bring the -telegrams to our house. You used to rush out with the unopened -envelope and implore the boy to tell you if it were bad news, and when -you did open it your frightened eyes read things that never were on the -paper. If we happened to be all at home when you were confronted with -a wire you didn't care a bit--utterly callous. It was only your -husband and your children you cared about--ah, well, you had the -richest, fullest, happiest life for more than thirty years, and that's -not so small a thing to boast of." - -"Oh, Ann, I'm not ungrateful, only----" - -"Only you're like Davie when we told him to go away and count his -blessings. 'I've done it,' he came back to tell us, 'and I've six -things to be thankful for and nine to be unthankful for.'" - -Mrs. Douglas laughed as she went back to her chair by the fire and took -up her knitting. "No, I've nothing to be unthankful for, only I think -so much of me died with your father and Robbie and Davie that I seem to -be half with you and half with them where they are gone." - -Ann nodded. "That may be so, but you are more alive than most of us -even now. I don't know anybody who takes so much interest in life, who -has such a capacity for enjoyment, who burdens herself with other -people's burdens as that same Mrs. Douglas who says she is only -half-alive and longs to depart--and here is Mysie with the tea." - -Mysie lit the lamp under the kettle and arranged the tea-things. She -drew the curtains across the windows, shutting out the last gleam of -the stormy sunset, and turned on the lights, then she stood by the door -and, blushing, asked if she might go out for the evening, as she had an -engagement. - -"Now where"--cried Mrs. Douglas as the door closed behind the little -maid--"where in the world can Mysie have an engagement in this -out-of-the-world place on this dark, stormy night?" - -Ann smiled. "She's so pretty, Mother, so soft and round and young, and -have you forgotten: - - 'For though the nicht be ne'er sae dark, - An' I be ne'er sae weary O, - I'll meet ye by the lea-rig, - Ma ain kind dearie O.' - -I haven't a doubt but that pretty Mysie has got a 'lawd.' And what for -no? I do hope Marget isn't too discouraging to the child." - -Ann sat on the fender-stool with her cup and saucer, and a pot of jam -on the rug beside her, and a plate with a crumpet on her lap, and ate -busily. - -"Life is still full of pleasant things, Mums, pretty girls and -crumpets, and strawberry jam, and fender-stools, and blazing fires, and -little moaning mothers who laugh even while they cry. Your pessimism -is like the bubbles on a glass of champagne--oh, I know you have been a -teetotaller all your days, but that doesn't harm my metaphor." - -"Ann, you amaze me. How you can rattle on as if you hadn't a care in -the world--you who have lost so much!" - -Ann looked at her mother in silence for a minute, then she looked into -the dancing flames. "As you say, it is amazing--I who have lost so -much. And when you think of it, I haven't much to laugh at. I've got -the sort of looks that go very fast, so I'll soon be old and ugly--but -what about it"? - - "'I may never live to be old,' says she, - 'For nobody knows their day....' - -And I've got work to do, and I've still got brothers, and I've got -Charlotte and the children, and I've more friends than I sometimes know -what to do with. It's an odd thing, but I do believe, Mother, that I'm -happier now than when I was twenty and had all the world before me. -Youth isn't really a very happy time. You want and want and you don't -know what you want. As you get older you realise that you have _no -right to bliss_, and must make the best of what you have got. Then you -begin to enjoy things in a different way. Out of almost everything -that happens there is some pleasure to be got if you look for it, and -people are so funny and human and pitiful you can't be dull. Middle -age brings its compensations, and, anyway, whether it does or not it is -a most miserable business to be obsessed by one's own woes. The only -thing to do is to stand a bit away from oneself and say, 'You miserable -atom, what are you whining about? Do you suppose the eternal scheme of -things is going to be altered because _you_ don't like it?'" - -Mrs. Douglas laughed rather ruefully. "You're a terribly bracing -person, Ann; but I'm bound to confess that you practise what you -preach." - -"But I've really no right to preach at all!" Ann said. "I always -forget one thing, the most important of all. I've always been -perfectly well, so I've no right to sit in judgment on people who -struggle all their lives against ill-health. It is no credit to me--I -who hardly know what it means to have a headache--to be equable and -gay. When I think of some people we know, fighting all the time -against such uneven odds, asking only for a chance to work and be happy -in working, and knocked down time and again, yet always undefeated, I -could go and bury my head ashamed. Don't ever listen to me, Mother, -when I preach to you; squash me at once." - -"Well, I'll try to--but, Ann, there is one thing that worries me. -Remember, I will not have you sacrifice your life to me." - -"No fear of that," said Ann airily. "There's nothing of the martyr -about me." - -"That Mr. Philip Scott----" Mrs. Douglas hesitated. - -"Oh, him!" said Ann, "or, to be more grammatical, oh, he! I had a -letter from him this morning--did I forget to show it you? He says he -is to be at Birkshaw for Christmas." - -Ann stopped. - -"Well, Ann?" - -"Well, Mother?" - -"Don't be provoking, Ann. Is Mr. Scott anything to you?" - -Ann turned serene grey eyes to her mother. "Nothing," she said, -"except a pleasant friend. That's all he wants to be, I'm sure." - -"But, Ann, don't you think..." - -"I never think, Mother..." - -Ann caught the Tatler in her arms and sank with it into the depths of -an arm-chair. - -"There's something exceedingly nice about being a spinster. Here's -Marget. I shall ask her what she thinks. Marget, you don't regret -being a spinster, do you?" - -Marget came farther into the room and peered suspiciously at Ann in the -arm-chair with the cat in her arm. - -"Ye're no' gaun to pit it doon in writin' are ye? Weel, that's a' -richt. To tell the truth I hadna muckle encouragement to be onything -else. I wasna juist a'thegither negleckit, but I never had a richt -offer. But lookin' roond I've often been thankfu' I wasna trachled wi' -a man. Ye see, livin' a' ma life wi' kin o' better folk I wad ha' -taken ill wi' a man sittin' in his stockin' feet and spittin' into the -fire. Genteel service spoils ye; but, of course, a'body's no sae -particlar.... Mysie, the monkey, hes gotten a lawd." - -"What did I say," Ann cried. "Who is he, Marget?" - -"His name's Jim Stoddart, a dacent lawd and no sae gawky as maist o' -them. He was an officer's servant in the war, and learned mainners." - -"But, Marget," said Mrs. Douglas, "we're so far away from people -here--how did Mysie meet him?" - -"Tuts, Mem, let a lassie alane for that. If there's a 'come hither' in -the e'e the lawd 'll turn up, though he has to tramp miles o' heather -and hard road. I never kent hoo lassies did thon. I used often to -watch them and wonder, but I could niver learn--I was aye a muckle -hoose-end even as a lassie, an' tricks wad hev ill become me." - -"It's a wise woman that knows her limitations," said Ann. "I wish we -were all wise enough to avoid being arch--Marget, I've finished -Mother's _Life_.'" - -Marget immediately dropped into a convenient chair. "Let's hear it," -she said. - -"What! Now?" - -"What for no? Is't that lang?" - -"Long?" said Ann; "like the White Knight's song, but very beautiful!" - -"Aw, if ye're gaun to haver." Marget turned to her mistress. "What's -it like, Mem?" - -"I don't know, Marget, I've hardly seen a word of it, but it will -certainly have to be censored before you get it typed, Ann." - -"Oh yes," said Ann. "You will read it and 'riddle oot the biggest lees -frae ilka page,' and then I'll send it to the typing lady Mark told me -about; if she can make out Mark's handwriting she won't be so aghast at -mine. One copy for each of ourselves and some for very great -friends----" - -Mrs. Douglas broke in. "If you begin with friends there will be no end -to it." - -"Then, perhaps, we had better have it privately printed and get about a -hundred copies. Have we a hundred friends?" - -"Liker twa hunner," Marget said gloomily. "To me it seems a queer like -thing to print a body's life when she's still leevin'." - -Ann quoted, "That horn is blowen for me," said Balin, "yet I am not -dead," then, laughing at the expression on Marget's face, she said, -"It's often done, Marget, only you call it 'reminiscences.' Mrs. -Asquith wrote her reminiscences, and you can't accuse her of being -dead." - -Marget muttered something, and Ann continued, "Mother is very fortunate -to have a daughter to write hers for her." - -"Fortunate!" said Mrs. Douglas. "I'll tell you when I've read it." - -"Weel," said Marget, "I hope she made it interestin', Mem, for I'm sure -we hed a rale interestin' time baith in Kirkcaple and Glasgae--an' -Priorsford's no bad aither, though, of course, we're no ministers' folk -there an' that maks a big differ: we havna the same posseetion." - -"Marget," said Ann, "I believe you think a minister and his wife are -the very highest in the land, higher even than a Provost and his lady; -infinitely higher than a mere earl." - -Marget said "Earls!" and grunted, then she explained, "I yince kent an -earl. When ma faither was leevin' an' we were at Kinloch we kept yin -o' the lodges for the big hoose, and I used to see the young earl -playin' cricket. He minded me o' Joseph wi' his coat o' many colours, -but, hech! he was nae Joseph. I doot Potiphar's wife wad hae got nae -rebuke frae him. I dinna hold wi' thae loose lords mysel' onyway." -She turned her back on Ann and addressed her mistress. "It's a queer -thing, Mem, that the folk we have to dae wi' now are no' near as -interestin' as the folk we kent lang syne. I sit by the fire in the -foresuppers--my eyes are no what they were, an' I get tired o' sewin' -and readin'--an' I think awa' back to the auld days in Kirkcaple. Thae -were the days! When the bairns were a' at hame. Eh, puir things, mony -a skelp I hed at them when they cam' fleein' wi' their lang legs ower -ma new-sanded kitchen! Thae simmer's afternunes when I went oot to the -Den wi' Ellie Robbie and them a' and we made a fire and hed oor tea; -an' winter nichts when we sat roond the nursery fire and telt stories. -An' the neebors drappin' in: Mistress Peat as neat as if she hed come -oot o' a band-box, and Mistress Goskirk tellin' us hoo to mak' -jeely--we kent fine oorsels--an' hoo to cut oot breeks for the -laddies--we were never guid at cuttin' oot, ye'll mind, Mem? An' -Mistress Dewar sittin' on the lobby chair knittin' like mad when I got -doon the stair to open the door for her, and Mr. Dewar sayin', 'Is it -bakin' day, Marget?' An' in Glasgae there was Mistress Burnett comin' -in, aye wi' a present, an aye wi' something kind to say. Some folk ye -wad think tak' a fair delight in tellin' ye things that chaw ye, they -juist canna help bein' nesty, puir sowls; ye mind Mrs. Lawrie was like -that, she couldna gang awa wi'oot giving ye a bit sting--but Mistress -Burnett cheered up the whole day wi' her veesit. An' Miss Barbara--she -aye cam' at the maist daft-like time so that she wadna bother us for a -meal, her that wad hae fed a' the earth! An' Mistress Lang--a braw -wumman thon--she likit to come in efter tea an' hae a guid crack. An' -Dr. Struthers--my! He pit us sair aboot when he cam' to stay, but I -was rale pleased, it was like haein' yin o' thae auld prophets bidin' -wi' us. An' the hoosefu's we had in the holidays when the bairns grew -up, we whiles didna ken whaur to turn.... An' thae times are a' past, -an' here we are sittin' an' a' the folk I've been speakin' aboot are -deid, an' the Moncrieffs are comin' the morn----" - -"And if you don't keep the water boiling hot, you'll hear about it," -Ann warned her. - -Marget drew herself up. "If the Cornel speaks to me as if I were a -black oot in India I'll speir at him..." - -"Marget, more and more you remind me of the late Queen Victoria. You -have the grand manner." - -"Havers!" said Marget. - -Mrs. Douglas broke in. "You'll have to be very kind to Colonel and -Mrs. Moncrieff, Marget. You know since we last saw them they have lost -both their sons, and from what I hear they are very broken." - -Marget shook her head. "It's awfu' hertless work leevin' now that sae -mony o' the young folk are deid. A' ma life I've been fear't to dee, -an' at meetings I never sang at 'O for the pearly gates o' Heaven' for -fear I'd be taken at ma word, but the ither nicht I hed sic a bonnie -dream. I thocht I was in an awfu' neat wee hoose, an' it was Johnnie -Johnston's hoose--ye mind him, Mem, at Kirkcaple?--an' I said, 'My, -Johnnie, ye're awfu' comfortable here,' an' he says, 'Ay,' he says, -'Look oot o' the windy.' An' there was a great sea, a terrible sea wi' -waves an' a' kinds o' wee boats on it, some o' them gettin' an awfu' -whummlin. An' I says, 'Eh, is that Galilee?' an' he says, 'Na, it's -the Sea of Life.' An' he says, 'Look oot at the other windy noo,' an' -here was anither sea, but it was a wee narra sea an' awfu' quait, an' I -says, Is that the Jordan?' 'Look ower at the ither side,' he says, an' -I lookit, and there was the Golden City. It was the bonniest place I -ever saw, the _very bonniest_, an' I said, 'Eh, I wad like awfu' weel -to get ower there, Johnnie Johnston, an' he said, 'No the day, but -there's naething surer than that ye'll get ower some day.' An' wi' -that I wakened.... I was that vexed I fair grat, but I'll mind ma -dream an' it'll help me when ma time comes to gang." - -Marget wiped her eyes and then, as if ashamed of having shown emotion, -stalked majestically from the room. - -Ann and her mother, left alone, sat looking into the fire. For a long -time they sat. The logs burned through and fell together, but Ann did -not seem to notice that the fire needed mending. The Tatler playfully -clawed her hand to entice her to a game, but she pushed him away. - -Mrs. Douglas was the first to break the silence. "Dear me, I've never -begun my 'reading,' and it will soon be dinner-time. Give me my books -over, Ann." - -Ann rose and fetched the pile and put them beside her mother. "Biggest -first," she said, and handed her _Hours of Silence_. - -Mrs. Douglas put on her large tortoiseshell spectacles and began at -once to read, but presently her eyes strayed from the printed page to -her daughter's face, and she said, "Why are you sitting looking at me, -Ann?" - -"Because you're such a queer little mother sitting there, with your -owlish spectacles and your devotional books." - -Mrs. Douglas sighed, and then she smiled. "Poor Marget with her -'bonnie' dream! I was sitting thinking just now how well off I am -having her to go back with me to the old days. As she says, it is -heartless work living now, and yet there is something very heartening -about the continuity of life. When I stay with Mark and Charlotte and -see Mark rushing, the moment he gets home, to his garden, and watch him -among the flowers, one hand behind his back in his father's very -attitude, it might be my Mark with me again. And Rory, who came into -the world the day his grandfather went out of it--one Mark Douglas -going and another Mark Douglas taking his place--Rory sidles up to me -and puts his head on my shoulder when he wants something, just as his -father did thirty years ago--I think they should stop calling him Rory -now and call him Mark." - -"Well, it's a little confusing for Charlotte to have two Marks in the -house unless she does as Marget suggests, and 'ca's Mr. Mark Papaw.' -But I know what you mean about the feeling of continuity. Last summer -Alis and Rory, greatly condescending, were allowing young Robbie to -play some game with them. I came upon them suddenly, and the years -seemed to roll back when I saw the earnest absorbed face of Robbie as -he padded about--it might have been my own Robbie. He, too, played -with his whole might.... Oh, look at the fire going out rapidly." - -Ann knelt down and mended the fire with great care, sweeping in the -ashes and making the hearth clean and tidy. - -"I spent my life tidying up this fireside. I might as well be a vestal -virgin in a temple. There, that will be a fine fire when we come back. -Have you finished your reading, Mother? We must go and change. It's a -good thing the Moncrieffs are coming to-morrow. You and I have been -living so much in the past that we are like two little grey ghosts." - -"I've enjoyed it," said Mrs. Douglas. "But think a long time before -you decide to print what you've written." - -She gathered up her devotional books and built them in a neat pile on a -table. - -"I wonder who you think could possibly be interested in such an -uneventful record? All about nothing, and not even an end----" - -"I _wonder_," said Ann. - - - - -THE END - - - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ann and her Mother, by O. 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Douglas -</title> - -<style type="text/css"> -body { color: black; - background: white; - margin-right: 10%; - margin-left: 10%; - font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; - text-align: justify } - -p {text-indent: 4% } - -p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } - -p.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 200%; - text-align: center } - -p.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 150%; - text-align: center } - -p.t2b {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 150%; - font-weight: bold; - text-align: center } - -p.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 100%; - text-align: center } - -p.t3b {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 100%; - font-weight: bold; - text-align: center } - -p.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 80%; - text-align: center } - -p.t4b {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 80%; - font-weight: bold; - text-align: center } - -p.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 60%; - text-align: center } - -h1 { text-align: center } -h2 { text-align: center } -h3 { text-align: center } -h4 { text-align: center } -h5 { text-align: center } - -p.poem {text-indent: 0%; - margin-left: 10%; } - -p.thought {text-indent: 0% ; - letter-spacing: 4em ; - text-align: center } - -p.letter {text-indent: 0%; - margin-left: 10% ; - margin-right: 10% } - -p.footnote {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 80%; - margin-left: 10% ; - margin-right: 10% } - -p.quote {text-indent: 4% ; - margin-left: 0% ; - margin-right: 0% } - -p.finis { font-size: larger ; - text-align: center ; - text-indent: 0% ; - margin-left: 0% ; - margin-right: 0% } - -</style> - -</head> - -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ann and her Mother, by O. Douglas - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Ann and her Mother - -Author: O. Douglas - -Release Date: November 13, 2016 [EBook #53522] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANN AND HER MOTHER *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines - - - - - -</pre> - - -<h1> -<br /><br /> - ANN<br /> - AND HER MOTHER<br /> -</h1> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - BY<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t2b"> - O. DOUGLAS<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t3"> - AUTHOR OF "THE SETONS," "PENNY PLAIN," ETC.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - NEW YORK<br /> - GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t4"> - COPYRIGHT, 1922,<br /> - BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t4"> - ANN AND HER MOTHER. I<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t4"> - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - To<br /> - ISOBEL CUNNINGHAM<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "To whatsoever things are fair<br /> - We know, through you, the road;<br /> - Nor is our grief the less thereby;<br /> - O swift and strong and dear, Good-bye."<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="noindent"> -"In this age of opulence and refinement whom -can such a character please? Such as are -fond of high life will turn in disdain from the -simplicity of a country fireside. Such as -mistake ribaldry for humour will find no wit in -this harmless conversation: and such as have -been taught to deride religion will laugh at -one whose chief stores of comfort are drawn -from futurity." -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -OLIVER GOLDSMITH. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap01"></a></p> - -<h2> -ANN AND HER MOTHER -</h2> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER I -</h3> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas and her daughter Ann sat -together in their living-room one November -night. -</p> - -<p> -It was a wonderfully comfortable room, brightly -yet softly lit, and warmed by a noble fire. There -was a pleasant space and emptiness about it, an -absence of ornaments and irrelevant photographs; -each piece of furniture, each of the few pictures, -was of value. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas had a book in her lap and in her -hand a half-finished stocking, for she considered -that she was wasting time if she did not knit while -reading. -</p> - -<p> -Ann sat on a stool by the fire, poring over a -seedsman's catalogue, a puzzled frown on her brow. -</p> - -<p> -"I wish," she said, without looking up, "I do -wish I knew more about gardening. I can't make -out from this what will grow best with us.... -Don't you think, Mother, it is almost <i>lèse-majesté</i> -to call a rose Queen Mary, and describe it as 'a -gross feeder? Oh, and this! <i>Mr. Asquith</i>, 'very -compact in form, rosy in colour.' What humourists -the compilers of seedsmen's catalogues are! And -what poets! Where was it we read that article -about catalogues? It said that the very names were -like a procession of princes—'amber and carmine -Queens, and Princes' Feathers, and Cloth of Gold.' The -names tempt one simply by the glory of the -sound. 'Love-in-a-Mist ... Love-Fire, a rich -cream with a faint suggestion of apricot primrose in -petal'—and with a drop one learns that this beauty -can be bought for the sum of tuppence! ... Delphiniums -we must have—dozens of them. I -can picture us next summer lying on the lawn in -deck-chairs on hot, sunny days, looking between -tall, blue delphiniums to green hilltops. Won't it -be lovely, Mother?" -</p> - -<p> -"H'm," said her mother in a dry voice, "at present -you have only the hilltops. I haven't imagination -enough to picture the hot sun and the lawn -and the blue delphiniums." -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Mother!</i>" said Ann, wheeling round on her -stool and facing her parent, who was knitting with -provoking calm, "there's nothing sporting about you -at all. It always rains in November, but that's -nobody's fault, and you might at least try to look as -if you didn't mind. Nobody ever said a glen was -a cheery place in winter, but, myself, I like it -frightfully. When Uncle Bob left me the Green -Glen for my very own I determined that somehow -or other I would manage to build a house in it—a -little white-faced house among the heather. Not -big, but big enough to hold us all—six good -bedrooms, one big living-room, a hall we could sit in, -a smaller room to feed in. You all made objections—all -except Charlotte, who encouraged me. You -pointed out all the disadvantages: six miles from a -station, a steep hill road, carting difficult! You -told me that building in these days was only the -pastime of a millionaire, but—the house is built and, -because the architect was a man of sense and listened -to what I wanted, it is exactly the house I meant it -to be in my dreams, so 'Dreams' it will be called." -</p> - -<p> -"I thought you hated new houses?" -</p> - -<p> -"So I do, except when it is my own house in my -own Green Glen. And you will admit that it is -comfortable." -</p> - -<p> -"It's very bare," Mrs. Douglas said. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I like it bare. And your own room is -far from bare. It is more like a museum than -anything else, with so many mementoes of other days -hung on the walls, and photographs of us all at -every age and in every attitude, and shelves and -shelves of devotional books, not to speak of all the -little stucco figures you have cherished for years. -Their heads have been gummed on so often they -fall off if you look at them. Davie was always -being entreated by you to mend them, and he found, -finally, that Moses' head (or was it Eli?) would -only remain on if turned the wrong way about—so -his beard was down his back! ... To return -to 'Dreams,' I admit the garden is still unmade, -and the road a mere track, but wait and you will -see it blossom like the rose. We shan't have any -fences—there is no need for them among the hills, -and the heather will grow to the edges of our shaven -lawns, and we'll have herbaceous borders as gay as -a carnation ribbon, and beds of mignonette..." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laid down her stocking and looked -at her daughter. "No fences? And rabbits -nibbling the mignonette—it's a thing they have a -particular fancy for; and sheep eating the vegetables..." -</p> - -<p> -"Go on with your stocking, Motherkin, and don't -try to be crushing. We'll have fences then, and -wire to keep out the rabbits, and we'll cover the -fences with rambler roses—the bright red single -kind; I don't like Dorothy Perkins. And there's -simply no end to what we can do with the burn; -it would make any garden fairyland, with those -shining brown pools fringed with heather. <i>What</i> luck -to have a burn! Before the house we are going to -have a paved bit, so that you can go out and take -the air without getting your feet wet. There will -be no 'gravel sweep,' and no one will be able to come -to our door except on their own feet, for the road -will stop a long way from the house." -</p> - -<p> -Ann clasped her hands round her knees, and -rocked herself in joyful anticipation. -</p> - -<p> -"I remember," she went on, "hearing as a child -some one praise a neighbourhood with the phrase, 'It -is full of carriage people.' I wondered at the time -what kind of people they were, and if they perhaps -had their abode in a carriage, like a snail in its -shell! When 'motor people' come to Dreams they -will have to leave their motors and walk. We shall -say to them, like True Thomas, 'Light down, light -down from your horse o' pride.' ... But, Mother, -is this really going to bore you terribly? Do you -miss so badly the giddy round of Priorsford? The -pavements? The shops? The tea-parties?" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas gave a long sigh. "I don't want to -grumble, but, you know, I always did say it was -rash to attempt to stay a winter in the Green Glen. -It's well enough in the summer (though even then -I would prefer to be nearer civilisation), and fine -for the children, but in November, with the fields -like sponges, and the road a mere Slough of Despond, -and the hills covered with mist most of the -time, and the wind coming down the glen howling -like an evil spirit, and the station six miles away, -and only a pony trap between us and complete -burial; Mark and Charlotte in India, and Jim in -South Africa, and the children in Oxfordshire with -their other grandmother, I feel like a pelican in the -wilderness. I told you I would, and I do." -</p> - -<p> -"Poor dear, but..." -</p> - -<p> -"Through the day it isn't so bad. I admit the -mornings are rather beautiful, and when it happens -to be fine I can potter about outside, and Marget -is always a divert. In the afternoon when it rains -(and it has rained practically every day for three -weeks) I sew and write letters and read, and there -is always tea to look forward to. But in the -evenings—and the curtains have to be drawn now -about four o'clock—when there is no chance of a -ring at the bell, no postman, no telephone-call, no -stray callers, and the owls hoot, and my eyes get -tired with reading, and one can't knit for ever even -with four wild grandchildren to knit for, well——" -</p> - -<p> -"But, my dear," said her daughter, "just think -how you will appreciate Priorsford when you get -back. We are very much alone just now—it was -an odd chance that sent Mark and Charlotte to -India and Jim to South Africa the same winter—but -don't let's have to remember it as the winter -of our discontent.... We must face facts. -Neighbours we have almost none. Mr. Sharp, at -the Manse, is practically the only one, and he is so -shy that speaking to him is like trying to carry on -a conversation with a very young rabbit in a trap. -The Scotts aren't so very far away as the crow flies, -only over the other side of the hill, but it is five -miles round by the road. It's an unpeopled world, -but the great thing to remember is that any moment -you please you can have a case packed, order the -pony trap, drive to the station, buy a ticket, and in -about two hours you would be in Glasgow, in the -Central Station Hotel, among all the city gentlemen, -feasting your eyes on people, forgetting the -owls in listening to the Glasgow accent, eating large -meals, frequenting picture houses...." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas dropped both her book and stocking -in her indignation. -</p> - -<p> -"Ann, you know I <i>never</i> enter a picture house, -and I haven't the least desire to go to Glasgow in -the meantime." -</p> - -<p> -"I tell you what," Ann cried, "go in for a course -of reading and improve your mind. It's an -opportunity that may not occur again." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm too old to improve my mind; besides, it isn't -very nice of you to suggest that it needs improving." -</p> - -<p> -Ann studied her mother with her head on one -side. "You're sixty, aren't you? Sixty's nothing. -The late Mr. Gladstone learned Arabic when he was -eighty. Besides, you are the most absurd person for -sixty I ever saw. Your hair is as soft and brown -as it was when you were thirty, and you have a -complexion that is the envy of less fortunate women. -And the odd thing is, I believe you hate to be told -so. I believe you want to look old." -</p> - -<p> -"Last summer," said Mrs. Douglas, "I overheard -Rory say to Alison, 'Alis, Gran is nearly sixty; I -heard her say so,' and Alis, with a depth of pity in -her voice, replied, 'Oh, poor Gran!' But when I -think I'm only sixty I feel like pitying myself. In -the <i>Times</i> last night there were six people among the -'Deaths' who were over ninety. It frightens me to -think that I may live to a great age, and, perhaps, -see you all go before me—and I get so wearied -sometimes for your father and the boys...." -</p> - -<p> -Ann laid her hand on her mother's. "I know," -she said, "I know. But, Mother, are those who are -gone so much more dear to you than we who are -left? As Pharaoh said to Hadad: 'What hast thou -lacked with us, that, behold, thou seekest to go to -thine own country?'" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, my dear, <i>nothing</i>, but..." -</p> - -<p> -"The old answer," said Ann. "Nothing, nothing—'howbeit -let me go in any wise.' ... Well, we -have wandered from our subject. What do you say, -Mums, to reading Robert Louis right through? We -have the Edinburgh edition here. He will teach you -to love the moorlands." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas recoiled in horror from the suggestion. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh no! No. No. The very name of R.L.S. makes -me think of the eternal crying of whaups, and -we are fairly beset with the creatures here. Really -to appreciate Robert Louis you must read him -immersed in a town with no hope of a holiday, or on -the burning, shining plains of India, or on the South -African veldt. To read there of 'a great, rooty -sweetness of bogs' and 'the infinite, melancholy -piping of hill-birds,' and 'winds austere and pure' -is like water in a thirsty land. But when one is -seated in the bogs, and deaved by the hill-birds it's -only an irritation. I'd rather read Ethel M. Dell, -and warm myself with the thought of heroes whose -eyes are like slumbering volcanoes, and heroines who -generally manage to get a flogging from some one -before they win through to happiness." -</p> - -<p> -Ann laughed. "It's quite true. Here we must -read books hot with life, full of intrigues and -sensational developments. We have all the simplicity -we want in the Green Glen." -</p> - -<p> -Her mother sighed. "I'm not really discontented, -Ann, though I'm afraid I sound so. But I seem -to lead such a useless life here. A few letters to -sick and sad people is all I accomplish. If there -were some people about the doors whom I could -visit and, perhaps, help a little. Once a minister's -wife always a minister's wife. I can't get out of -the habit of trying to help. But there's only old -Geordie's cottage, and he hasn't even a wife, and -he wouldn't thank me for a visit." -</p> - -<p> -"No," laughed Ann. "He is very proud of being -able to fend for himself, and hopes to die without -being beholden to any woman. He was telling me -a sad tale the other day about an old friend of his -who lived alone until he was eighty, and then fell -ill and had to have the district nurse, who insisted -on his remaining in bed. 'To think,' said Geordie, -'that a man should live to be aichty and be -overpowered by a wumman in the end.' But I can quite -see that the lack of people to comfort and help is a -great lack to you—born minister's wife that you -are." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, well, I made many mistakes, but my heart -was in my job. It was a real pleasure to me to know -every soul in the church, and to listen to all they -cared to tell me of their trials and their troubles, and -to be asked to share in their merrymakings; to have -the right to laugh and cry with them. The wives -used to say when your father intimated visiting, 'I -wish the mistress wad come wi' the minister, she's -a graund cracker.' Your father was sometimes -ill-off knowing what to talk about in the different -houses; he wasn't one of those glib men with a fund -of easy phrases, but when they got to know him -they liked him the better for his quietness, and -valued his few words more than other people's -eloquence. How he would have enjoyed this, Ann! -He loved the Green Glen, and the burn, and the -whaups crying." -</p> - -<p> -There was a silence, and Mrs. Douglas sat looking -into the fire. She was far away from the little -house among the hills. She was young again, and -the husband of her youth was once more at her side. -Pictures, softened and beautified by time, unrolled -themselves before her eyes. Children played in a -garden among flowers, their laughter and shouting -came to her ears, she could see their faces lifted to -hers; but no beckoning could bring them to her, for -long ago they had grown up and gone away; they -were but dream children who played in that garden. -</p> - -<p> -Ann watched her mother with a soft look in her -grey eyes. "I've been thinking, Mums, you ought -to write your <i>Life</i>." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas came back to the present with an -effort. "Write my life? But I did—don't you -remember? On that yachting cruise we went, when -the sea never stayed calm except for a few hours. -There was nothing much to do, so I wrote my life -in a twopenny pass-book, with a pencil, and none of -you were at all encouraging about it. I read it -aloud to you somewhere about the Azores, when you -were lying seasick in your berth, and you said it -made you feel worse; and Charlotte cried from the -next cabin, 'Ann, what is wrong with Gran that she -is making that curious, whining sound?' and Mark -printed on the cover, 'The Life of auld Mistress -Douglas written by herself,' and then it got lost." -</p> - -<p> -"I remember," said Ann. "But this time it must -be done properly. You'll tell it to me and I'll write -it down, and we'll have it typed and perhaps printed, -so that the children when they grow up will know -what a queer little grandmother was theirs. Let me -see—we'll be here alone until the Moncrieffs come -about the middle of December; that will give us a -month to work at it. Two hours every night, -perhaps more. Does that please you, Motherkin?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ann, you are trying to humour an old woman. -I don't suppose the children would ever trouble to -read my <i>Life</i>, except perhaps Alison—that child has -a strong sense of duty; but I must say I would enjoy -remembering it all.... Here are Marget and -Mysie." -</p> - -<p> -The two servants came into the room accompanied -by a large Persian cat, grey, the colour of a -November sky. This beautiful creature had been named -by Ann the "Tatler," because his genius for falling -into photographic attitudes reminded her, she said, -of those ladies, fair and fashionable, whose pictures -adorn the weekly pages of that popular journal. -</p> - -<p> -Marget seated herself majestically. She was a -tall woman, with a broad, honest face, and hair -pulled straight back and covered by a cap—not the -flippant scrap of muslin with a bow generally worn, -but an erection of coffee-coloured lace, with touches -of crimson velvet, which she alluded to as a "kep," -and which gave her almost a regal air. -</p> - -<p> -Marget had been thirty-five years with the -Douglas family, and was so thoroughly a Douglas that -there was never any thought of keeping her in her -"place." Mysie, who was her niece, she kept under -iron control, but she allowed herself much latitude. -No one knew Marget's age. It was a subject on -which she had always been excessively touchy. -When the Census came round she had said, "I'll no' -pit it doon till a' the bairns are oot, an' naebody but -the maister'll ken, an' he'll no' tell." -</p> - -<p> -She met all questions with "I'm as auld as ma -little finger an' I'm aulder than ma teeth." In -revenge the Douglases had intimated to their friends -that they had inside knowledge that Marget was at -least eighty. -</p> - -<p> -After prayers Mysie left the room, but Marget -generally remained for a "crack," delighting to -bandy words with "Miss Ann"—a diversion which -to-night ended in Ann being called "a daft lassie." -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Lassie!</i>" cried Ann. -</p> - -<p> -"Ye'll aye be a lassie to me," Marget told her; -"but," turning to her mistress, "is it true, Mem, -that she's gaun to write yer <i>Life</i>? I never ken when -Miss Ann's speakin' the truth and when she's juist -haverin'.... It wad be rale interestin'. Ye wad -need to pit in aboot thon daft man wha cam' to see -the maister and the pollis efter him, an' that awfu' -fricht we got wi' the big fire in the linoleum factory, -and aboot the man wha drooned hissel in the Panny -Pond and floatit...." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, Marget," said Ann, "we'll need your help -to decide what is to be put in. One thing, of course, -must go in—your age." -</p> - -<p> -Marget rose from her chair with a we-are-not-amused -look, put the Bibles back in their proper -places, dropped her delightful, old-fashioned curtsey, -walked to the door, and said before she closed -it behind her: -</p> - -<p> -"Ye wadna daur. An', what's mair, ye <i>dinna ken it</i>." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap02"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER II -</h3> - -<p> -Two nights later, when the stars had come out -to look down at the Green Glen and the curtains -were drawn in Dreams, Ann sat down before -a small table on which lay a pile of paper and a -fountain-pen, and told her mother that she was now -ready to write her <i>Life</i>. -</p> - -<p> -"But how do you begin a <i>Life</i>?" Mrs. Douglas -asked. She was sitting in her favourite low chair, -doing what she called her "reading." Beside her -was a pile of devotional books, from each of which -she read the portion for the day. Nothing would -make her miss this ceremony, and she carted the -whole pile about with her wherever she went. -</p> - -<p> -"Shall I give you the date of my birth and say -that I was the child of poor but honest parents? -I seem to remember that beginning." -</p> - -<p> -"No," Ann decided, "we'll leave dates alone; -they are 'chiels that winna ding.' The point is, -what style would you like me to write it in? We -might begin like <i>The Arabian Nights</i>—'It is related -(but God alone is all-knowing, as well as all-wise -and all-mighty and all-bountiful) that there was in -ancient times a fair virgin, Helen....' But I -think, perhaps, your history is too tame and domestic -for such a highly coloured style." -</p> - -<p> -"I should think so, indeed," said her mother, as -she laid down <i>Hours of Silence</i> and took up <i>Come -ye Apart</i>. -</p> - -<p> -"What about the Russian touch?" Ann asked, -waving her pen. "Like this: 'She turned upon her -pillow, tearing at its satin cover with her nails, -then, taking a spoonful of bromide, she continued——'" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Ann—don't be ridiculous!" -</p> - -<p> -"Or shall I dispense entirely with commas, inverted -and otherwise, and begin without a beginning -at all, as the very best people do? It does make -Aunt Agatha so angry, that sort of book, where no -explanations are offered, and you suddenly find -yourself floundering among a lot of Christian names. -Anyway, it's much too clever for me to attempt! -I'm afraid we must confine ourselves to a plain -narrative, with no thoughts, only incidents. I think -I'll begin: 'In my youth I wasna what you would -ca' bonnie, but I was pale, penetratin', and -interestin'.' How is that?" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas shook her head. She had reached -<i>From Day to Day</i>, and would soon be at the apex -of the pile, <i>Golden Grain</i>. "If you are going to -describe my appearance you might at least be accurate." -</p> - -<p> -"Well," said her daughter, "I only know you -from a very old photograph as a moon-faced child -with tight curls, and then, later, with two babies -and a <i>cap</i>! What were you really like?" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas sat very upright, with a becoming -pink flush on her face and a little smile at the -corners of her mouth. "I can see myself the day I met -your father for the first time. I had on my first silk -dress—royal blue it was—and a locket with a black -velvet ribbon round my neck, and my hair most -elaborately done in what was called a 'mane,' some -rolled up on the top, some hanging down. My hair -was my best point. It was thick and wavy, and as -yellow as corn. Your father always said he fell in -love with the back of my head. Who would believe -it who saw me now?" -</p> - -<p> -"'Faigs, ye're no' bad,' as Marget would say," -Ann comforted her. "As one gets older looks are -chiefly a matter of dress. When you take pains -with your clothes no woman of your age looks better; -but when you wander out in a rather seedy black -dress, with a dejected face under a hat that has seen -better days, you can't wonder at what my friend -Mrs. Bell said after meeting you one wet day: 'Eh, -puir auld buddy; she's an awfu' worrit-lookin' -wumman; it fair makes me no' weel to look at her!'" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, Ann, but you shouldn't have laughed. I -don't like that Mrs. Bell. She's a forward woman, -and you spoil her." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I told her you weren't really old, but those -women are so surprisingly young. They have -grown-up families and hordes of grandchildren, and -you think they are at least seventy and they turn out -to be fifty. Of course, it was rather disrespectful -of her to call you 'puir auld buddy,' but the 'awfu' -worrit-lookin'' was such an exact description of you -doing good works on a wet day in your old clothes -that I had to laugh. But we're not getting on." -</p> - -<p> -"It's absurd to talk of writing my life," -Mrs. Douglas said. "There is nothing worth telling -about. I asked Alison last summer what she was -going to be, and she tossed back that yellow mane -of hers, and said earnestly, 'Well, Gran, I did think -of being a poet, but I've decided just to be an -ordinary woman with a baby.' That's all I ever was. -An ordinary woman with several babies and a man -and a kirk to look after—a big handful for any -woman. I'd better begin where, for me, the world -first began, at Etterick. You remember the old -house, don't you, with its white-washed walls and -high pointed roof, standing at the end of the village? -When I think of it it always seems to be summer; -the shadow of the house falling black across the -white road, a baker's van standing in the village, -and one of the wives holding out her white apron -for loaves, a hen clucking sleepily, the hum of the -bees among the flowers in the old garden, the -<i>clink-clink</i> from the smiddy at the burnside, my mother in -a thin blue dress standing in the doorway with a -basket on her arm—the peace of a summer afternoon! -And the smell of it! New-mown grass drying -in the sun, indescribable sweet scents from the -flower-thick roadsides, the smiddy smell of hot iron -sizzling on big hoofs, wafts from the roses in the -garden—those most fragrant, red, loose-petalled -roses that now I never see. Inside the house was -cool and dark, with drawn blinds. D'you remember -the parlour? I can tell you where every bit of -furniture in it stood. The bureau behind the door, -and along the wall the old, wide sofa. I've often -told you about the upholsterer from Priorsford, who -came to prescribe for it when its springs began to -subside? He had a lisp, and after the examination -was finished he said simply and finally, 'The thofo's -done.' How we laughed over that, and the 'thofo' -held on for another twenty years, never getting much -worse. Yes, the piano came next to the sofa, and -then the wide window with all the little panes. The -tea-table stood there in summer, and one could see -all who passed by. 'The day the chaise and pair -gaed through Caddonfoot' was a saying in the -countryside, but Etterick boasted carts and carriages in -some profusion. I wonder if my mother's teas were -really better than anyone else's? The cream so -thick that it had to be helped out of the jug with a -spoon! And the 'thin' scones coated with -fresh-churned butter! My dear Robbie revelled in them. -He wrote from India, you remember, that when -camping they ran short of bread, and the cook said -he would bake some <i>chupattis</i>. 'And,' wrote Robbie, -'by the grace of God the <i>chupattis</i> turned out -to be my grandmother's "thin" scones!'" -</p> - -<p> -"I remember," said Ann. "He introduced me to -them when I went out. Wasn't the house at -Etterick an inn once?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, and all the rooms had numbers painted on -the doors. No. 8 was your nursery when we used to -spend the summer there. And the playroom was -called 'Jenny Berry'—why, I don't know; the reason -for the name is lost in the mists of antiquity. It -was the first place you all rushed to the moment you -arrived, in a fever to see if your treasures were safe, -and you always found them just as you left them. -My mother was a very understanding woman with -children. She wasn't, perhaps, a very tender -grandmother as grandmothers go now, and you children -held her in some awe; but you valued her good -opinions, and you knew her to be absolutely just. She -seldom praised, but, on the other hand, she never -damped your enthusiasms. 'Never daunton young -folk' was one of her favourite sayings. Yes. I'm -afraid she was somewhat intolerant, poor dear. -She had a great contempt for the gossiping, -crocheting, hen-headed female that abounded in her day. -'A frivolous woman,' she would say after a visit -from such a one, 'fit for nothing but fancy work and -novelettes.' Good looks appealed to her enormously, -and she was glad all you children had what -she called 'china' faces; swarthy people she could -not abide. We took Mrs. Alston to see her when -she was staying with us one summer at Caddonfoot—dear -Mrs. Alston, with her dun skin and projecting -teeth and her heart of gold! Your grandmother -was the frailest little body then, only her indomitable -spirit kept her going, and Mrs. Alston fussed -over her and deferred to her in the kindest way. But -the blandishments were all to no purpose; she looked -coldly at the visitor, and afterwards, when I told her -what a fine woman Mrs. Alston was, and what fine -work she had done in the mission-field, all the -answer I got was, 'Oh, I dare say, but I never took -my tea with a worse-looking woman.'" -</p> - -<p> -"I remember that," said Ann. "I remember how -Father shouted when you told him. Granny was -often very amusing, but what I remember most about -her was her sense of comfort." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, if I've any notion how to make a house -comfortable I got it from my mother. She was great -in preparing for people. If we had only gone to -Priorsford for the day she made of our return a sort -of festival. Out on the doorstep to meet us, fires -blazing, tea ready, and such a budget to tell us of -the small events of the day. Some women are so -casual with their children, they don't <i>thirl</i> them to -themselves. They let them go and come, and seem -to take very little interest in their comings and their -goings, don't even trouble to be in the house when -the boys come home for the holidays; suppose -vaguely that this one or that one will be home to-day -or to-morrow, never think of preparing a welcome. -And then they wonder that their children have no -love for their home; that when they go out into the -world, they don't trouble to write except at infrequent -intervals; that sometimes their lives drift so -far apart that they cannot hear each other speak." -</p> - -<p> -"Mother," said Ann, "you speak wisely, but how -much of this is to go down in your <i>Life</i>? At present -I have only got that you had yellow hair and a royal -blue silk dress and a locket. Oughtn't I to say -something about your childhood and what influenced -you and all that sort of thing? Do try to -remember some thoughts you had; you know the sort -of thing these 'strong' novels are full of—your -feelings when you found they had drowned your -kitten—and weren't you ever misunderstood and driven -to weep floods of tears in secret?" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas shook her head. "No, I never was -clever enough to think the things children think in -modern novels. And I don't remember being -misunderstood, except that I was always considered -rather a forward child when really I suffered much -from shyness. One morning, with a great effort, I -managed to say to old Sibbald, It's a fine morning,' -as I passed him. 'What are ye sayin' noo wi' yer -impertinence?' was his most uncalled-for response. -I think my childhood was too happy to have any -history. One of a big family, with freedom to roam, -and pets in abundance, I never had a dull minute. -And Etterick was a very interesting village, full of -characters." -</p> - -<p> -"Wasn't there somebody called 'Granny' you used -to tell us stories about?" -</p> - -<p> -"My mother's nurse. She died before you were -born. The very wee-est woman that ever was—I -used to pick her up and carry her about—and so -bonnie, with a white-goffered mutch framing her -face. We all loved that little old woman. She -lived in a tiny house at the top of the village with -Tam, her husband; all her family were up and -married and away. 'Granny' was our refuge in every -kind of storm—indeed, she was everybody's refuge. -And she had a great heart in her little body. It was -told of her that when her eldest boy ran away to -Edinburgh and enlisted, she made a pot of broth -and baked a baking of scones for the children left -at home, strapped the baby on her back, walked into -Edinburgh, bought the boy off, and walked back -again—fifty-six miles in all! We have almost lost -the use of our legs in these days of trains and -motors. She never asked anything from anybody. I -can remember her face when some well-meaning -person offered her charity. 'Na, na, thank ye kindly. -I may be sodger-clad, but I'm major-minded.' And -there was old Peggy Leithen, who gave a ha'penny -to every beggar that came to the door, murmuring as -she did so, 'Charity covereth a multitude of sins,' -and graphically described her conversion: 'I juist -got the blessin' when ma knee was on the edge o' -the bed steppin' in ahint Geordie.' And there was -Jock Look-Up—but I could go on for hours. I -think I was thirteen when I went to a boarding-school. -I enjoyed that, too—all except the getting -up to practise on winter mornings. I can feel now -the chill of the notes on my numb fingers. I was -going back to school for another year when I met -your father and got married instead." -</p> - -<p> -"Seventeen, weren't you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Seventeen, and childish at that. I never had my -hair up till my marriage day. Your father was -twenty-six." -</p> - -<p> -"Babes!" said Ann. -</p> - -<p> -"It's odd how things come about," said Mrs. Douglas, -as she put the last of the text-books on the -pile, and took off the large, round-eyed -tortoise-shell spectacles that she wore when doing her -"reading." "Dr. Watts, our own minister, was -ordered to the South of France for the winter, and -your father, who had just finished with college, came -to take his place. We were used to fine ministers in -Etterick. Dr. Watts was a saint and a scholar, and -the parish minister was one of God's most faithful -servants—both were men of dignity and power. -But your father was so young and ardent; he went -through the district like a flame. He held meetings -in lonely glens where no meeting had ever been -held before. He kindled zeal in quiet people who -had been content to let things go on as they had -always gone; it was a wonderful six months. Your -Aunt Agatha, who, being older, had left school -before I did, wrote to tell me of this extraordinary -young man; indeed, her letters were so full of him -that I made up my mind to dislike him at sight. -And after I did meet him I pretended to myself and -to Agatha that I thought him a very tiresome young -man. I mimicked the way he sang hymns and his -boyish, off-hand manner, so unlike Dr. Watts' grave, -aloof ways. I wish I had words, Ann, to give you -some idea of the man your father was in his youth. -As he grew older he grew not less earnest, but more -tolerant—mellower, perhaps, is the word. As a -young man he was like a sword-blade, pure and keen. -And yet he was such a boy with it all, or I never -would have dared to marry him. I had absolutely -no training for a minister's wife, but I went into it -quite blithely. Now, looking back, I wonder at -myself. At the time I was like the little boy -marching bravely into a dark room, his bigger brother -explaining the phenomena with 'He hasna the sense -to be feart.'" -</p> - -<p> -"There's a lot in that," said Ann. "But think -what a loss to the world if you had remained a -spinster—it hardly bears thinking of! Well, we haven't -got very far to-night. To-morrow you must tell me -all about the wedding. I know Alison would like -to hear about the tiny, white, kid lacing shoes with -pale blue rosettes that I used to look at in a drawer. -I believe they finished up in a jumble sale." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," Mrs. Douglas confessed. "It was the -first one we ever had, and you know the sort of -madness that seizes you when you see people eager to -buy. I rushed home and looked out everything we -could do without—my wedding slippers among the -lot. And poor old Mrs. Buchanan, in a sort of -ecstasy of sacrifice, climbed up to her kitchen shelf -and brought down the copper kettle that in her -saner moments she cherished like saffron, and threw -it on the pyre. The sale was for Women's Foreign -Missions, and when at the end of the most strenuous -evening any of us had ever spent the treasurer -and I lugged our takings home in a cab, her husband -met us at the door, and, lifting the heavy bag, said, -'I doubt it's Alexander the coppersmith.' But it -wasn't; it was fully £100. Dear, dear, the -excitements of a ministerial life!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap03"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER III -</h3> - -<p> -"Now that the visitors are gone," said Ann, -"we'll go on with our wedding number. -Who complained of the dullness of the Green Glen? -Three visitors—the whole neighbourhood you may -say—in one afternoon: first the parson, then the two -Miss Scotts. As I came down the burnside I saw -them go up to the door, and I said to myself in the -words of the old beadle who was asked what sort of -congregation was gathering: 'Graund! Twa weemen -pourin' in.' Didn't you like them, Mother? -The Miss Scotts, I mean? I thought their weather-beaten -faces very attractive, and their voices so -surprisingly soft and clear. Somehow I had expected -voices rather loud and strident, to go with their -workman-like clothes and heavy boots. The -younger one specially attracted me—they way she -beamed through her spectacles and said 'Yes' -unexpectedly, whenever a pause occurred in the -conversation. They are going to help me a lot with the -garden; their own place is lovely. It's a nice happy -way to end one's days—living peacefully among -growing flowers! Think of all the old women who -live in hotels and boarding-houses, quite comfortable, -I dare say, so far as fires and light and a good -bed, and well-cooked food go, but so barren of all -interest except a morbid curiosity about their -fellow-prisoners! How spacious a country life is! ..." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes," her mother broke in impatiently; "but -hotel life can be very interesting, and there is nothing -I enjoy so much as watching my neighbours.... I -wonder why Mr. Sharp likes telling funny stories?" -</p> - -<p> -"Shyness goads him to it," Ann said. "It's the -same thing that makes me chatter like a swallow -when I am with impressive people and ought to hold -my peace. He's a decent lad, Mr. Sharp, but I wish -that when I meet him outside he wouldn't treat me -like a funeral. He doesn't look at me, but removes -his hat when passing. Shyness again, I suppose." -</p> - -<p> -"He has a housekeeper," Mrs. Douglas said, as -she picked up a stitch. "It's a pity he hasn't a wife. -In a quiet place like this the Manse should be a -centre for the district. Don't you think, Ann, if we -asked Nina Strachen, or——" -</p> - -<p> -"Mother," said Ann solemnly, "I utterly refuse -to have anything to do with your matchmaking -efforts. Just let your mind dwell for a little on the -result of your last." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas sighed. "Poor George Reid! But -it wasn't marrying killed him. He couldn't have -got a better wife than Jeanie Robb. The doctors -said the trouble had been going on for a long time, -and, anyway, the last months of his life were as -comfortable as they could be made. If he hadn't -married he would have been dependent on <i>fremt</i> -women, for he hadn't a soul of his own; and Jeanie -gets the Widows' Fund, so you can't regret the -marriage having taken place." -</p> - -<p> -"Practical woman!" laughed Ann. "But we -must get on with your own wedding now—we are -making no progress at all. When I think of what -Hugh Walpole or Compton Mackenzie can make -out of somebody's childhood, I blush for my few -bald sentences. About your wedding—did my -grandmother choose your things? When I knew her -she took very little interest in clothes, just wore -whatever was brought to her." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, but she wasn't always like that. I remember -Agatha and myself almost in tears begging her -not to get a purple silk dress and bonnet which she -much desired, as we thought them absurdly youthful -for her years. Poor body! I don't believe she was -more than forty. Daughters can be very unfeeling." -</p> - -<p> -"They can," Ann agreed, with a twinkle. "My -poor grandmother! What a shame to deprive her -of her purple silk! If you and Aunt Agatha could -have looked forward forty years and seen grandmothers -with dresses almost to their knees, dancing, -playing tennis, frivolling, hardly recognisable from -the eighteen-year-olds, I wonder what you would -have thought. Well, who did buy your trousseau? -Aunt Agatha?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, she was less sophisticated even than I was. -My stand-by was Miss Ayton. My mother trusted -her judgment and her taste and asked her help, and -Miss Ayton was only too willing to give it; for, -spinster of fifty as she was, she loved a marriage. -She was one of those delightful women who can be -vividly interested in their neighbours' business -without ever being a nuisance, and she presided like a -stout, benign fairy over my nuptials, getting things -done, it seemed, by a wave of her wand." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas let her knitting fall on her lap, and -lay back in her chair, smiling. -</p> - -<p> -"First I was whisked off to Edinburgh to have -some lessons in cooking (I knew absolutely nothing -about anything). <i>High-class</i> cooking it was called, -I suppose because nearly every recipe called in the -most casual way for a dozen of eggs and a bottle of -sherry. Not the sort of cooking required for a -manse, you will say...." -</p> - -<p> -Ann looked up from her writing. "Hadn't you—I -seem to remember—a cookery book from that -class, a fat green book? It stood, for some reason, -on the nursery bookshelf, and was a sort of Aladdin's -Cave to us children. We pored over it, reading -aloud the rich, strange ingredients, and lay on -our faces gazing enraptured at the picture of a -dinner-table laid for about sixty people, where each -napkin was folded in a different way, and pheasants -with long tail-feathers sat about in dishes, and -brightly tinted jellies and creams and trifles made -it blossom like a fairy garden. That picture always -made us so hungry that we had to have 'a piece' all -round after looking at it.... Why do I connect -that cookery book with Communions?" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laughed. "Because at Communion -times, when we had strange ministers assisting we -had puddings out of that book, at least expurgated -editions of them. I have that book in my room -now. It is too much a bit of my past for me ever -to part with it. It has been with me since the start. -At first it was all that stood between me and blank -ignorance, and now it is a reminder of the days that -seem like a happy dream. Well, the book and the -cookery lessons were due to Miss Ayton. Or, was -it Mrs. Watts first suggested I should learn cooking? -I believe it was. There was never anyone so practical -as Mrs. Watts, dear woman. I always regret -that she was gone before you grew up, Ann; you -would have delighted in her. She was a daughter -of the great Dr. Grierson—that mighty preacher -and statesman—and she had much of the Grierson -charm. Her husband, Dr. Watts, was laird as -well as minister, and they didn't live at the Manse, -but at their own place, Fennanhopes. It was -about the greatest treat we had as children, to be -invited to Fennanhopes, and I can't think why we -liked it so much, for whenever we arrived Mrs. Watts -would say, 'Now, friends,' and in a trice -she had us all working hard. Some picked currants, -some went to bring in the eggs, some weeded—but -we all did something. We wouldn't have done it -for anyone else, but we liked to please Mrs. Watts. -She kept everybody busy: visitors (the house was -always full), village, the whole countryside, and -there is no doubt that the state of being pleasantly -busy is the best we can attain to in this world. -Mrs. Watts was a noted housewife, and servants trained -by her were eagerly sought for. I remember going, -during one Assembly time in Edinburgh, to a -meeting at which Mrs. Watts was to speak. One knew -what to expect as a rule—a rather gasped-out, tepid -little homily from the wife of one or other -well-known divine; but I rather thought Mrs. Watts -would be different. I waited with interest, and -presently she stepped on to the platform, looking -so big and fine and of the open air, spoke for a few -minutes in her clear, round voice, and then, looking -round the meeting with friendly eyes she said, 'Now, -friends, I am going to tell you how to make <i>really -good coffee</i>.'" -</p> - -<p> -Ann laughed. "What a dear! I wish I had -known her. I can just remember Dr. Watts. It -seemed to me, standing somewhere about his knees, -that his head must be dangerously near the clouds, -and I remember his gentle voice saying to me, 'It -will take you a long time to grow as big as I -am.' ... Yes, and so between Mrs. Watts and Miss -Ayton you learned something about cooking. And -who chose your trousseau, and all your 'providing'?" -</p> - -<p> -"Miss Ayton, really, but of course my mother was -there too, and I was there, though I don't think I -was supposed to have an opinion. You would laugh -at my things now, but they were considered very -handsome—the best that could be had at Kennington -& Jenner's." -</p> - -<p> -"What! Was Jenner's in Princes Street in those -days?" cried Ann, astonished. -</p> - -<p> -"Dear me, why shouldn't Jenner's have been in -Princes Street then? Really, Ann, you talk as if -it were before the Flood. I assure you my clothes -caused something of a sensation in the countryside." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sure they did. I knew you had a sealskin -coat, for it ended its long and useful existence as -capes for Robbie and me. I liked mine, but Robbie -wept bitterly, and said only coachmen wore capes. -And you had a bonnet, hadn't you? A bonnet at -seventeen!" -</p> - -<p> -"A prune-coloured bonnet," said Mrs. Douglas, -"high in front, and worn with a prune-coloured silk -dress and the sealskin coat. Those were my 'going-away' -things. But the dress your father liked best -was navy blue, what was called a Princess dress, -buttoned straight down with small brass buttons. -I had a sort of reefer coat to wear with that, and a -hat with a blue veil. And I had a black satin for -evenings (no self-respecting bride would have been -without a black satin) besides my bridal white -satin." -</p> - -<p> -"You must have looked a duck with those little -white kid shoes with the big rosettes on the toes -and the blue silk laces. I suppose you were married -in the house?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes. Church weddings were practically -unknown then. I was married in the drawing-room. -Do you remember it? Rather a gloomy room, and -not often used. The partition between the -dining-room and the room next it was taken down, and the -luncheon was laid on long tables. People came -from Priorsford the day before and cooked and made -ready. It had been a terrible storm, and the drifts -were piled up high, but I don't think any of the -invited guests stayed away, although many of them -had long distances to drive. The preparations were -very exciting. I remember the great rich cakes from -Edinburgh being cut down with a lavish hand, and -big, round, thick cakes of shortbread with white -sweeties on them, so the guests must have had tea -as well as luncheon, and been well warmed and fed. -Rather unlike our modern weddings, with a crumb -of bridescake and a thimbleful of champagne, -followed by a cup of tea and a sandwich. Hare soup, -and roasts of all sorts, and creams and trifles galore. -I was child enough to enjoy it all." -</p> - -<p> -Ann stopped writing and sat with her fountain-pen -poised in her hand, looking into the fire. -</p> - -<p> -"I can just imagine," she said, "how jolly it must -have been. The comfortable old house in the village -street, all the rooms with blazing fires, and the -kitchen with the flagged, uneven floor, hot and -simmering with good things cooking, and the snow -outside, and the horses stamping in the cold, frosty air, -and the guests coming in laughing and talking. And -Father so young and tall and blue-eyed, and you -such a nice little white and gold bride, blue-eyed, -too (no wonder there is such a lamentable lack of -variety in the looks of your children; I do admire a -family where some are dark, and some fair, and some -red-haired—it isn't so dreadfully monotonous), and -the bridesmaids in white with scarlet berries, and -your little brothers all agape for good things. It -must all have been so young and merry. A good -send-off to a very happy married life, eh, Mother?" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas looked at her daughter without -speaking, the tears slowly gathering in her eyes. -Ann bent forward and laid her hand on her mother's. -"Just say to me as Marget says, 'Oh, lassie, haud yer -tongue!' I know that is what you are feeling like. -It breaks your heart to look back. There has been -so much happiness and such great sorrow; but the -sad bits are as precious as the happy bits, and they -all help to make the pattern. On the whole a gay -pattern, Mother." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes, yes. I have had far beyond my deserts. -For many years life was almost cloudless, except -for the clouds I made with my own foolish fears -and forebodings. Why did nobody shake me for -my silliness? Fussing over trifles, worrying about -the congregation, feverishly trying to lay by for -an evil day. I wonder now how I could ever have -made a trouble of anything when I had your father -with me and all my children about me. And I knew -I was happy, but I daren't say it even to myself, in -case I brought disaster. What pagans we are at -heart—afraid of envious fates! And then -Rosamund died.... We thought we could never be -happy again—but we were. It was never quite the -same again; we walked much more softly, for the -ground seemed brittle somehow, and the sorrow of -the world came closer to us, and we went with a -different understanding to the house of mourning—but -we were happy. I think I must often have been -very trying to my friends during those prosperous -years. They talked of 'the Douglas luck,' for -everything the boys tried for they seemed to get. And -the educating being over we had more money in -our hands, and you got about to see the world, and -we could all go abroad at a time, and I could spend -some money on the house—I always made a god of -my house. How proud I was of my drawing-room -when we got the green velvet carpet that was like -moss, and the soft blue walls and hangings, and the -big Chesterfield with the down cushions! And the -tea-table set out with plates and green knives, while -the people round were still handing their visitors -a cup in their hand, and cake and scones on a -cake-stand! I was a queen and no widow.... Why, -Marget, is it nine o'clock already?" -</p> - -<p> -Marget gave her demure, respectful curtsey, which -was so oddly at variance with her frank and fearless -comments on things in general, and sat down on a -chair beside Mysie. -</p> - -<p> -"Ay, Mem, it's nine o'clock. It's juist chappit on -the lobby clock." She directed a suspicious glance -towards the table where Ann sat. "Is Miss Ann -gettin' on wi' yer <i>Life</i>? Dinna let her put in ony -lees aboot us. How faur has she gotten? Juist to -yer marriage? Oh, that's a' richt. I wasna there -then. But I can keep ye richt aboot what happened -ony time in the last five-and-thirty years." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap04"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER IV -</h3> - -<p> -"No honeymoon!" -</p> - -<p> -Ann's pen was held aloft in amaze, as she -looked across at her mother seated at the other -side of the fire in her very own chair that had stood -by the nursery fireside in long past days. Well did -Ann remember the comfortable squat legs of it from -the time when she had lived in that world of chair-legs -and the underside of sofas which we all inhabit -at the beginning of things. -</p> - -<p> -Ann's mother was knitting as usual, a stocking -for a long-legged grandson; but she knitted -mechanically, not looking at her work, her eyes on the -dancing flames, a little reminiscent smile turning up -the corners of her mouth. -</p> - -<p> -"No honeymoon!" Ann again ejaculated. "What -was Father thinking of? Didn't you mind?" -</p> - -<p> -"Mind? No. Where would we go in December -but to our own little house? You must remember -that I had hardly ever left Etterick except to go to -school, and the journey north seemed a wonderful -adventure to me; and your father was in such a -hurry to show me the little Manse and all the new -furniture that the train journey seemed all too -long. We got to Inchkeld very late, and it was -snowing hard. We looked about for the cab that had -been ordered to meet us, but your father said, -'There's only a carriage and pair; that can't be for -us—let's walk.' So off we set, I in my sealskin -coat and prune-coloured bonnet! And the sad thing -was that the carriage and pair was meant for us. -It turned out that the carriage-hirer came from -Priorsford, and when he got the order he said, 'It's -for Mr. Mark and his bride; I'll send a pair.' And -the pair came, and we walked!" -</p> - -<p> -Ann laughed. "Too much humility doesn't pay. -There's a parable there if I had time to think it out. -Well, and did the house come up to your expectations?" -</p> - -<p> -"It was one of a row of houses," said Mrs. Douglas. -"There was a gate and a strip of garden, and a -gravel-path leading to the front door. On your -right as you went in at the door was the dining-room—but -before we got to that your father had to show -me everything in the little entrance hall and tell -me the price. Very ugly things you would call -them—you who like crumbling Jacobean chests and gate -tables; but I was very well pleased with the brand -new hall table (on which stood a large brass bell), -the hat-stand, and the thing for umbrellas. I really -liked them much better than the beautiful old things -at Etterick; they were new and they were mine. -The dining-room had a bow window which held a -green wire stand full of growing ferns. (Isn't it -odd that after forty years I remember every detail?) -The room was hardly big enough to hold the huge -mahogany sideboard with the mirrored back, and -all the other furniture." -</p> - -<p> -"I remember the pictures," Ann said, "at least -I expect they were the same as at Kirkcaple and -Glasgow—big steel engravings; one of a slave -market which I liked very much, and another that -the boys liked better, of fat priests looking at the -provisions brought by the country people for the -Monastery—ducks and fowls, and a large salmon -and a slain deer. We made up stories about those -pictures." -</p> - -<p> -"The drawing-room was the crowning glory of -the house," Mrs. Douglas went on. She was not -listening to her daughter; she was living over again -that first enchanting peep at her own house. "My -father furnished it for us, and everything he did -was well done. It was midnight before we had -finished supper, but I couldn't have slept without -seeing it. The wall-paper was pure white with -bunches of gilt flowers; it was your father's choice -and I thought I had seldom seen anything so -beautiful. How dull it must be for women who marry -men who take no interest in the house! I'm -thankful that I had a man who was interested in every -thing. It made doing things so much more worth -while. He was so innocent the way he showed his -belongings to people, taking their interest for -granted, like a child. I can see him now watching -my face as the full glory of the room burst on me. -It was lit by a glittering glass gasalier hung from -the ceiling; I had known only lamps and candles. -The rosewood suite was covered with bright crimson -rep, there were crimson rep curtains at the bow -window, a chiffonier with a marble top stood against -one wall, our shining new piano against another, a -round rosewood table in the middle of the room, and -an ottoman covered with bead work in the window. -Really, Ann, I can hardly forgive you when I think -that when you grew up you made me part with the -chiffonier and the rosewood table, and the ottoman, -and that <i>comfortable</i> couch." -</p> - -<p> -"What a vindictive mother!" said Ann. "But -why did you do it? Surely my eighteen-year-old -yearnings after a high-art drawing-room could have -been quelled." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I suppose they could, but I didn't want to -'daunton' you, and you didn't see how you could -live unless you got at least one room in the house -made what you called artistic. You said our -drawing-room walls were just a network, and perhaps -I had too many things hanging from the picture-rail -(it used to be a puzzle to get them all up again -at spring-cleaning times), but they had all a reason -for being there—the plaques framed in plush that -Mark painted, your water-colours, and all the -enlarged photographs of people I was fond of. You -put them all ruthlessly away, and had the walls done -with brown paper and hung up a few dreary-looking -pictures in dark frames. And you chose a dull -blue carpet, and orange cushions, and all my cheerful -red rep chairs were covered with sad-coloured -stuffs, and you got green blinds and kept them pulled -down so that the room was almost quite dark, and -people who came to call just stotted over obstacles -on their way to shake hands. And you banished -photographs——" -</p> - -<p> -Ann's face wore a guilty look as her mother told -of her sins and faults of youth, and she broke in: -</p> - -<p> -"But own, Mother, that the phase didn't last -long. I know it was dreadful while it lasted. I had -met some artists and they had fussed me and my -head was turned. I must have been a sore trial -to my family at that time. Father, losing patience -with me one night, said, 'Oh, go to bed, girl, and -don't sit attitudinising there!' You should have -beaten me instead of giving in to me when I -suggested putting away the things you were fond of. -Young people are heartless because they don't think. -I would know better now." -</p> - -<p> -"Well," Mrs. Douglas gave a long sigh, "it's only -now I miss my things. I parted from them -light-heartedly—rather proud, I dare say, of being so -modern. I didn't know that I would live to cherish -every relic of my first married days, because I had -lost the one who shared them.... Not that I -behaved well that first year in Inchkeld. Of course, -I was only seventeen, but I might have had more -sense. I cried half the time. What a damp and -disconsolate companion for any poor man! No, I -had nothing to cry about! <i>Au contraire</i>, as the -seasick Frenchman said when asked if he had dined -(to use Robbie's favourite jest); but I had never -been away from home before, and I missed Agatha, -and I missed the boys, and I missed all the stir of -a big family and the cheery bustle that goes on -in a country house. I loved my little doll's house, -so new and fresh, but the streets, and the houses -full of strangers oppressed me, and I was woefully -homesick. Your grandmother, my mother-in-law—she -died before you were born, and you missed -knowing one of the kindest women that ever lived—sent -her cook, Maggie Ann, a capable girl from the -Borders, to be my servant, and she was as homesick -as I was. One day we saw an old tinker body who -visited Etterick regularly on her rounds walking -down the road with her box of small wares slung on -her back. The sight to us was like cold water to a -thirsty man. Maggie Ann rushed out and brought -her in, and we feasted the astonished old woman and -bought up nearly all her wares. The thought that -she would be seeing Etterick soon, that she would -sleep in our barn, would hear the soft Lowland -tongue and see all my own people made that old -beggar-wife a being to be envied by me.... Poor -Maggie Ann was very patient with her inefficient -mistress, and was young enough rather to enjoy my -effort to housekeep. She said it reminded her of -when she was a bairn and played at a wee house. -We tried all sorts of experiments with food, but -I don't remember that anything turned out very -well. I'm afraid we wasted a good deal. It was -a very long, cold winter, that winter in Inchkeld. -The snow lay on the ground, and the frost held late -into March, and even my sealskin coat could not -keep out the cold. We grew tired of skating, and -I took to moping in the house——" -</p> - -<p> -"Really, Mother," said Ann, "it sounds frightfully -unlike you as I have always known you—a -little bustling hurricane of a woman, waking up all -the dreaming ones, spurring the idle to work, a -reproach to the listless, an example to all—and you -tell me you sat in the house and moped and cried." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas shook her head. "I wasn't always -a bustling hurricane. I think I became that because -I married such a placid man; just as I became a -Radical because he was such a Tory; just as I had -to become sternly practical because he was such a -dreamer. If we had both been alike we would have -wandered hand-in-hand into the workhouse. Not -that Mark spent money on himself—bless him—but -nobody ever asked him for help and was refused; -and he did like to buy things for me. I found I just -had to take control of the money. Not at first, of -course; it came to it by degrees. And your father -was only too glad; money was never anything but a -nuisance to him. I don't think I'm inordinately -fond of money either, but I had to <i>hain</i> so that for -years it had an undue prominence in my mind. -Well, I sighed for the South Country, and one day, -when I was miserably moping over the fire, your -father said to me: 'Come on, Nell, I'm going to visit -a sick girl about your own age. She's always asking -me questions about you, and I said you would go -and see her.' -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't want to go, for I was shy of sick -people—the being ill in bed seemed to put them such a -distance away—but I put on my best clothes to -make a good impression, and went.... We were -taken into a clean, bright room, with a dressing-table -dressed crisply in white muslin over pink. A -girl was lying high up on the pillows, and I thought -at first she couldn't be ill, she had such shining blue -eyes and rose-flushed cheeks; her yellow hair hung -in two plaits over her shoulders. Then I saw that -her hands were almost transparent, and that her -breath came in quick gasps between her red, parted -lips, and I knew that this pretty child was dying -quickly of consumption. I couldn't speak as I took -her hand, but I tried hard to keep the tears from my -eyes as she looked at me—two girls about an age, -the one beginning life at its fullest, the other about -to leave the world and youth behind. I stood there -in my wedding braws, hating myself almost for my -health and happiness. Your father talked to her -until I got hold of myself, and then she seemed to -like to hear me tell about the little house and my -attempts to cook. As we were leaving she held your -father's hand, and said, in her weak, husky voice, -'Mr. Douglas, tell the folk on Sabbath that <i>Christ is -a Rock</i>....' I think I realised then, for the first -time, what religion meant. A sentence in that book -we were reading, <i>Green Apple Harvest</i>, reminded -me of that girl.... You know when Robert is -dying and his brother Clem says to him: -</p> - -<p> -"'Oh, Bob, it seems unaccountable hard as you -should die in the middle of May!' -</p> - -<p> -"And Robert replies: '.... I've a feeling as if I -go to the Lord God I'll only be going into the middle -of all that's alive.... If I'm with Him I can't -never lose the month of May....' -</p> - -<p> -"I went home crying bitterly for the girl who -was dying in the May morning of her days. I don't -think I moped any more." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap05"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER V -</h3> - -<p> -Inchkeld was a most pleasant place in which -to have one's home—a city set among hills and -watered by a broad river; and surely no young and -witless couple ever had a kinder and more indulgent -congregation than we had. -</p> - -<p> -"The first Sunday I appeared in church I was -almost dead with fright. I had to walk through the -church to reach the Manse seat, and every eye -seemed to be boring into me like a gimlet. As if -that weren't bad enough, I was accosted on my way -out by a tall, bland elder, who said he supposed I -would want to teach a class in the Sabbath school. -As a matter of fact, he supposed quite wrong, for -it had never entered into my head that such an -awful duty would be required of me. Think—until -a short time before I myself had been a scholar (and -a restless, impertinent one at that!), and the very -thought of trying to control a class made my brain -reel. But I was as clay in the hands of this suave -Highland potter, who went on to tell me that the -last minister's wife had carried on a most successful -class for older girls. 'She, of course,' he added, 'was -a niece of the late Lord Clarke,' as if that fact -explained any amount of talent for teaching the -young. He led me away—I was now in a state of -passive despair—and introduced me to a class as -their new teacher. There were seven of them, girls -about fifteen—always, I think, the worst and a most -impudent age (you were a brat at fifteen, Ann!), -and they fixed me with seven pairs of eyes, round -brown eyes, rather like brandy-balls—I suppose they -couldn't all have had brown eyes, but the general -effect was of brandy-balls—silently taking me in. -I heard the elder telling them how honoured they -were to have the minister's wife as teacher; then I -was left with them. Later on, when I got to know -the girls, I sometimes laughed at the terror of the -first Sunday. They were the nicest girls, really, -gentle and kind; but that day they seemed to me -inhuman little owls. They told me the lesson—one -of the parables—but my mind was a blank, and I -could think of no comment to make over it. I -stumbled and stuttered, every moment getting more -hot and ashamed, and finally went home, feeling, in -spite of my sealskin coat and prune bonnet, the most -miserably inadequate minister's wife that had ever -tried to reign in a manse, scourged as with whips by -the thought of the late Lord Clarke's niece. What a -comfort your father always was! He made it seem -all right in a twinkling, assured me that I needn't -teach a class unless I liked, but vowed that if I did -no one could teach it half so well; and as for the -late Lord Clarke's niece, he had never seen her, but -he was sure she was a long-faced woman, with no -sense of humour." -</p> - -<p> -"I know," said Ann. "Father was always singularly -comforting. When we hurt ourselves, you and -Marget invariably took the gloomiest view, looked -up medical books and prophesied dire results. Once -I got my thumb badly crushed and the nail torn off -while swinging on a see-saw. Marget at once said -'lock-jaw!' I hadn't a notion what that was, but it -had an eerily fatal sound, and I crept away to -Father's study to try and lose my fears in a book. -Presently Father came in, and I rolled out of the -arm-chair I had cuddled into and ran to show him -my bandaged hand. -</p> - -<p> -"'Oh, Father!' I cried, 'will I take lock-jaw and -will I die?' I can see him now, all fresh from the -cold air, laughing at me, yet sorry for me, lifting me -up in his strong arms, saying, 'Poor wifie, were they -frightening you? Lock-jaw? No. Let's look at it. -Yes, I see the nail's off. Had we better get a -celluloid one till the new one grows? Try and keep a -cloth on it, like a good lassie, and it will soon be -well.' And then peace slid into my soul, and I sat -on his knee and he told me a story. I can quite see -what a wonderful minister my father was. It was -that air of surety, of steadfastness, that gave people -such a lift, and that firm, comforting hand that -touched things so gently. Robbie had the same; so -had the little lad.... But to go back to Inchkeld -and the congregation——" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. It was a very flourishing congregation. -Every Sunday it crammed the little church, and -sometimes forms had to be brought in. The -goodness of the people was almost destroying. They -wanted to share everything they had with us. -Constantly such things as a hare, or pheasants, or a -'black bun,' or several cakes of shortbread would -arrive—and we had so few to eat them. Inchkeld -was a sociable place, and I had lots of callers and -no lack of opportunities for wearing my wedding -finery. Those weren't the days of afternoon tea. -Cake and wine were served in the drawing-room with -the white and gilt wall-paper and the red rep -furniture—neat squares of wedding-cake in the brand -new silver cake-basket." -</p> - -<p> -"Oooh!" groaned Ann. "Can't I see those squares -of wedding-cake! I hope no hungry children ever -came to see you. Do you remember taking me as a -small child to call on some newly married people -in Burntisland?—I think I was taken because I was -a firebrand at home—and tea came in on a silver -tray, all prinked out with ruffly d'oyleys—scones -about the size of half-crowns and a frightfully newly -married shining cake-basket, holding inches of -wedding-cake. I was passionately hungry, and could -have eaten the whole show and never known it; -but I sat on a stool and nibbled a scone, and tried -not to make any crumbs, and then I was handed the -cake-basket. We had been taught always to take -the bit nearest us, and the bit nearest me—alas!—was -the smallest bit in the basket, with only the -minutest fragment of almond icing and sugar -attached. I would fain have snatched two bits, but -my upbringing was too strong for me, and I took -the fragment. It was far the most delicious thing -I had ever tasted. Surely, I thought, this must be -what angels eat, and for the first time in my faulty -life I wished to be an angel. It was over in a second, -though I ate it crumb by crumb and kept the sugar -for the last; and then I sat and gazed hungrily for -another bit; but no one noticed me, no one brought -the shining cake-basket again within my reach. I -don't think that newly married wife could ever have -come to any good—a woman who hadn't the sense -to feed a hungry child! You think I spoil our -children, but it's because I remember the awfulness -of having a very little of a good thing." -</p> - -<p> -"I remember that visit to Burntisland," Mrs. Douglas -said. "I had to take you into a shop on -the way home and buy you biscuits. Your father -wanted some, too—a handed-round tea was no use -to him; he liked a breakfast-cup filled several times. -I don't think I was ever guilty of starving children -of wedding-cake. I got surfeited with it myself, -and a big family from across the way used to come -in to help us away with all that was left over from -our parties. We were glad to get things eaten up -in those days. Both my own mother and your -father's mother constantly sent us boxes of eatables -as if we had been on a desert island instead of in a -city of shops—great mutton-hams, and haggis, and -noble Selkirk bannocks; I was afraid of them -coming to our little household. How glad I would have -been to see them in later years, when I had growing -children to feed! But the kind hands that packed -them were still.... We could entertain only in a -very small way in our very small house, but we -were asked to quite a lot of dinner-parties. They -were evenings of dread to me. I was so shockingly -bad at making conversation. I blushed fiercely when -anyone spoke to me, and must have presented an -appearance of such callowness that I provoked pity -in the hearts of kindly people. One dear old lady -said to me, 'My dear, have you cut your wisdom teeth -yet?' ... In September Mark was born. It was -prayer-meeting night, and Maggie Ann carelessly -let the cat eat my canary. They didn't tell me about -it until I asked why I wasn't hearing him singing. -Mark was a tiny, delicate baby, but he was perfect -in our eyes. We looked with distaste at large fat -children, who made poor little Mark look so puny -and fragile, and told each other that they were -'coarse,' and that we were glad our baby wasn't like -that. When I was able to travel we set off with our -precious new possession to Etterick. Agatha had -been with us most of the summer, but my mother -didn't come; she liked to stay in her own house and -welcome us there." -</p> - -<p> -"A most detached woman, my grandmother," said Ann. -</p> - -<p> -"You are rather like her, Ann," said Mrs. Douglas. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I have the same aversion to staying in -other people's houses, and I share her dislike to the -casual kissing that so many people indulge in—people -who are mere acquaintances. You should -only kiss really great friends at really serious times, -and then it means something." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laughed. "Nobody ever took a -liberty with your grandmother. My father was -utterly different, the most approachable of men. -People were always asking favours from him; he -liked them to. He didn't care how much he went -out of his way to help anyone, and his hand was -never out of his pocket." -</p> - -<p> -"You must be exactly like grandfather. I think -you are one of the very few people left living in the -world who do take trouble about their fellow-mortals. -The rest of us are too selfish to bother." -</p> - -<p> -"I like to be kind," said Mrs. Douglas, "but I -don't take any credit for being kind. It's just my -nature to want to give. The people who hate to -give and yet make themselves do it are the ones who -ought to be commended. It has always been my -great desire to add a little to the happiness of the -world, and I would never forgive myself if I thought -I had added by one jot or tittle to the pain." -</p> - -<p> -"I am very sure you haven't done that," Ann -assured her. "You are the very kindest of funny -little bodies, and when I call you 'Ella Wheeler -Wilcox' I don't really mean it. But you must admit -that it is often very vicarious kindness, and the -burden of it falls on your family. Oh, the deplorable -people who have come to us 'for a stop' because -you thought they were lonely and neglected! Of -course, they were, but it was because it almost killed -people to entertain them; there's a reason for -everything in this world. But what a shame to laugh at -your efforts! Never mind. There are those -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'Who, passing through Baca's vale,<br /> - Therein do dig up wells,'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -and you are one of them. But to go on with your -<i>Life</i>. Didn't you leave Inchkeld quite soon after -Mark was born? I know Robbie and Jim and I -thought it very hard lines that he should have been -born in a lovely old historic city, while the rest of -us had to see the light first amid coalpits and linoleum -factories. Mark never let us forget it, either." -</p> - -<p> -"Mark was two months old when we left Inchkeld. -When the Kirkcaple congregation called your -father he felt he ought to go. Oh! but we were a -thoughtless couple. It never gave me a thought -to leave the people who had been so good to us. I -just took everybody's kindness as a matter of course. -I was too young to realise how rare such kindness is, -and their interest in the baby, and their desire to -have us stay in Inchkeld seemed to me no more than -natural. I was amused and pleased at the thought -of going to a new place and a new house. You can -hardly get changes enough when you are eighteen. -In middle life one's most constant prayer is that -God will let things remain as they are. What was -that you were reading me the other night? I think -it was from Charles Lamb." -</p> - -<p> -Ann leant back in her chair and pulled a little -green book from a bookshelf. "This, I think it -was," she said, and read: -</p> - -<p> -"'I am content to stand still at the age to which -I am arrived; I, and my friends, to be no younger, -no richer, no handsomer. I do not want to be -wearied by age, or drop like mellow fruit, as they -say, into the grave....'" -</p> - -<p> -"Poor Charles Lamb!" said Mrs. Douglas, shaking -her head. "There <i>are</i> times when one would like -to stand still, where we seem to reach a pleasant, -rich plain and are at our ease, and friends are many, -and life is full of zest.... I don't know whether it -was wise to leave Inchkeld. Your grandfather -Douglas always regretted it. When he visited us -at Kirkcaple one remark he always made was: 'A -great pity Mark ever left Inchkeld.' We used to -wait for it and the funny way he had of clearing his -throat after every sentence." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap06"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER VI -</h3> - -<p> -November is a poor time to go to a new -place, and Kirkcaple certainly looked a most -unattractive part of the world when we arrived on a -cold, wet afternoon. 'The queer-like smell' from -the linoleum factories, the sea drearily grey and -strange to my inland eyes, the drive through narrow -streets and up the steep Path, past great factories -and mean houses, until we reached the road, -knee-deep in mud, where the Manse stood, combined to -depress me to the earth. It might have been -infinitely worse. I saw that in the light of the next -morning. There was a field before the Manse, and -though there was a factory and a rope-work and a -bleach-field and a coal-pit all in close proximity to -it, there was also the Den, where hyacinths grew in -spring, and where you could dig fern roots for your -garden. The Manse itself stood in a large garden, -and in time we forgot to notice the factories. The -people were very unlike the courteous Inchkeld -people—miners and factory workers, who gave one -as they passed a Jack's-as-good-as-his-master sort of -nod. We grew to understand them and to value -their staunch friendship, but at first they were as -<i>fremt</i> as the landscape. -</p> - -<p> -"When the cab lurched through the ruts to the -Manse gate and I got out and saw my new home I -quailed. From the front it was a gloomy-looking -house—one window on each side of the front door, -and three windows above, and the kitchen premises -on one side. There was a wide gravelled space in -front, with a small shrubbery to shelter us from the -road. It was a sombre and threatening place to -enter on a dark night, and when alone I always made -a mad rush from the gate to the front door. One -night when I reached my haven I found a tall -man standing against it. I had hardly strength to -gasp, 'Who are you?' and the man replied, 'Weelum -Dodds. I cam' to see the minister aboot gettin' the -bairn bapteezed, but the lassie wadna open the door.' I -had told the servants, who were young girls, to -keep the chain on the door at night, and the poor -patient soul had just propped himself up against -the door and awaited developments.... The back -of the house, looking to the garden, was delightful. -You don't remember the garden?" -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Don't</i> I?" said Ann. "I was only about nine -when we left Kirkcaple, but I remember every detail -of it. Just outside the nursery window there was -a bush of flowering currant. Do <i>you</i> remember -that? And jasmine, and all sorts of creepers grew -up the house. There was a big square lawn before -the window, rather sloping, with two long flowerbeds -at the top and herbaceous borders round the -high walls. Our own especial gardens were at the top -of the kitchen garden. Mark had a Rose of Sharon -tree in his garden about which he boasted; it seemed -to set him a little apart. I had a white lilac tree -in mine; Robbie, severely practical, grew nothing -but vegetables, while Jim, when asked what his -contained, said simply and truthfully, 'Wurrums.' Rosamond -was a tiny baby when we left Kirkcaple, -and the little lad knew only Glasgow. It was surely -a very large garden, Mother? The gooseberry -bushes alone seemed to me to extend for miles, and -in a far-away corner there was the pigsty. Why was -it called 'the pigsty'? In our day there was never -anything in it but two much-loved Russian rabbits -with pink eyes, Fluffy and Pluffy. I have a small -red text-book in which, on a certain date, is printed -in large round hand: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'This day Fluffy died.<br /> - " " Pluffy " '<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -A ferret got in and sucked their blood. What a -day of horror that was! The roof of the pigsty sloped -up to the top of the wall, and we liked to sit on -the wall and say rude things to the children on the -road, they retorting with stones and clods of earth. -We were all bonnie fighters. You had no notion, -you and Father, when we came down to tea with -well-brushed hair and flannel-polished faces, of the -grim battles we had just emerged from. The enemy -was even then at the gate. We, with ears to hear, -knew what sundry dull thuds against the front door -meant. Marget, wrathful but loyal, wiped away the -dirt and said nothing to you—lots to us, -though! ... But I'm getting years ahead. You were just -arriving with baby Mark to an empty, echoing -Manse, through ways heavy with November mud. -Sorry I interrupted." -</p> - -<p> -"As to that," said her mother, "I was really just -talking to myself. It is good of you to listen to -my maunderings about the past." -</p> - -<p> -"Not at all," Ann said solemnly; and then, "You -daft wee mother, now that courtesies have been -exchanged will you go on with that <i>Life</i> of yours? -It will take us years at this rate. What happened -when you tottered into the Manse? Did you regret -the little sunny, bow-windowed Manse in Inchkeld?" -</p> - -<p> -"Regret! I ached for it. I couldn't picture us -being happy in this muddy mining place; I couldn't -see this bare barracks ever getting homelike. But -it was a roomy house. The dining-room was to the -right of the front door, the study to the left, and -the nursery was on the ground floor, too. They -were all big square rooms: the dining-room was cosy -in the evening but rather dark in the day time; the -study was a very cheerful room, with books all round -the walls, and a bright red carpet, and green leather -furniture." -</p> - -<p> -"And a little square clock," Ann added, "with -an honest sort of face, and a picture of John Knox, -long white beard and all, above the mantelpiece, -and the carpet had a design on it of large squares; -I know, for I used to play a game on it, jumping -from one to another. Some deceased elder had left -to the Manse and to each succeeding minister a tall -glass-doored bookcase containing, among other -books, a set of Shakespeare's plays illustrated. It -was funny to see how the artist had made even -Falstaff and Ariel quite early Victorian—and as for -merry Beatrice I think she wore a bustle! Not that -it worried us; we were delighted with his efforts -... and in that glass-doored bookcase there stayed -also a very little book dressed in fairy green, with -gilt lettering on its cover. I have tried for years -to find another copy, but I have nothing to go on -except that it was a very tiny book and that it -contained fairy tales, translations from the German I -think, for it talked in one of a king lying under the -green lindens! I thought linden the most lovely -word I had ever heard! it seemed to set all the horns -of Elfland blowing for me. One of the stories must -have been <i>Lohengrin</i>, there was a swan in it and 'a -frail scallop.' How I wept when it appeared for -the second time and took the knight away for ever! -I loved Germany then because it was the home of -green lindens and swans with scallops, and houses -with pointed roofs and wide chimneys where storks -nested. Even in the war I couldn't hate it as much -as I ought to have done, because of that little green -book.... But we're straying again, at least I -am.... You got to like the house, didn't you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh dear, yes. It was terribly gaunt at first, but -before we left it I thought it was pretty nearly -perfect. When we got fresh paper and paint, and -the wide upper landing and staircase carpeted with -crimson, and curtains shading the high staircase -window, everyone said how pretty it was. The -drawing-room was always a pleasant room, with two -sunny windows, and all my treasures (you would -call them atrocities) in the way of gilt and alabaster -clocks with glass shades, and marble-topped chiffonier, -and red rep furniture. But the big night -nursery was the nicest room of all, with its row of -little beds, each with a gay counterpane! There was -a small room opening from it where your clothes -stayed, with a bath and a wash-hand basin—a very -handy place." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Ann; "and in one corner stood a -very tall basket for soiled clothes. I remember -Robbie, after hearing of someone's marriage, coming -to you and saying so earnestly, 'I'll stay with you -always, Mums, and if anyone comes to marry me -I'll hide in the dirty-clothes basket.'" -</p> - -<p> -Robbie's mother looked into the dancing flames. -"That was always his promise," she said softly, -"I'll stay with you always.... It wouldn't have -been so bad beginning in a new place, with a new -baby (and me so utterly new myself!) if Mark -hadn't been so fragile. I daresay he suffered from -my inexperience, I almost smothered him with -wraps, and hardly dared let him out of the warm -nursery, but he must have been naturally delicate -as well. He got bronchitis on the smallest -provocation, and my heart was perpetually in my mouth -with the frights I got. I spent hours listening to -his breathing and touching him to see if he felt hot, -and I kept your father racing for the doctor until -both he and the doctor struck. I was so wrapped up -in my baby that I simply never turned my head to -look at the congregation; but they understood and -were patient. I really was very absurd. Some -people gave a dinner-party for us, and your father -said I simply must go. On the night of the party -I was certain Mark was taking croup, and I could -hardly be dragged from him to dress. I was -determined that anyway I must be home in good time, -and I ordered the cab to come back for us at a quarter -to nine! We had hardly finished dinner when it -was announced, but I rose at once to go. The -hostess, astonished but kind, said on hearing my -excuses, 'Ah, well, experience teaches.' 'Finish your -proverb, Mrs. Smeaton,' my dinner neighbour (a -clergyman from a neighbouring parish) broke in, -'Experience teaches fools.' Now I realise that the -man was embittered—and little wonder!—by -having tried to make conversation to me for a dreary -hour, but at the moment I hated him. When we -left Kirkcaple he and his wife were our greatest -friends.... There were four houses in our road. -The large one nearest the Den belonged to one of -the linoleum people, we came next, and then there -was a low, bungalow sort of house where the Mestons -lived with their three little girls, and at the end -of the road lived one of the elders in the -church—Goskirk was the name—with his wife and eight -sons. How they all got into that small house I -know not, but it was always comfortable, and there -was always a welcome, and Mrs. Goskirk was the -busiest, happiest little woman in Kirkcaple, and a -great stand-by to me. 'How's baby to-day?' she -would come in saying, every word tilted up at the -end as is the accent of Fife. As rich in experience -as I was poor, she could soothe my fears and laugh -at my forebodings. She prescribed simple, homely -remedies and told me not to fuss. She gave me a -new interest in life, and kept me happily engaged by -teaching me how to make clothes for Mark. Her -little boys trotted in and out, coming to show me all -their treasures, and going away pleased with a -sweetie or a sugar biscuit! They did much to make -me feel at home.... When I went back to Etterick -in summer I thought Mark was a lovely baby, -and that he had a wonderful mother! He wore a -pelisse I had made him (under Mrs. Goskirk's eye), -cream cashmere, with a wide band of lavender velvet, -and a soft, white felt hat with a lavender feather -round it. I paid fifteen shillings for the feather -and thought it a great price.... For three years -we had only Mark, then you and Robbie quite close -together. But Mark was never put in the 'stirk's -stall'; for you were a healthy, placid baby, and my -dear Robbie was just like you. I remember his -coming so well. It was a February morning, and -Mrs. Perm, the nurse, said: 'Another deil o' a laddie.' She -much preferred girls. Robbie was such a <i>caller</i> -baby, so fat and good-natured and thriving." -</p> - -<p> -"My very first recollection of Robbie," Ann said, -"is in the garden. I think it must have been an -April morning, for I remember daffodils, and the -sun was shining, and the wind tumbling us about, -and Mark said to me that he thought Ellie Robbie -meant to run away with Robbie, and that it -behoved us to save him. As he told me his terrible -suspicions Robbie came down the walk pulling -behind him a large rake—a little boy with an almost -white head, very blue eyes, and very chubby, very -rosy cheeks. I remember we separated him from his -rake and Mark dragged us both into the gooseberry -bushes, where we lay hid until Ellie Robbie (the -suspect) came to look for us, bringing us a treat in -the shape of a slice each of brown scone spread with -marmalade, and two acid drops. That closed the -incident." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap07"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER VII -</h3> - -<p> -On these winter evenings in the Green Glen, -when the wind and the rain beat upon the -house, and Ann by the fireside wrote down her -mother's life, Marget made many errands into the -drawing-room to offer advice. -</p> - -<p> -"I think"—said Ann one evening—"I think I -must have been horribly neglected as a baby. -Everyone was so taken up with Mark they hadn't -time to look at me." -</p> - -<p> -Marget was standing in the middle of the room -with her hands folded on her black satin apron; she -would have scorned to wear a white apron after -working hours. She had come in with a list of -groceries to be ordered by post, and stood looking -suspiciously at Ann and her writing. -</p> - -<p> -"Ye were never negleckit when I kent ye, an' -I cam' to the hoose afore ye kent yer richt hand frae -yer left. You were a wee white-heided cratur and -Maister Robbie wasna shortened." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, but were you there when Mark fell out -of the carriage and was so frightfully hurt? I've -been told by Aunt Agatha that no one had time to -attend to me, and I was just shut up in a room with -some toys and fed at intervals. It's a wonder that -the Cruelty to Children people didn't get you." -</p> - -<p> -"Havers," said Marget. -</p> - -<p> -"That was a terrible time," Mrs. Douglas said. -"Mark was four, and beginning to get stronger. -You were a year old, Ann. It was a lovely day in -June, and Mr. Kerr, in the kindness of his heart, -sent a carriage to take us all for a drive." -</p> - -<p> -"I mind fine o' Mr. Kerr," Marget broke in. -"He was fair bigoted on the kirk. I dinna think -he ever missed a Sabbath's service or a Wednesday -prayer-meeting." -</p> - -<p> -"I mind of him, too," said Ann. "He had white -hair and bushy white eyebrows, and a fierce expression -and an ebony stick with an ivory handle. He -used to give Mark presents at Christmas time, but he -ignored the existence of the rest of us. I remember -we went to see him once, and he presented Mark -with a book. Mark took it and said, 'Yes, and what -for Ann?' and Mr. Kerr had to fumble about and -produce something for me while I waited stolidly, -quite unabashed by my brother's unconventional -behaviour." -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Kerr was the best friend the Kirkcaple -Church had," Mrs. Douglas said. "He 'joyed' in -its prosperity—how he struggled to get the members -to increase their givings. His great desire was that -it should give more largely than the parish kirk of -the district. People may talk about union and one -great Church, but when we are all one I'm afraid -there may be a lack of interest—a falling off in -endeavour. St. Paul knew what he was talking -about when he spoke of 'provoking' one another to -love and good works.... At first I couldn't bear -Mr. Kerr. If I let your father forget an intimation, -or if a funeral was forgotten, or someone was -neglected, he came to the Manse in a passion. I fled -at the sight of him. But gradually I found that -his fierceness wasn't to be feared, and that it was -the sheer interest he took that made him hate things -to go wrong—and one is grateful to people who take -a real interest, however oddly they may show it." -</p> - -<p> -"So Mr. Kerr sent his carriage," Ann prompted. -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Kerr sent his carriage," said her mother, -"and we set out to have a picnic on the Loan. We -were as merry as children. You were on my knee, -Ann, and Agatha sat beside me, your father and -Mark opposite. We were about Thornkirk, and -Mark, who was always mad about flowers, pointing -to the dusty roadside, cried, 'A bluebell,' and -suddenly made a spring against the door, which, to our -horror, opened, and Mark fell out.... I don't -know what happened next. The first thing I knew -I was in a cottage frantically pulling at a chest of -drawers and crying for something to cover the awful -wound. By great good fortune our own doctor -happened to pass in his dogcart just then. All he -said was, 'Take him home.' ... He stayed with -us most of the night, but he could give us no hope -that the child would live, or, living, have his reason. -For days he lay unconscious, sometimes raving, -sometimes pitifully moaning. Agatha and I knew -nothing of nursing, and there were no trained nurses -in those days—at least, not in Kirkcaple. What -would have happened to us all I know not if Mrs. Peat -hadn't appeared like a good angel on the scene. -It was wonderful of her to come. A fortnight -before she had got news that her son in India—her -idolised only son—had been killed in some native -rising, and she put her own grief aside and came to -us. 'My dear,' she said, 'I've come to take the -nights, if you will let me. You're young, and you -need your sleep.' So every evening she came and -sat up—night after night for four long weeks. I -used to go into the night nursery on those summer -mornings—I was so young and strong that, anxious -as I was I couldn't help sleeping—and find Mrs. Peat -sitting there with her cap ribbons unruffled, her -hair smooth, so serene looking that no one could -have believed that she had kept a weary vigil. She -was a born nurse, and she possessed a healing touch. -I believe she did more than anyone to pull Mark -through; and all the time we were in Kirkcaple she -was a tower of strength to me. Always twice a -week she came up early in the afternoon and stayed -till evening, her cap in the neatest little basket in -her hand—for she always took off her bonnet. I -think I hear her saying, 'Eh, my dear,' with a sort -of slow emphasis on the 'my.' She never made -mischief in the congregation by boasting how 'far ben' -she was at the Manse. She had a mind far above -petty things; she dreamed dreams and saw visions." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas stopped and laughed. "Your -father, who admired her very much, had been telling -an old body troubled with sleepless nights how -Mrs. Peat spent her wakeful hours, and she said to me, -'It's an awfu' job to rowe aboot in this bed a' night; -I wisht I had some o' Mrs. Peat's veesions.'" -</p> - -<p> -"I mind Mistress Peat," said Marget, who had -now seated herself; "I mind her fine. She was a -rale fine buddy. Miss Peat was a braw wumman. -D'ye mind her comin' to a pairty we had in a -crimson satin body an' her hair a' crimpit an' pearls -aboot as big as bantam's eggs? Eh, I say!" -</p> - -<p> -"I remember the pearls," said Ann. "I suppose -they were paste, but I thought the Queen of Sheba -couldn't have been much more impressive than Miss -Peat. She had a velvet coat trimmed with some sort -of feather trimming, and a muff to match—beautiful -soft grey feathers. I used to lean against her and -stroke it and think it was like a dove's breast. I -overheard someone say that it was marvellous to -think that the Peats had no servants and that Miss -Peat could clean pots and cook, and then emerge -like Solomon in all his glory. After that, when we -sang the psalm: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'Though ye have lain among the pots<br /> - Like doves ye shall appear...'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -I thought of Miss Peat in her velvet coat and her -soft feathers.... Was she good to you, too, when -Mark was so ill?' -</p> - -<p> -"I should think she was—but everyone was good. -At the time I took it all as a matter of course, but -afterwards I realised it. For days Mark lay delirious, -and I was distraught with the thought that his -brain might be injured; you see, the wheel passed -over the side of his head. When he became -conscious at last, the doctor told me to ask him some -questions. I could think of nothing, and then I -remembered that Mark had had a special fondness -for Crichton, our butcher. Trembling, I asked, -'Darling, what is the butcher called?' and in a flash -he answered 'Mr. Cwichton.' I wept with relief. -But it seemed as if the poor little chap was never to -be given a chance to get well. Three times the -wound healed and three times it had to be opened -again. No wonder our thoughts were all for him, -and that you were neglected, Ann, poor child! -And you were so good, so little trouble, it almost -seemed as if you understood. Mark had a great -big wooden box filled with every kind of dry sweetie, -and he would sit propped up with pillows, and -weigh them, and make them up in little -'pokes.' Sometimes he would ask for you, and you were -brought in, so delighted to play on the bed and -crawl about, but very soon he tired of you (especially -if you touched his sweeties!), and ordered you -away. He could not be allowed to cry, and we had -to devise things to keep him amused. Opening lucky -bags was a great diversion. They cost a ha'penny -each, and he made away with dozens in a day. The -great difficulty was getting him to eat. At Etterick -he was accustomed to going to the milk-house and -getting new milk from the pail into his 'tinny,' -and when he was ill he wouldn't touch milk, because -he said it wasn't 'Etterick milk.' So your father -scoured Kirkcaple until he found a 'tinny,' and a pail -as nearly as possible like the milk-pails at Etterick, -and we took them to the nursery, and said, 'Now, -then, Mark, is <i>this</i> real Etterick milk?' and the poor -little man held out his thin hands for the 'tinny' -and drank greedily.... He lay for six months, -and when he got up he had to be taught how to -walk! And even after we got him up and out he -was the most pathetic little figure, with a bandaged -head far too big for his shadow of a body. But I -was so proud of having got him so far on the way to -recovery that I didn't realise how he looked to -outsiders, until a very cruel thing was said to me the -very first time I had him out. A man we knew -slightly stopped to ask for him, and said, 'It seems -almost a pity he pulled through. I'm afraid he will -never be anything but an object.' I don't think he -meant to hurt me; perhaps it was just sheer stupidity, -but ... It was a man called Temple who said it. -You never knew him, Ann." -</p> - -<p> -"Temple," said Marget. "Dauvit Temple the -manufacturer? Eh, the impident fella'. Him to ca' -onybody, let alone Mr. Mark, an objec'. Objec' -himsel'. It wad hae been tellin' him if he hed fa'en -on his heid an' gien his brains a bit jumble, but I -doot if the puir sowl had ony to jumble; he hed a -heid like a hen. He was fit for naething but ridin' -in a high dogcart an' tryin' to forget that his dacent -auld mither bleached her claes on the Panny Braes -an' his faither worked in the pit. But ye needna fash -yersel' aboot him and his sayin's noo, Mem. He's -gone to his reward—such as it is." -</p> - -<p> -"Indeed, Marget, it's a poor thing to bear malice, -and I believe that awful accident was the making -of Mark. He grew up as strong as a Shetland pony. -He was an extraordinarily clever little boy. We -were told not to try and teach him till he was seven, -but he taught himself to read from the posters. He -asked endless questions of everyone he met, and so -acquired information. There was nothing he wasn't -interested in, and every week brought a fresh craze. -At one time it was fowls, and he spent hours with -Mrs. Frew, a specialist on the subject, and came -home with coloured pictures of prize cocks which he -insisted on pinning round the nursery walls. For a -long time it was ships, and he and Mr. Peat, who -was a retired sea-captain, spent most of their time -at the harbour. Next it was precious stones, and he -accosted every lady (whether known to him or not), -and asked her about the stones she was wearing." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Ann, "he was a wonderful contrast -to Robbie and me. We never asked for information -on any subject, for we wanted none. We were -ignorant and unashamed, and we used to look with -such bored eyes at Mark and wonder how he could -be bothered. It was really disgusting for the rest -of us to have such a clever eldest brother. He set a -standard which we couldn't hope—indeed, we never -thought of trying—to attain to. What a boy he -was for falling on his head! He had been warned -that if he cut open the wound in his head again it -would never heal, so when he fell from a tree, or a -cart, or a pony, or whatever he was on at the -moment, we stood afar off and shouted, 'Is it your -wound, Mark?' prepared on hearing it was to run as -far as our legs would carry us. That is a child's -great idea when trouble comes—to run away from -it. Once Mark—do you remember?—climbed the -white lilac tree in my garden on a Sunday afternoon -and, slipping, fell on a spiked branch and hung -there. Instead of going for help I ran and hid -among the gooseberry bushes, and he wasn't rescued -until you came home from church." -</p> - -<p> -"That was too bad of you," her mother said, "for -Mark had always a great responsibility for you. -One day when there was a bad thunderstorm I found -him dragging you by the hand to the nursery—such a -fat, sulky little thing you looked. -</p> - -<p> -"'I'm going to pray for Ann,' he told me. 'She -won't pray for herself.'" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap08"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER VIII -</h3> - -<p> -"I don't know," said Mrs. Douglas, "when I -first realised what was expected of me as a -minister's wife. I suppose I just grew to it. At -first I visited the people and tried to take an interest -in them, because I felt it to be my duty, and then -I found that it had ceased to be merely duty, and -that one couldn't live among people and not go -shares with them. It was the long anxiety about -Mark that really drew us together and made us -friends in a way that years of prosperity would never -have done. There was hardly a soul in the congregation -who didn't try to do us some little kindness -in those dark days. Fife people are suspicious of -strangers and rather aloof in their manner, but once -you are their friend you are a friend for life. Ours -was a working-class congregation (with a sprinkling -of well-to-do people to help us along)—miners, and -workers in the linoleum factories—decent, thrifty -folk. Trade was dull all the time we were in -Kirkcaple, and wages were low—ridiculously low when -you think of the present-day standard, and it was -a hard struggle for the mothers with big young -families. Of course, food was cheap—half a loaf -and a biscuit for twopence—and 'penny haddies,' -and eggs at ninepence a dozen—and people hadn't -the exalted ideas they have now." -</p> - -<p> -"Well," said Ann, who was busy filling her -fountain-pen, "I seem to remember rather luxurious -living about the Mid Street, and the Nether Street, and -the Watery Wynd. Don't you remember I made -friends with some girls playing 'the pal-lals' in the -street, and fetched them home with me, and when -upbraided for so doing by Ellie Robbie in the nursery, -I said, 'But they're <i>gentry</i>; they get kippers to -their tea.' My 'bare-footed gentry' became a family -jest." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laughed, "I remember. To save -your face we let them stay to tea, but you were told -'Never again.'" -</p> - -<p> -"It was a way I had," said Ann. "I was full -of hospitable instincts, and liked to invite people; -but as I had seldom the moral courage to confess -what I had done, the results were disastrous. Once -I invited eight genteel young friends who, thinking -it was a pukka invitation, arrived washed and -brushed and dressed for a party, only to find us -tearing about the garden in our old Saturday clothes. -Ellie Robbie was justly incensed, as she hadn't even -a sugar-biscuit to give an air of festivity to the -nursery tea, and you were out. In private she addressed -me as 'ye little dirt'; but she didn't give me away -in public. And the dreadful thing was that I -repudiated my guests, and looked as if I wondered -what they were doing there." -</p> - -<p> -"Poor Ellie Robbie!" Mrs. Douglas said. "She -was an anxious pilgrim, and you children worried -her horribly. She came when she was sixteen to be -nursemaid to Mark, and she stayed on till we left -Kirkcaple, when she married the joiner. Do you -remember her much?" -</p> - -<p> -"I remember one evening in the Den. We were -getting fern-roots, and Ellie Robbie and Marget -were both with us, and Marget said to Ellie, 'My, -how neat your dress kicks out at the back when you -walk!' Isn't memory an extraordinary thing? I've -forgotten most of the things I ought to have -remembered, but I can recall every detail of that -scene—the earthy smell of the fern-roots, the trowel -sticking out of Mark's pocket, the sunlight falling -through the trees, the pleased smirk on Ellie -Robbie's face. I suppose I would be about five. At that -time I was completely lost about my age. When -people asked me how old I was, I kept on saying, -'Five past,' but to myself I said, 'I must be far more, -but no one has ever told me.' ... What was Ellie -Robbie's real name?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ellen Robinson. Her father's name was Jack, -and he was supposed by you children to be the -original of the saying, 'Before you can say Jack -Robinson.' Marget and Ellie got on very well together, -although they were as the poles asunder—Ellie so -small and neat and gentle, Marget rather like a -benevolent elephant. She is a much better-looking -old woman than she was a young one." -</p> - -<p> -"Did Marget come when Maggie Ann married?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. No—there was one between—Katie Herd. -She stayed a month and was doing very well, but -she suddenly announced that she was going home. -When we asked her why, she replied with great -candour, 'I dinna like it verra weel,' and off she went. -Marget was a success from the first. We knew it -was all right as soon as she began to talk of 'oor -bairns.' When the work was over she liked to go -to the nursery, and you children welcomed her with -enthusiasm, and at once called on her to say her -poem. Then she would stand up and shuffle her -feet, and say: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'Marget Meikle is ma name,<br /> - Scotland is ma nation,<br /> - Harehope is ma dwelling place—<br /> - A pleasant habitation.'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -You delighted in her witticisms. 'Ca' me names, -ca' me onything, but dinna ca' me ower,' was one -that had a great success. Both she and Ellie were -ideal servants for a minister's house; they were both -so discreet. No tales were ever carried by them to -or from the Manse. There was one noted gossip in -the congregation who was a terror to Ellie. Her -husband had a shop, and of course we dealt at -it—he was an elder in the church—and Ellie dreaded -going in, for she knew that if Mrs. Beaton happened -to be there she would be subjected to a fire of -questions. Marget enjoyed an encounter, and liked to -think out ways of defeating Mrs. Beaton's curiosity. -Not that there was any harm in Mrs. Beaton and her -desire to know all our doings. I dare say it was -only kindly interest. I got to like her very much; -she was a racy talker and full of whinstone common -sense. I was sorry for her, too, for no woman ever -worked harder, both in the shop and in the house, -and her husband and family took it all for granted. -She did kind things in an ungracious way, and was -vexed when people failed to appreciate her kindness. -Across the road from Mrs. Beaton lived another -elder's wife, Mrs. Lister, who, Mrs. Beaton thought, -got from life the very things she had missed. -</p> - -<p> -"'Never toil yourself to death,' she used to tell -me, 'for your man and your bairns; they'll no thank -you for it. Look at the Listers over there. Willie -Lister goes about with holes like half-crowns in his -heels, but he thinks the world of his Aggie.' And it -was quite true. I knew that gentle little Mrs. Lister -was everybody's favourite, for she contradicted no -one, ruffled no one's feelings, while rough-tongued, -honest, impudent Mrs. Beaton was both feared and -disliked. And yet there was no doubt which of the -two women one would have chosen to ride the ford -with. Had a tea-meeting to be arranged, a sale of -work to be organised, or a Christmas-tree to be -provided for Sunday school, Mrs. Beaton was in -it—purse and person. -</p> - -<p> -"Mrs. Lister always took 'the bile' when anything -was expected of her. Once a year we were invited -to tea at the Listers' house, and as sure as we found -ourselves seated before a table groaning with -bake-meats and were being pressed by Mr. Lister to -partake of them because they were all baked by -'Mamaw,' Mrs. Lister would say, 'Ay, and I had -a job baking them—for I was bad with "the bile" -all morning.' As Marget says, 'The mistress is awfu' -easy scunnered,' and after hearing that my tea was -a pretence. It was worse when Agatha was there, -for then we were apt to wait for the announcement, -and when it came give way to painful, secret laughter. -Agatha always laughed, too, when Mrs. Lister -capped her husband's sayings with 'Ay, that's it, -Paw.' She was a most agreeable wife, but she was -a mother before everything. She would have talked -all day about her children, bursting out with odd -little disjointed confidences about them in the -middle of a conversation about something else. 'He's -an awful nice boy, Johnnie; he's got a fine voice,' -would occur in a conversation about the Sustentation -Fund, and in the middle of a discussion about a -series of lectures she would whisper, 'He's a queer -laddie, our Tommy. When Nettie was born he put -his head round my bedroom door and said, "Is she -a richt ane, Maw?" He meant not deaf or dumb -or anything, you know.' She sometimes irritated her -husband by her overanxiety about the health of her -children. If one coughed in the night she always -heard and, fearful of waking Mr. Lister, she would -creep out of bed and jump from mat to mat (I can -see her doing it—a sort of anxious little antelope), -and listen to their breathing, and hap them up with -extra bedclothes. Nettie was the youngest, and the -delicate one, and had to be tempted to eat. 'Oh, ma -Nettie,' she would say, 'could you take a taste of -haddie to your tea or a new-laid egg?' -</p> - -<p> -"She was afraid of nearly everything—mice, and -wind, and thunder, and she hated the sea. One -morning I met her almost distraught because her -boys had all gone out in a boat. 'Is their father with -them?' I asked. 'No, no,' she said, 'I didna let him -go; it was just the more to drown.' Poor, anxious -little body! God took her first, and she never had -the anguish of parting with her children.... -What an opportunity ministers and ministers' wives -have of getting to know people as they are—their -very hearts!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Ann; "but it isn't every minister or -every minister's wife who can make anything of the -opportunity. Just think of some we know—sticks. -Can you think of any poor stricken soul going to -them to be comforted 'as one whom his mother -comforteth'? What would they say? 'Oh, indeed! -How sad!' or 'Really! I'm very sorry.' Some little -stilted sentence that would freeze the very fount of -tears. You, Mother, I don't think you would say -anything. To speak to those who weep is no use; -you must be able in all sincerity to weep with them. -As for Father, his voice was enough. Isn't it in one -of the Elizabeth books that someone talking of the -futility of long, dull sermons, says, 'If only a man -with a voice of gold would stand up and say, "Children, -Christ died for you," I would lay down my -head and cry and cry...' Oh, it's a great life if -a minister and his wife are any good at their job, -and, above all, if they have a sense of humour!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I don't know about the sense of humour," -Mrs. Douglas said doubtfully. "I have often envied -the people who never seem overcome by the ludicrous -side of things, who don't even seem aware that -it is there. Do you remember Mrs. Daw? I dare -say not. My first meeting with her was in the Path -on a hot summer's day. I saw an enormously stout -woman toiling in front of me with a heavy basket, -and as I passed her she laid down her load, and -turning to me a red, perspiring, but surprisingly bland -countenance, said, 'Hech! but it's a sair world for -stout folk.' There was something so Falstaffian and -jocund about the great figure, and the way she took -me into her confidence, that I simply stood still and -laughed, and she laughed with me. We shared the -basket between us the rest of the way, and after that -I often visited her. But I could never let your father -come with me; Mrs. Daw was too much for us -together. Only once we tried it, and she told us that -the doctor had advised her to take 'sheriff-wine and -Van Houtong's cocoah,' and her genteel pronunciation -was too much for us. She was never at her best -when your father was there; she didn't care for the -clergy. -</p> - -<p> -"'A lazy lot,' she called them. 'No wan o' them -does a decent day's work. If it was me I wad mak' -a' the ministers pollismen as weel, and that wad save -some o' the country's siller.' She condescended to -say that she rather liked your father's preaching, -though her reason for liking it was not very -flattering. 'I like him because he's no what ye ca' a -scholarly preacher. I dinna like thae scholars, -they're michty dull. I like the kind o' minister that -misca's the deevil for aboot twenty meenits and then -stops.' -</p> - -<p> -"Mrs. Daw had me bogged at once when we -started on theological discussions. She would ask -questions and answer them herself as she knelt before -the kitchen fire, engaged in what she called 'ringein' -the ribs.' -</p> - -<p> -"'Ay,' she would say, 'I'm verra fond o' a clear -fire. Mercy me, it'll be an awfu' want in heaven—a -guid fire. Ye read aboot golden streets and pearly -gates, but it's cauld comfort to an auld body wha -likes her ain fireside. Of coorse we'll a' be -speerits.' (It needed a tremendous effort of imagination to -picture Mrs. Daw as a spirit!) 'Wull speerit ken -speerit?' and then, as if in scorn at her own -question, 'I daur say no! It wad be little use if they -did. I could get sma' enjoyment frae crackin' wi' a -neebor, if a' the time I was lookin' through her, and -her through me. An' what wad we crack aboot? -Nae couthy bits o' gossip up there—juist harps an' -angels fleein' aboot....' -</p> - -<p> -"I would suggest diffidently that when we had -gone on to another and higher life we wouldn't feel -the want of the homely things so necessary to us -here, and Mrs. Daw, shaking her head, would say, -'I dinna ken,' and then with her great laugh (your -father used to quote something about a thousand -beeves at pasture when he heard it) she would finish -the profitless discussion with 'Weel, sit ye doun by -ma guid fire and I'll mak' ye a cup o' tea in ma -granny's cheeny teapot. We'll tak' our comforts so -long as we hae them, for think as ye like the next -warld's a queer turn-up onyway....'" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap09"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER IX -</h3> - -<p> -Evening had come again to Dreams, but Ann, -instead of being found at her writing-table, -was stretched flat in the largest and softest of the -many comfortable chairs the room contained, with -the Tatler, a great, furry, sleepy mass, curled in her -arms. -</p> - -<p> -"Dear me, Ann!" Mrs. Douglas said, looking up -from her "reading." "You seem very exhausted. -Aren't you going to write to-night?" -</p> - -<p> -Ann looked through half-closed eyes at her mother. -</p> - -<p> -"Can't," she said lazily; "too dog-tired. A -tea-party in the Green Glen is too much for me. After -such unwonted excitement I must sit all evening -with my hands before me. Mother, did we ever -really entertain people day after day—relays of -them? I can't believe to-night that we ever -presided at meetings, and read papers, and gave away -prizes, and organised sales of work and cookery -classes for the masses, and visited the sick, and -talked for ever and did not faint—such feeble folk -as we have become." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas sighed as she laid down <i>Hours of -Silence</i>. "I was of some use in the world then," she -said, "not a mere cumberer of the ground." -</p> - -<p> -Ann sat up and laughed at her mother. "I'm not -going to rise to that fly, Motherkin. You remind -me of the Glasgow woman we met in Switzerland, -who was suffering from some nervous trouble, and -who said, 'I would give a thousand pounds to be the -Mistress Finlay I once was.' Perhaps you are not -quite the Mistress Douglas you once were, but I can -see very little difference." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas sighed again, and shook her head. -"Oh—sic a worrit-lookin' wumman!" Ann quoted. -Then, "I must say I enjoyed the tea-party. Mother, -don't you like Mr. Sharp? I do. You needn't have -rubbed it in about sermons being no use if they are -read. He sat with such a guilty look like a scolded -dog. I like his painstaking sermons and his sincere, -difficult little prayers. He will never make a -preacher, but he is a righteous man. Miss Ellen -Scott cheered him by saying read sermons were -generally more thoughtful. I do wish we could see the -Scotts oftener. They have promised to come to -luncheon one day, and go thoroughly into the garden -question. They go south, they told me, in the early -spring, so that the servants may get the house-cleaning -done, and they weary all the time to get back. -I wonder if they carry about them in London that -sort of fragrance of the open air." -</p> - -<p> -"They are nice women," said Mrs. Douglas, "and -good, but they aren't my kind of people. We don't -care about the same things. But Mr. Sharp makes -me feel young again; he has the very atmosphere of -a manse about him." -</p> - -<p> -"The atmosphere of Mr. Sharp's Manse is chiefly -paraffin oil," said Ann. -</p> - -<p> -At that moment Marget came into the room, -ostensibly to remind Ann of something needed at -the village shop the next day, but really to talk over -the tea-party. -</p> - -<p> -"I think the minister enjoyed his tea," she -remarked, "for there was an awfu' wheen scones eaten." -</p> - -<p> -"He did, indeed, Marget," her mistress assured -her. "He said he didn't know when he had tasted -such good scones. He was asking me what I thought -about him entertaining the office-bearers. He would -like to, but his housekeeper is delicate and afraid of -work; and he's afraid to suggest anything in case -she departs." -</p> - -<p> -"Tets!" said Marget. "That wumman fair angers -me. She's neither sick nor sair, an' she's no' -that auld aither, but she keeps that puir laddie in -misery a' the time in case she's gaun to break doon. -She never bakes him a scone, juist loaf breed a' the -time, an' she'll no' bother to mak' him a bit steamed -pudden' or a tert, juist aye a milk-thing, an' a gey -watery milk-thing at that. She boasts that he -carries trays for her and breaks sticks—the wumman -should be ashamed to let the minister demean himsel'. -If he wants to gie an Elders' Supper, what's -to hinder me and Mysie to gang doon and gie a -hand?' -</p> - -<p> -"Why, Marget," Ann cried, "I haven't heard that -expression since I was a child. It was at Kirkcaple -we had Elders' Suppers, wasn't it, Mother—never in -Glasgow?' -</p> - -<p> -"Only in Kirkcaple. They were held after the -November Communions to purge the roll." -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Purge the roll</i>," Ann murmured to herself; "of -all delicious phrases!" -</p> - -<p> -"If ye'll excuse me, Mem," said Marget, "I'll tak' -a seat for a meenit. Mysie has just gone doon the -road a step or two wi' the lassie Ritchie frae the -cottages." -</p> - -<p> -She seated herself primly on a chair and said: -</p> - -<p> -"I think ye should pit in yer <i>Life</i> about the -Elders' Suppers." -</p> - -<p> -Ann nodded. "I think so, Marget. I can just -recall them vaguely. We were all in bed before -the elders actually came, but I remember the -preparation, and how deeply I envied you and Ellie -Robbie staying up, little dreaming, poor babe, how -in after years I would envy the children who get -away to bed before the party begins." -</p> - -<p> -"They were terrifying occasions to me," said her -mother. "Elders in the mass are difficult to cope -with. When they arrived they were shown into -the study, and when the business part of the proceedings -was over they trooped into the dining-room for -supper. To keep the ball of conversation going, to -compel them to talk and save the party from being -a dismal failure was my job, and it was no light task. -They were the best of men, our Kirkcaple elders, -but they let every subject drop like a hot potato. -It was from occasions like that I learned to talk -'even on,' as they say. I simply dared not let a -silence fall, for, from bitter experience, I knew that -if I did and caught your father's eye we would be -sure to laugh and bring disgrace on ourselves." -</p> - -<p> -"Don't I know?" said her daughter. "Will you -ever forget that night in Glasgow, when we invited -your class to an evening party, and they all arrived -in a body and in dead silence seated themselves -round the room, and none of us could think of a -single word to say, and in an agony we sat, becoming -every moment more petrified, and my tongue got so -stiff I felt that if I spoke it would break off, and -Father suddenly broke the awful silence with 'Quite -so,' delivered in a high, meaningless voice, and we -simply fell on each other helpless with laughter?" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laughed at the recollection. "Once -you let a silence fall," she said, "it's hopeless. -Nothing seems important enough to break it with.... -To go back to the Elders' Suppers—we always -had the same menu. Hot roast beef, hot beef-steak -pie, with vegetables, then plum-pudding and -apple-tart, and coffee. The oldest elder, Charles Mitchell -was his name, sat on my right hand, and the next -eldest, Henry Petrie, sat on my left. Charles -Mitchell was so deaf that any attempts to converse were -thrown away on him. Henry Petrie was a man of -most melancholy countenance, and absolutely -devoid of light table-talk. He was sad, and said -nothing, and might as well have been a post. One -night, having tried him on every subject with no -success, I watched him being helped to vegetables, -and said, in desperation, 'Potatoes are good this -year, don't you think?' He turned on me his -mournful eyes, his knife suspended on its way to his -mouth, and said, 'They'll no' stand a boil.'" -</p> - -<p> -"D'ye mind," said Marget, "thon awfu' nicht -when the pie cowpit on the gravel? We were gettin' -it covered at Wilson's the baker's, for they made -uncommon guid pastry, an' it didna come till the -verra last meenit. I was oot lookin' for the laddie -at the gate, an' when he came I took it frae him in -a hurry, an', eh, mercy! if the whole hypothic didna -slidder oot o' ma hand on to the grund. I let oot a -yell an' Ellie came runnin' oot, and syne she brocht -a lamp, an' we fund that the pastry wasna muckle -the waur, but the meat an' the gravy was a' amang -the gravel. What could we do but juist scoop up -wi' a spoon what we could get—meat, chuckie-stanes -an' a'—an' into the hoose wi' it. I can tell -ye I handit roond the plates gey feared that nicht. -I tried ma best to get them to choose the guid clean -roast beef, but there was nae takkers. Juist pie, -pie, pie, one after another until I was fair provokit. -Every meenit I expectit to hear their teeth gang -crunch on a stane. I can tell ye I was glad when -I got their plates whuppit awa' frae them, an' the -puddens plankit doon. It was a guid thing appendicitis -wasna invented then, or they wad a' ha' been -lying wi' it, for an orange pip's a fule to a -chuckie-stane." -</p> - -<p> -"Ay, Marget," said her mistress, "we had many -a fright. As old Mrs. Melville used to say, 'Folk -gets awfu' frichts in this warld.' Well, -well!" Mrs. Douglas sighed as was her way. "We had -many a successful party, too." -</p> - -<p> -"Folk," said Marget complacently, "likit fine to -come to oor hoose. They aye got a graund feed an' -a guid lauch forbye. The maister wasna mebbe -verra divertin' in company, being naitral quiet, but -you were a great hand at the crackin', Mem." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas modestly waved away the compliment, -while Ann said, "You must have had some -very smart suppers, for I have a distinct recollection -of eating ratafia biscuits and spun sugar from a -trifle one morning after a party." -</p> - -<p> -"The trifle evenings were few and far between," -said her mother; "but we had many a cosy little -party among our neighbours." -</p> - -<p> -Marget again broke in. "No' to mention a' the -folk that juist drappit in. Oor hoose was a fair -thro-gate for folk. A' the ministers that lived a bit -away kent whaur to come to in Kirkcaple for their -tea. Ye'll mind, Mem, that Mr. and Mrs. Dewar -were never muckle away. When Mr. Dewar walkit -in frae Buckie and fund naebody in, he wad say to -me, 'I'll be back for my tea, Marget. Isn't this -baking-day?'" (Marget adopted a loud, affected -tone when imitating anyone; this she called -"speaking proper.") "Then Mistress Dewar wad come -hoppin' in—'deed she was often in afore I got to the -door, for I wad mebbe be dressin' when the bell rang. -I wad hae to put on my wrapper again, an' there she -wad be sittin' on a chair in the lobby, knittin' awa' -like mad. 'Always busy, you see, Marget,' she -would say; 'I belong to the save-the-moment society.' Then -she wad gie that little lauch o' hers. Sic a wee -bit o' a thing she wis, mair like a bairn than a -mairret wumman." -</p> - -<p> -"Once," said Ann, "I went somewhere to spend a -day with Mrs. Dewar, and coming home we had to -wait awhile for a train. Mrs. Dewar, of course, was -knitting, and as the light was bad in the waiting-room -she calmly climbed up on the table and stood, -picking up a stitch, as near to the gas-jet as she -could get. She made the oddest spectacle with her -bonnet a little on one side, as it always was, her -little blunt face and childish figure. And to make -matters worse she sang as she knitted: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'Did you ever put a penny in a missionary box?<br /> - A penny that you might have gone and spent like other folks?'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -It was torture to a self-conscious child to hear the -giggles of the few spectators of the scene." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laughed softly as if remembering -something precious. "Little Mrs. Dewar cared who -laughed at her. That was what made her so unusual -and so refreshing. The queer, dear, wee body! -There was no one I liked so much to come to the -house. She was so companionable and so unfussy. -If she could only stay ten minutes she was calm -and settled for that ten minutes, and then went. I -have seen people who meant to stay for hours keep -me restless and unhappy all the time by their -fluttered look. Whenever I got tired of my house, or -my work, or myself, I went to Buckie to Mrs. Dewar. -They had a delightful old manse, with a charming -garden behind, but in front it faced a blank wall. -Someone condoled with Mrs. Dewar on the lack of -view. 'Tuts,' she said, 'we've never time to look -at a view.'' -</p> - -<p> -"Like old Mary Hart at Etterick, when a visitor -said to her, 'What a lovely view you have!' 'An' -what aboot it?' was the disconcerting answer. I -remember the Dewars' manse, Mother. I once -stayed there for a week. What a pity Mrs. Dewar -had no children of her own! She was a wonder with -children. I was only a tiny child, but she taught -me so much, and interested me in so many different -things and people. After breakfast I had to help -her to 'classify' the dishes; put all the spoons -together, and wipe the knives with soft paper and make -them all ready to be washed. Then we saw that the -salts and mustards were tidy, and the butter and -jam in dainty dishes. Then we would take a bundle -of American papers to a woman who had a son in -the United States, and on our way home she would -take me down to the shore and point out the exact -spot on the rocks where she had once found a -beautiful coral comb, and where the next day she had -found a mermaid sitting crying for the loss of it. -It was a long story, but I know it finished with the -grateful mermaid giving a large donation to the -Sustentation Fund! Mrs. Dewar had an extraordinary -number of relations, who all seemed to be -generals and admirals, and things like that, and the -tales of the Indian nephews who had come to her as -babies were enthralling to me. They were grown up -by that time, and, I suppose, on their way to become -generals, too. There was always something rather -military about Mrs. Dewar's small, alert figure. -'Mustard to mutton,' she would say to me at -dinner; 'child, you would be expelled from the -mess.' She was really too funny. When Mr. Dewar would -say, 'My dear, have you seen my spectacles?' she -would reply, 'Seek and ye shall find, not speak and -ye shall find.' And if the servants worried her she -walked about saying the hymn beginning, 'Calm me, -O God, and keep me calm.'" -</p> - -<p> -"I likit Mrs. Dewar," said Marget; "she had -queer ways, but she was a leddy. She was yin o' -the Keiths o' Rathnay—rale gentry. Eh, Mem, -d'ye mind the black that was preachin' for Maister -Dewar, an' they couldna keep him in the hoose, for -there was illness, and he cam' to us? Eh, I say!" -</p> - -<p> -"Poor man! I remember your face, Marget, -when I met you on the stairs the morning he left. -You were holding some towels away from you and -you said, 'I'm no verra sure aboot that black's -towels.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Neither I wis," said Marget; "I'm aye feared the -black comes off." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap10"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER X -</h3> - -<p> -"Mother," said Ann one evening, "do you -realise that we are not getting on at all -well with your <i>Life</i>? Marget has developed this -passion for coming in and recalling absurd things—last -night she wasted the whole evening with the -tale of her grandfather's encounter with a bull; racy, -I admit, but not relevant, and the night before she -set me recalling mad escapades of our childhood, -and I didn't write a word. Where we are, I don't -know, but there are only three of us born—Mark -and me and Robbie. Jim has got to be worked in -somewhere—and Rosamund. We were all at Etterick -recovering from whooping-cough when Jim -was born, so I don't remember much about him, but -Rosamund's coming was a wonderful event. She -was my birthday present when I was eight." -</p> - -<p> -"In some ways Jim was the nicest of the babies," -Mrs. Douglas said. "He was so pretty and -sweet-tempered—quite a show child. Whenever we said, -'Sing, Jim,' he dropped on to the floor and began -'Lord, a little band and lowly,' and he was no age -at all." -</p> - -<p> -Ann laughed a sceptical laugh. "He ceased at an -early age his efforts to entertain; he has no use for -company now. I suppose it might be a reaction from -his precocious childhood. But he still has the good -nature." -</p> - -<p> -"Indeed he has," said Jim's mother fervently. -"The Fife people had a saying 'born for a blessing,' -and Jim has been that. Rosamund"—she paused for -a moment, then continued—"Rosamund was the -most lovely child I ever saw. No, it wasn't -because I was her mother, unprejudiced people said the -same. I think, perhaps, it was the happiest time in -my life, those weeks after Rosamund came. Not -that I hadn't always been happy, but the years -before had been rather a mêlée. Now I had found my -feet, more or less, and church work and housekeeping -and baby rearing no longer appalled me. It was -in March she was born. We had got all the spring -cleaning done well beforehand, and the Deacons' -Court had papered and painted the stairs and -lobbies, and we had afforded ourselves new stair and -landing carpets, and the house was as fresh as it's -possible for a house to be. I lay there with my baby, -so utterly contented, listening to the voices of you -and the boys playing in the garden in the spring -sunlight, with pleasant thoughts going through my -mind about my healthy, happy children and a -smooth running church, and thanking God for the -best man that ever woman had. And all the kind -people came flocking to see the new baby. Mrs. Dewar -came with a dainty frock made by herself -and an armful of books and magazines. These are -George's choosing,' she said, 'and he says you will -enjoy them all. I think myself they look rather -dull, so I've brought you one of Annie Swan's—she's -<i>capital</i> for a confinement.' And Mrs. Peat sat by -the fire with Rosamund on her knee and said, 'Eh, -my dear, she's a beauty,' and blessed her. And you -children came running in with celandines from the -Den, and grubby treasures which you tried to thrust -into the baby's tiny hand—I often look back on -those days. It seems to me that my cup of happiness -must have been lipping over. Rosamund grew -like a flower. There was always something special -about her, and we felt it from the first. It wasn't -only her beauty, it was something fine, aloof. You -remember her, Ann?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I remember her, Mother. She was always -different, even at the beginning she wasn't red and -puckered and squirming like most babies, but faintly -pink like a rose. Father worshipped her. Of -course, you know that you made far more of her -than of any of the rest of us, and we were glad and -willing that it should be so. We were never rough -with her. She never lived the tumbled puppy-like -life that I lived as a child." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas nodded. Presently she said: -</p> - -<p> -"You had a happy childhood, Ann?" -</p> - -<p> -"Hadn't we just? No children ever had a happier; -we were so free. When I see children dragging -along dreary daily walks with nurses, I do -pity them. We hated being taken walks by Ellie -Robbie, and generally ran away. We used to meet -the Johnstons with their Ellen, and then we big ones -dashed off together on business of our own, leaving -the poor nurses tethered to the prams. We were -marauders of the worst type. Having always a -great hunger for sweets and being always destitute -of money, we had to devise schemes for getting -them. In Nether Street there stood a little sweetie -shop owned by one Archibald Forbes, a good-natured -man who had once (in an evil moment for -himself) given us a few sweeties for nothing. With -the awful pertinacity of children we went back -continually in the hope that he might do it again! -(What you and Father would have thought if you -had seen us, I know not!) Sometimes he ordered -us away, but, when in a more forthcoming mood, he -would make us say recitations to him, and then -reward us. He must have been a very patient man, -Mr. Archibald Forbes, for I can see him, his spectacles -on the end of his nose, and his bushy eyebrows -pulled down, standing behind his counter, listening -without a movement to Mark relentlessly getting -through 'The scene was changed'—you know that -thing about Mary Queen of Scots?" -</p> - -<p> -"Indeed I do. If Mark was asked to recite when -Mrs. Goskirk was present, and she heard him -begin, 'The scene was changed,' she gave a resigned -sigh and took up her knitting; and there was -another about Henry of Navarre that was almost as -bad. The things you did were short and harmless." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, quite," said Ann. "There was one about a -little girl called Fanny, a child for whom we had a -deep distaste. She had a dream about being in -heaven, I remember: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'I thought to see Papa's estate<br /> - But oh! 'twas far too small, Mamma;<br /> - The whole wide world was not so big<br /> - As William's cricket ball, Mamma.'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -And she finished: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'Your pretty Fanny woke, Mamma,<br /> - And lo! 'twas but a dream.'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -We thought the said Fanny was an insufferably -sidey child, first of all for mentioning 'Papa's -estate,' then for saying 'And lo!' and, worst of all, for -alluding to herself as 'pretty Fanny'—that was -beyond pardon. Talking about money, someone -once gave me a sixpence, which I took, contrary to -rule—we weren't allowed to take money. Feeling -guilty, I ran into a little shop in the Watery Wynd, -a fish shop that sold fruit, and demanded sixpenny-worth -of pears. Ellie Robbie was hard behind, so, -with great presence of mind, I said, 'Give me one -just now and I'll get the rest another time.' That -sixpennyworth of pears was a regular widow's cruse -to me. For weeks I called nearly every day at that -shop to demand a pear due to me, until they said if -I came again they would tell my father! We can't -have had any decent pride about us, for I don't think -we minded being snubbed. When we ran away from -Ellie Robbie the harbour was generally our -destination—a fascinating place where Norwegian sailors -strolled about in a friendly way and could -sometimes be persuaded to let us go on board their ships, -where they gave us hot coffee out of gaily painted -bowls. The harbour was the only romantic thing -in Kirkcaple. Time meant nothing to us in those -days, and, so far as we were concerned, the King -still sat in Dunfermline town calling for a 'skeely -skipper' to sail his ship to 'Norroway ower the faem'; -and many an hour we stood looking out to sea and -watching for the gallant ship 'that never mair cam' -hame.' Next to the harbour we loved the coal-pit, -and felt that we were indeed greatly blessed to have -one so near the house. There was no romance about -a coal-pit (except the romance that brings in the -nine-fifteen); but there were glorious opportunities -for getting thoroughly dirty. We had many friends -among the miners, and they gave us rides on trolleys, -and helped us to make seesaws, and admitted us into -lovely little outhouses containing, among other -treasures, the yellow grease that trains are greased -with. And there was the Hyacinth Den only a -stone's-throw from our own door, and the bleach-field -beyond, and beyond that again the Wild Wood. -And our own Manse garden was not to be despised, -for did it not look into a field owned by the -Huttons—a clan as wild and lawless as our own, and many -a battle took place between us. They had a friend -known to us as 'Wild Scott of the Huttons,' a truly -great and tireless fighter, and if he happened to be -visiting them we never knew when a head would -pop up over the wall where the big pear tree grew, -and challenge us to mortal combat. Did you hear -that Mark came across a man in France, tremendously -decorated and of high rank, who turned out to -be our old enemy 'Wild Scott of the Huttons'? -Besides the permanent feud with the Huttons, we had -many small vendettas with boys from the town, who -stoned Mark on Sundays because they didn't like his -clothes." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laid down her stocking, and said -in a bewildered tone: -</p> - -<p> -"I never could understand why you were so -pugnacious. You were a dreadfully bad example -to the other children in the place. They say that -ministers' children are generally worse than other -people's—on the principle, I suppose, that -'shoemakers' bairns are aye ill shod,' but I never saw -children more naturally bad than you were—well, -not bad, perhaps, but wild and mischievous to a -degree. Your father sometimes said that no one -could doubt the theory of original sin after seeing -our family. Alison sometimes comes to me in her -wheedling way and says, 'Gran, do tell me about -your bad children,' and I have to tell her of the time -when you celebrated the Queen's birthday at the -coal-pit by setting fire to a lot of valuable wood and -nearly burned the whole place, and the day when -we lost you and found you all in the Panny -Pond—literally 'in' it you were, for you had made a raft and -sunk with it into the soft, black mud." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Ann, "I was always sorry after that -for 'The Girl who trod on a Loaf,' for I knew the -dreadfulness of sinking down, down." -</p> - -<p> -"I think my dear Robbie was the worst of you all. -You others showed faint signs of improvement, but -he never deviated into good behaviour. He was -what is known in Priorsford as 'a notorious ill -callant,' and in Fife as 'an awfu' steerin' bairn.' When -I went away for a day or two I had always to take -him with me, for I knew if I left him at home it -would be sheer 'battleation,' and yet he had the -tenderest heart among you, and Rosamund said, -'Robbie's the one who has never once been cross to -me.' I remember the first time I took him to church. -He disliked the look of the woman who sat in front, -a prim lady, and he suddenly tilted her bonnet over -her eyes. Then he shouted to a well-behaved child -in the next seat, 'Bad boy make a face at me,' and -before I could stop him, hurled his shoe at him; -and he announced at the top of his voice, 'Mark and -Ann's away to Etterick, but I don't care a wee, wee -button,' and had then to be removed. 'Wheep him,' -Mrs. Beaton used to counsel; but Mrs. Peat always -said 'Robbie's a fine laddie.'" -</p> - -<p> -Ann nodded. "So he was, always. Though he -was so turbulent and noisy he was so uncunning you -couldn't but think nobly of the soul. Mark and I -thought of the mischievous things to do, and Robbie -threw himself into them so whole-heartedly that -generally he was the one caught and blamed. The -rest of us were better at wriggling out of things. -Father was never hard on us unless we cheated or -told lies. He wasn't even angry when the -policeman complained of us—do you remember the one, -an elder in our church, who said in despair to his -wife, 'I'll hae to jail thae bairns and leave the kirk'? -One of the few times I ever saw Father really angry -was when he was holding a class for young -communicants, and we crept into the cubby-hole under -the stairs, where the meter was, and <i>turned off the -gas</i>. Father emerged from the study like a lion, and -caught poor Jim, who had loitered. The rest of us -had gained the attics and were in hiding. It must -have been a great day for the young communicants." -</p> - -<p> -"Ann! It was a shocking thing to do; it would -have roused the mildest-mannered man." -</p> - -<p> -"Father was very good-natured," said Ann, -kneeling on the rug to put a log on the fire; "but it -was never safe to presume too much on his mildness. -He was subject to sudden and incomprehensible -rages. One day I innocently remarked that somebody -had a 'polly' arm. I didn't know that I meant -a paralysed arm; I was only repeating what I had -heard others say, but Father grabbed me suddenly -and said, 'You wretched child! Where do you pick -up those abominable expressions? Go to the -nursery.' I went weeping, feeling bitterly the injustice -with which I had been treated. But for every once -that Father made us cry, a hundred times he filled -our mouths with laughter. All our best games were -invented by him. Whenever he put his head round -the nursery door, we knew we were going to have -good times. There was a glorious game about India, -in which the nursery became a trackless jungle, and -Father was an elephant with a pair of bellows for -a trunk. Sometimes on a Sunday night, as a great -treat, we were allowed to play Bible games. Then -we would march round and round the nursery table, -blowing lustily on trumpets to cause the walls of -Jericho to fall, or Robbie as Jeremiah would be let -down by Mark and me into the pit (which was the -back of the old sofa), with 'clouts under his -armpits'; or, again, he and Mark lay prostrate on the -sofa (now the flat roof of an Eastern house), while -I, as Rahab, covered them with flax. I have the -nicest recollections of winter evenings in the study, -with the red curtains drawn, and you sitting mending, -when we lay on the hearth-rug, and Father read -to us of Bruce, and Wallace, and that lonely, lovely -lady, Mary of Scotland; but my most cherished -memory is of a December day in Glasgow. It was a -yellow fog that seemed to press down on us and -choke us. You were out when we came in from our -walk, the fire wasn't good, and everything seemed -unspeakably dreary. We were quarrelling among -ourselves and feeling altogether wretched, when the -door opened and Father looked in on us. 'Alone, -folkies?' he said. 'Where's your mother?' We -told him you were out and that we had nothing to -do, and that everything was beastly. He laughed -and went away, and came back presently with a -book. It was <i>The Queen's Wake</i>, and for the first -time we heard of 'bonnie Kilmeny' who went away -to Fairyland. We forgot the fog, we forgot our -grievances; we were carried away with Kilmeny. -Then Father got a ballad-book, and that was even -better, for the clash of armies was ever music in our -ears. We sprawled over him in our excitement as -he read how 'in the gryming of a new-fa'en snaw' -Jamie Telfer of the fair Dodhead carried the 'fraye' -to Branksome ha'. Our tea was brought in, but the -pile of bread-and-butter was hardly diminished, for -Father read on, sometimes laughing aloud in his -delight at what he read, sometimes stopping for a -moment to drink some tea, but his eyes never -leaving the printed page. How could we eat when we -were hearing for the first time of Johnnie Armstrong -going out to meet his King in all good faith, -only to find that death was to be his portion? We -howled like angry wolves when Father read: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'To seek het water beneath cauld ice,<br /> - Surely it is a great folie—<br /> - I have asked grace at a graceless face,<br /> - But there is nane for my men and me.'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -When you came in, we only looked at you vaguely, -and said, 'Go on, Father, go on,' and he explained, -These benighted children have never heard the -<i>Border Ballad</i>', Nell,' and then you sat down and -listened too.... D'you remember people in Glasgow, -who owned big restaurants all over the -place—Webster, I think, was the name, and there was a -fat only son who sometimes came in to play with us? -I don't know what Mr. Webster was like in his home -life, but that fat boy said to me very feelingly, -'<i>Yours is a jolly kind of father to have</i>.' It was -generous of him, for only that morning he had -taunted me with the fact that my father played a -penny whistle, and I, deeply affronted, had replied -with a tasteful reference to the restaurants, 'Well, -anyway, he doesn't sell tuppenny pies like your -father does.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, that penny whistle!" said Mrs. Douglas, -with a laugh and a sigh. "He made wonderful -music on it. There was always something of the -Pied Piper about your father. Down in the district -the children used to come up and pull at his coat -and look up in his face; they had no fear of him; -and whenever he entered the hall on Band of Hope -nights the place was in an uproar with yells for a -story. He would get up on the little platform and, -leaning over the table, he would tell them 'Jock and -his Mother,' or 'The Bannock that went to see the -World,' or 'Maya'—fine stories, but not a moral to -one of them." -</p> - -<p> -"That was the best of Father's stories: they never -had morals," said Ann. "The real secret of his -charm was that at heart he was as much a child as -any of them. Once I was down in the district with -him, and we saw a very dirty little boy sitting on a -doorstep. He greeted Father with a wide grin, and -beckoned to him with a grimy forefinger. Father -went obediently, and very slowly and mysteriously -the little fellow drew from his ragged pocket a -handful of marbles (very chipped and dirty ones) and -said, 'Thae's whit ye ca' <i>bool</i>,' and Father, bending -over the small figure, replied, 'So they are, sonny, so -they are!' -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, the fat boy was right: he was a jolly kind -of father to have!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap11"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XI -</h3> - -<p> -"... When Rosamund was six months old -we left Kirkcaple. It was a great uprooting. -You don't live thirteen years in a place in -close touch with the people without becoming deeply -attached both to the place and people—and in the -last year of our stay at Kirkcaple we had a wonderful -experience. There was a great awakening of -interest in spiritual things—a revival—and we saw -many enter into life...." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas stopped abruptly and regarded her -daughter. -</p> - -<p> -"Ann," she said, "why do you begin to look -abashed and miserable if I mention the word -revival? Does conversion seem to you an improper -subject?" -</p> - -<p> -Ann screwed her face uncomfortably. "Oh, I -don't know, but I confess I do dislike to hear people -talking glibly about that sort of thing. It somehow -seems rather indecent. You didn't realise, you -and Father, how miserable it was for us children -going to so many evangelistic meetings. We liked -shouting Sankey's hymns, and the addresses were all -right, but oh! those 'after-meetings,' when we sat -sick with fright, watching earnest young men -working their way down the church to speak personally to -us. How could we say we were on the road to -heaven? And we were too honest—at least the boys -were too honest—simply to say Yes, when asked if -we were saved. I shall never think it right or -proper that any casual person should leap on one -and ask questions about one's soul. I should object -to anyone, other than a doctor or intimate friend, -asking me questions about my bodily health, and -why should I be less select about my immortal soul? -And it seemed to us so dreadful that they should -count the converts. I remember with what -abhorrence we once heard Mrs. Macfarlane tell how -she and her husband had both talked to a young man -about his soul. 'And when we had shown him the -light'—you remember the sort of simper she gave—'and -he had gone on his way rejoicing, I said to -Mr. Macfarlane, "George dear, is it your soul or mine?"' In -other words, 'My bird, sir.' I suppose she was out -for stars in her crown, but I would rather have none -than cadge for them like that." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Ann," cried her mother, "you don't know -what you are saying. It hurts me to hear you talk -in that flippant way about——" -</p> - -<p> -"Mother, you needn't make a mournful face at -me." Ann's face was flushed, and she looked very -much in earnest. "You've simply no idea how difficult -it is for a minister's family to be anything but -mere formalists. You see, we hear so much about it -all. From our infancy we are familiar with all the -shibboleths, until they almost cease to have any -meaning. I used to think as a child that it was most -unfairly easy for the heathen. I pictured myself -hearing for the very first time the story of Jesus -Christ, and I thought with what gratitude and love -I would have fallen on my knees to thank Him.... -As it was, we knew the message so well that our -attention was chiefly directed to the messengers, and -you must admit, Mother, we had some very queer -ones. You can't have forgotten the big, red-haired -evangelist, as rough as the heather, who told us a -story of a pump being 'off the fang,' and finished -remarkably with 'Ah, my friends, God's pump's -never off the fang.' I think it was the same man -who said we were just like faggots, 'fit for the -burning.' Oh, but do you remember the man in -Glasgow who illustrated the shortness of life with a -story about 'Gran'papaw' who ..." -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Ann!</i>" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas had finished her daily reading and -sat with the pile of devotional books on her knee, -eyeing her daughter with a mixture of disapproval -and unwilling amusement. "Ann, you turn everything -into ridicule." -</p> - -<p> -Ann protested. "There's no ridicule about it. It -is a very good serious tale. 'Gran'papaw he gae -two...'" -</p> - -<p> -Again her mother interrupted her. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sure your father would be sorry to hear you -laughing at evangelists. He revelled in evangelistic -work." -</p> - -<p> -Ann gave a squeal of rage. "<i>Mother</i>! D'you -know what sort of picture of Father you would give -to anyone who didn't know him? Someone with a -smug face and a soapy manner, and a way of shaking -hands as if he had a poached egg in the palm. -Could there be anything less like my father? There -was nothing unctuous about him, nothing of the -professional religionist. He was like a Raeburn -portrait to look at... -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'A face filled with a fine old-fashioned grace,<br /> - Fresh-coloured, frank——'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -and he never thought that because he was virtuous -there should be no more cakes and ale. He was a -minister simply because the great fact of his life -was Christ, and he desired above everything to bring -men to Him. I never read of Mr. Standfast but -I think of Father, for he, too, loved to hear his Lord -spoken of, and coveted to set his feet in his Master's -footprints...." -</p> - -<p> -Ann stopped and looked in a shamefaced way at -her mother. -</p> - -<p> -"And now I'm preaching! It's in my blood—well, -you were beginning to tell me about the revival -in Kirkcaple when I started to blaspheme. Please -go on." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, you may laugh at evangelists..." -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Who's</i> laughing?" cried Ann. -</p> - -<p> -Her mother went on calmly. "But I assure you -that was a wonderful time in Kirkcaple. Night -after night the church was crowded, and girls and -young men went as blithely to those meetings as ever -they went to a dance. You may talk as you like of -'emotionalism' and 'the excitement of the moment,' -but remember, this all happened nearly thirty years -ago, and the young people who decided for Christ -then are the chief support of the Church to-day. I -am very certain they have never regretted staying -to the after-meeting and throwing in their lot with -Christ. How easy the church work was that winter! -The Wednesday prayer-meeting overflowing from -the hall into the church, money forthcoming for -everything—you may know conversion is real when -it touches the pocket. We had a series of special -meetings more or less all through that winter, and, -of course, all the speakers stayed with us. Marget -never grumbled at the extra work. One night, at a -meeting where testimonies were asked for, to my -utter amazement she got up and stammered out a -few words. Long afterwards, in Glasgow, when -she lost her temper about something, she said, 'Eh, -I say, I'll need to be speakin' in the kirk again.' She -had evidently found it beneficial. We had all sorts -of ministers and evangelists staying with us, some -delightful, others rather difficult. One week-end the -great Dr. Bentley came to preach, a very godly but a -very austere man. Your father was preaching -somewhere, and I had to bear the brunt of him alone. -Immediately he had had tea he suggested that we -should have a little Bible-reading and prayer. It -was a dreadful ordeal for me, for he kept asking me -what passage I should like read, and my mind went -blank and I couldn't think of any! Finally I -managed to slip out of the room, leaving him to rest, -and not noticing that Robbie was playing quietly -behind the sofa. Shortly after that we heard an -uproar in the study, Dr. Bentley's voice in trumpet -notes and yells of rage from Robbie. With Ellie -Robbie at my heels, I rushed to the rescue.... -Dr. Bentley met me with the words: 'I have had -dealings with your son.' It turned out that, seeing the -old man sitting alone, Robbie had gone to the -bookcase, pulled out as large a volume as he could -manage, and carried it to him. Dr. Bentley told him to -put the book back on the shelf and bring no more. -Robbie brought another and another, and Dr. Bentley -whipped him. Full of fury at the results of his -well-meant efforts to entertain him, Robbie kicked -Dr. Bentley—kicked the great Dr. Bentley—and -was carried out of the room in Ellie Robbie's arms -quite unrepentant, shouting as he went, 'Abominable -gentleman!'" -</p> - -<p> -Ann laughed with much enjoyment. "It isn't one -of the duties of a guest to beat his host's children, -but he met his match in Robbie. You must have had -a dreadful week-end, poor Mother!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, dreadful! Everything went wrong. Dr. Bentley -told me that he didn't like a fire in his -bedroom, but that he liked a fire in his bed. This, -he explained very solemnly, meant two hot-water -cans and six pairs of blankets. Marget put in one -hot-water can (a 'pig' one) and had gone to fill an -india-rubber one, when Ellie Robbie, wishful to -help, and unaware of one 'pig' in the bed, slapped -in another. They met, and each halved neatly in -two. The bed was a sea, and we were looking -despairingly at it when Dr. Bentley appeared in the -doorway and announced that he would like to retire -for the night! ... Some time afterwards Dr. Bentley -was again in the neighbourhood and called, -but found no one at home. Marget, telling us about -his visit, said, 'It was thon auld man, I dinna mind -his name; the yin the mistress is fear't for.'" -</p> - -<p> -"With reason, I think," said Ann. "What an orgy -of meetings you must have had that winter!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, but I can't remember that there were any -bad effects, or that we sank into indifference when -the stimulus of the meetings was removed. Rather -we went on resolved to do better than we had ever -done, for the Lord had done great things for us.... -Then came the call to Glasgow, and it was -very difficult to decide what was for the best. We -didn't love cities, and we had no friends in the -West; on the other hand, we had to think about the -education of you children. Your father was going -on for forty, and he felt, if he ever meant to take -a call, now was the time. You children were -delighted. Any change seems a change for the better -to a child; you never gave a thought to the big, -sunny garden you were leaving, or the Den, or the -familiar friendly house, or the kind people. The -day your father and I went to Glasgow to look for -a house you all stood on the doorstep and shouted -after us, 'Be sure and get one near a coal-pit.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," Ann said; "the thought of a flitting -enchanted us, and we began at once to pack. Where -was it Robbie had inflammation of the lungs? -Before we went to Glasgow, wasn't it?" -</p> - -<p> -"The year before—in spring. He had got hot -playing football and stood in the east wind. He -was very ill, poor darling, and for long he needed -great care. I got to know my wild boy in a different -way in those days and nights of weakness." -</p> - -<p> -Ann left her writing-table and sat on the fender-stool. -She pushed the logs together and made them -blaze, and, reaching over to the big basket that stood -by the fireplace, she threw on log after log until -the whole room was filled with the dancing light. -</p> - -<p> -"Now, that's something like a fire," she said. "A -dull fire makes one feel so despairing.... Robbie -was so very proud of having had an illness; he -always called it 'my inflammation,' and when he broke -his arm his conceit knew no bounds. I'm afraid I -broke it for him by falling off the seesaw on to the -top of him. We didn't know what had happened, -but we saw that his arm looked very queer, and -Mark and I brought him home and helped him to -take off his boots, and were quite unusually attentive -to him. He didn't say a word about it hurting -until he heard that it was broken, when he began to -yell at once, and said, 'Will I die?—will I -die?' Reassured on that point, he was very pleased about -his broken arm." -</p> - -<p> -"Two days later," said Robbie's mother, "he escaped -from the nursery and was found on the rafters -of an unfinished house (how he managed to climb -with his arm in splints, I know not) singing 'I'm the -King of the Castle.'" -</p> - -<p> -Ann laughed softly. "He never let us forget his -achievements, dear lamb. If we quarrelled about the -possession of anything, Robbie was sure to say, -'Give it to me, for I've had the inflammation.' Mark -made a poem about him, which ran: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'And if in any battle I come to any harm,<br /> - Why, I've had the inflammation, I've had a broken arm.'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -It must have been no light task to remove us all -from Kirkcaple to Glasgow." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas shook her head. "A terrible undertaking. -But we were young and strong. Mrs. Peat -came up one day and found me crying as I packed. -'Eh, my dear,' she said, 'you're vexed to go, and -I'm glad to see you're vexed to leave us all, but -you're taking all your own with you. You don't -know what it means to leave a grave....' Everybody -made farewell parties for us, and we departed -in a shower of presents and good wishes. That was -nearly thirty years ago, and only the other day I met -one of our Kirkcaple people in Edinburgh, and she -said to me, with tears in her eyes, 'Hardly a day -passes in our house without a mention of your name, -and never a Sabbath comes but we say, "If only we -could hear Mr. Douglas' voice again!" Who says -the ministry is not a repaying job?' Well, we got -to Glasgow—I think you children all went to -Etterick, didn't you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Only the boys," said Ann. "I went straight to -Glasgow with you and Baby Rosamund. It was a -great experience for me. I boasted about it for long. -I was allowed to attend the Induction Soirée, and -heard you and Father praised by everyone. It was -my first experience of Glasgow humour, and very -funny I thought it. I remember one old elder who -spoke told us of what a fine speech he had made the -night before in his bed. 'My,' he said, beaming -round on the company, 'what grand speeches ye can -make in yer bed!' but it turned out he had forgotten -it on the platform. I thought the Glasgow accent -fascinating, and I liked to be told that I was a 'good wee -Miss.' I began to like Glasgow people that night, and -I've gone on liking them better and better ever since." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap12"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XII -</h3> - -<p> -"And now," said Ann, "we're done with -Kirkcaple and must tackle Glasgow. And the -Tatler is sitting on my MS., and that won't improve -its appearance. Odd the passion that cat has for -paper! Perhaps in a previous existence it was an -editor. If the soul of my grandam might haply -inhabit a bird, the soul of an editor—now he's done -it! ..." She flew to rescue the sheets that the -Tatler had scattered on the floor, while her mother put -on large tortoise-shell spectacles and knelt down to -help. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you think," Mrs. Douglas said, when the -sheets had been rearranged in order, "that you'd -better read me what you've written?" -</p> - -<p> -Ann shook her head. "I think not. It's very -majestical and not quite true. You see, if you're -writing a <i>Life</i>, it's no good making a bald narrative -of it. One has to polish it up a bit for the sake of -posterity. I'm making you a very noble character, -I assure you. As old Mrs. Buchanan said to me, -after seeing me in some <i>tableaux vivants</i>, 'My, you -were lovely. I didna ken ye.' The children will -be proud to think you were their grandmother." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas turned to take up her stocking, with -a bored look. -</p> - -<p> -"I wonder," she said, "that you can be bothered -talking so much nonsense." -</p> - -<p> -"I wonder, too," said Ann, "with the world in -the state it is in. But I do agree, there is nothing -so trying as a facetious person! I wish I hadn't such -high spirits. No wonder, Mother, that you are such -a depressed wee body: to have had a husband and -family who were always in uproarious spirits was -enough to darken anybody's outlook on life. The -first thing I remember about Glasgow is that you -had a curly yellow coat and a sort of terra-cotta -bonnet." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas' face lit up with a smile that made -her look almost girlish. "That coat! I do -remember it well. It was 'old gold' trimmed with plush -of the same shade. My father bought it for me. -I met him one day in Princes Street, and I must have -looked very shabby, for he looked me up and down -and said, 'Nell, surely the Sustentation Fund is very -low,' and he took me into Jenner's, and got me that -coat and bonnet. He got you a coat, too, and a -delicious little astrakhan cap like a Cossack's. You -were the prettiest thing in it, for your hair curled -out under it like pure gold." -</p> - -<p> -"I must have been a picturesque child," said Ann -complacently, "for several times, you remember, -artists asked me to sit for them." Then she laughed. -"But I needn't boast about that, for my pride once -got a severe fall. One day, at Etterick, we came -on an artist (he turned out to be someone quite -well known) sketching up the burnside. I obligingly -posed myself in the foreground, and—he gave -me sixpence to go away. <i>And I took it!</i>" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas smiled at the reminiscence, but her -thoughts were still with the "old gold coat." -</p> - -<p> -"It always pays to get a good thing. That coat -wore and wore until everybody got tired of seeing -me wear it, and it never really got very shabby—the -bonnet, too." -</p> - -<p> -"I suppose you would be about thirty," Ann said. -"You said to us walking down to church one day -that you were thirty, and then you said you would -need to get a new bonnet. I looked at you and -thought to myself: 'I shan't say it, but I'm quite -sure it isn't worth while for Mother to get a new -bonnet; she <i>can't</i> live much longer.' I was shocked -to hear that you had attained to such a great age, -for I thought at thirty one was just toppling into the -grave. Wasn't Glasgow a great change from Kirkcaple? -'East is East and West is West, and never -the twain shall meet.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, we hadn't much time to worry over East -and West; we had our work to do. We were very -fortunate in getting a suitable house in a nice -district. We might have been miles from a city in -that road of decent grey houses, each in its own quiet -garden. And the gardens all opened into an avenue -of beautiful trees that had once been the entrance -to the big house of the district. We couldn't have -been more happily situated, and it was a comfortable -house with good-sized rooms and—what your father -specially prized—a well-placed staircase with -shallow steps. It also contained what we had never -had before, a basement flat; but it wasn't as bad -as it sounded, for the house was built on a slope, -and the kitchen, though downstairs, was on a level -with the garden." -</p> - -<p> -"We children didn't mind the basement," said -Ann; "it was a joy to us, full of funny corners, -excellent for hide-and-seek. One door had the legend -<i>Dark Room</i> painted on it, and was an endless source -of speculation. Could the former tenant have been -a Nihilist? or a murderer? In the bright hours of -the morning we liked to dally with those thoughts, -but when the shadows lengthened we told each other -that he was only a man who tried to develop his own -negatives. We never felt in the least cabined or -confined in Glasgow. It was a joke against me for -long that when we first arrived I reproved Mark -and Robbie for walking on the garden wall, saying, -'We must be very genteel now that we live in Glasgow.'" -</p> - -<p> -"You didn't live up to that counsel of perfection, -my dear. Anything less genteel than your -behaviour! One of the first things you and Mark did -was to attend a wedding in the avenue—and when -I say 'attend,' I mean you stood outside the gate of -the house with a lot of other abandoned children -and shouted, 'Hard up!' when the bride and bridegroom -left without scattering pennies. Jeanie Tod -nearly wept with shame when she told me of it." -</p> - -<p> -"I remember Jeanie Tod," said Ann. "She was -small, but very determined. She had a brother a -sailor, and used to let me read his letters. One of -them described the writer riding in a rickshaw, and -finished: 'By Jingo, dear sister, you should have -seen your Brother that Day.' ... It must have -been difficult for you, Mother, to leave friendly -Kirkcaple and go to a great city where you knew -almost no one. Weren't you lonely at first?" -</p> - -<p> -"Never for a moment; we just seemed to tumble -in among friends." -</p> - -<p> -"The church people, you mean?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh no—well, of course, they were friends—very -dear friends—but you need outside friends, too. I -found three very good ones waiting for me in Glasgow." -</p> - -<p> -"One was Mrs. Burnett!" said Ann. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. Mrs. Burnett was my first friend. The -day we arrived in the avenue—we were next-door -neighbours—was the funeral day of her eldest -daughter. With most women that would have been -an excuse not to come near us for months, but she -came almost at once. She said that it made a link -between us, and that, in a way, our coming helped -a little to fill the blank left by the dear daughter's -death. Her kindness and interest were very grateful -to me, a stranger in a strange land, or, as Marget -put it, 'a coo on an unco loan.' It was a great -pleasure to run in for an hour to the Burnetts'; it -was such a big, comfortable, perfectly kept house -(the servants had been with them for twenty and -thirty years, and had grown into Mrs. Burnett's -dainty ways), and there was always a welcome -awaiting one at any time." -</p> - -<p> -"They had a splendid garden," said Ann, "with a -swing and all manner of amusing things; and I -think they really liked having children to tea. I -remember their Hallow-e'en parties!" -</p> - -<p> -"Mrs. Burnett looked like an abbess," Mrs. Douglas -said. "She always wore a soft black dress—cashmere -or silk—and a tiny white lace shawl turned -back over her white hair. The style of dress suited -her perfectly, for she was very tall and graceful, and -glided rather than walked. I admired her very -much, being so far from dignified myself, and I used -to wonder how she kept so perfectly tidy and -unruffled when I always looked as if I had been in the -heart of a whirlwind." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Mother!" laughed Ann, "just look at the -difference in the two lives! Mrs. Burnett with her -family grown up, a household running on well-oiled -wheels, and a serenity partly natural and partly -gained through long years' experience; you in the -very forefront of the battle, with an incredibly wild -and wicked family, a church to run, small means, -and not an ounce of serenity anywhere in your little -active body." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, but now that I have leisure I'm not any -more serene," Mrs. Douglas complained. "But it -was comfort unspeakable just to see Mrs. Burnett, -to know that she was near. We used to think that -she sat and wondered what she would send us next, -she loved so to give." -</p> - -<p> -"I never smell a hyacinth," said Ann, "but I think -of Mrs. Burnett. She always sent us the very first -pot of hyacinths that came out in the greenhouse." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas nodded. "Mrs. Burnett would like -to be remembered by spring flowers. She loved them -as she loved all young things. Her one little -grandson, Jimmie, was the same age as Davie. Her great -regret when she was dying was that she wouldn't -see the two boys grow up. Ah, but if she could have -known—they didn't grow up very far. Jimmie was -killed at the landing in Gallipoli, and Davie at -Arras, when they were still only little boys." -</p> - -<p> -"You have always been well off for friends, -Mother," Ann said, breaking a silence. "In Inchkeld, -in Kirkcaple, Glasgow. It's because you are -such a friendly person yourself." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, me! I often feel myself a poor creature, -with little to give in return for treasure-houses -opened to me." -</p> - -<p> -Ann laughed unbelievingly and said, "I'm bound -to admit we have had some wonderful friends—Miss -Barbara Stewart for one. She was one of your -three friends, wasn't she?" -</p> - -<p> -"Indeed she was! Miss Barbara—to say her -name gives me a warm feeling at my heart." -</p> - -<p> -"Miss Barbara," Ann repeated. "What a lot the -name conjures up! I don't know anyone who made -more of life. She might have been a lonely, soured -old woman, for she was the very last of her family, -wasn't she? but to the great family of the poor and -the afflicted she said, 'You are my brothers and my -sisters.' I wonder how many men in Glasgow owe -their start in life to Miss Barbara? I wonder how -many lonely women died blessing her that it was -their own and not a workhouse roof that covered -them at the end? I wonder how many betrayed -souls sinking hopelessly into hell had a succouring -hand held out to them by that sharp-tongued -spinster? How did you know Miss Barbara so well? -She didn't belong to the church." -</p> - -<p> -"Not in our time, but all her people had -belonged. Miss Barbara had gone to the other side -of Glasgow, and it was too far for her to come. She -always took a great interest; but what good work -was she not interested in? She sat there in her vast, -early-Victorian dining-room, wrapped in innumerable -shawls and woolly coats, for she suspected -draughts from every quarter, a tall woman, broadly -made, with a large, strong face. What would I -not give now to go into that room and see those -whimsical, shrewd, kind eyes, and feel the wealth of -welcome in those big soft hands as she rose to greet -me, with shawls falling from her like leaves in -Vallombrosa. She generally received me with abuse. -'What d'you mean by coming out on such a day? -You'll go home with a chill and bother your poor -family by lying in bed. Here—see—sit down in -that chair and hold the soles of your boots to the -fire,' all the time doing things for one's comfort, -ringing for tea to be brought in, kneeling down to -make fresh toast. She hated to trouble anyone; it -was almost an obsession with her, the desire not to -be a nuisance. She had a very aged cook, who had -been in the Stewart family all her life, and it was -said that Miss Barbara, herself nearly eighty, got -up every morning and carried tea to her before -she would let her rise to her duties." -</p> - -<p> -"Dear Miss Barbara," Ann said, stroking the -Tatler's smoke-grey fur, "she wasn't only good, she -was delightfully funny. Her passion for cats!—not -for well-fed, comfortable cats, but for poor, lean, -homeless ones. She used to send me into a butcher's -shop to buy a quarter of a pound of mince-collops, -and then down area steps carrying it (the horrid -stuff oozing clammily through the paper) after some -terrified animal that fled from me, paying no -attention to my blandishments. She was utterly unlike -the ordinary rich old woman, flattered and -kowtowed to for her money until she thinks she isn't -made of ordinary clay. I don't think Miss Barbara -ever gave a thought to herself; she hadn't time, she -was so busy looking after other people." -</p> - -<p> -"In her youth," said Mrs. Douglas, "Miss Barbara -was a great worker in the slums of Glasgow, -but when I knew her she wasn't able for that, and -people had to go to her. The clergy waited on her -by the dozen, and everyone else who wanted money -for good works, not to speak of many who were -mere cranks and charlatans. Everyone who came -was admitted, and Miss Barbara wouldn't have -listened to a word against any of them." -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Ann; "she would have said with -Falstaff, 'Tush, man, mortal men, mortal men'; or, -rather, she wouldn't, for she had probably never -heard of Falstaff, and thought that anyone who could -read Shakespeare for pleasure was eccentric almost -to madness. If you told her of a book you had -enjoyed, she would say, 'Is it true? No? Well, -then——' But everyone who went to No. 10 got -a hearing." -</p> - -<p> -"Everyone got a hearing," said Mrs. Douglas, -"and whatever else they got, you may be sure a -good tea was never wanting. Many a tired and -hungry voyager on life's ocean found sanctuary at -No. 10. You remember when I had that bad -breakdown, and you were all worn out with me, -how Miss Barbara took me to No. 10 and coaxed -and scolded me back to health! And I was too -miserably ill and weak even to pretend gratitude, -and, driving with her, I used to envy all the happy -people walking on their own feet, and one day she -said to me, with an amused twinkle in her eyes, -'Ay, and you never thought to pity the poor folk in -their carriages before.'' -</p> - -<p> -"I think she was funniest at Etterick," said Ann. -"She kept regretting all the time the street lamps -and pavements, and the sight of Tweed winding in -links through the glens vexed her practical soul. -'What a waste!' she said; 'couldn't it be cut straight -like a canal?' Father's face! How Miss Barbara -would have hated the Green Glen!" She jumped -up to open the door for the Tatler. "He's tired of -us. He wants to try Marget and Mysie. Who was -your third great friend, Mother? You had so -many, I'm interested to know which you considered -your greatest." -</p> - -<p> -"Mrs. Lang." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, of course—Mrs. Lang. She's been dead -for a long time now." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas sighed. "Nearly all my friends are -dead." -</p> - -<p> -"Because," said Ann, "you always liked old -people best, and made your friends among women -much older than yourself. And now you mourn -and say your friends are nearly all gone, and talk -about the elect being gathered in—but, elect or not, -people are apt to be gathered in if they are over -eighty." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas sighed more deeply, and, ignoring -her daughter's bracing remarks, said, "I can't care -for new friends as I cared for the old; they can't -go back with me. I'm not interested in their talk.... -Mrs. Lang was a very good friend to me at my -busiest time. What a capable woman she was. -There was nothing she couldn't do with her hands. -When the boys went to Oxford she practically made -their outfits, and made them beautifully. She used -to say that it was a kindness to let her help, for -she had had such a busy life, she simply couldn't -rest. I know now what she meant." -</p> - -<p> -"I remember Mrs. Lang very well," Ann said—"a -stately woman who rocked a little when she -walked. She had crinkly white hair parted in the -middle, and keen, blue eyes in a fresh-coloured face. -I always think of her as dressed in a seal-skin mantle -trimmed with skunk and a Mary Stuart bonnet." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laid down her stocking. "Yes. I -remember her best like that. I did like to see her -come rocking in at the gate, though sometimes I -was a little afraid of her. Your father used to say -she was a typical Scotswoman of the old school—a -type that has almost disappeared. There wasn't -a trace of sickly sentiment about her. She was a -stern, God-fearing woman, with a strong brain and -a big heart and an unbending will. She lived to -be nearly ninety, and to the end her mind was as -clear as a bell. In the last letter she wrote to me: -'I go out for a walk every day, no matter what the -weather is, and I am twice in church every Sabbath.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Didn't Mrs. Lang come from Fife?" Ann asked. -"I know there was always an east windy tang about -her! She had nothing of the soft, couthy Glasgow -manner. I was really very scared of her. When -she discovered me hopelessly ignorant (as she was -always doing) about something she thought I should -have known all about, like jam-making, she had a -way of saying: 'You amuse me very much,' which -was utterly crushing. And she was very much given -to contradicting people flat, generally prefacing her -remarks with 'You will <i>pardon me</i>!' delivered like -a sledge-hammer. Well, it's too late to write -anything to-night. Marget and Mysie will be in for -prayers in a few minutes, and I've an interesting -book to finish. To-morrow I shall add another stone -to the noble pile I am raising to you—but, no, it -can't be to-morrow. To-morrow I go to Birkshaw -for two nights. Mother, why did I say I would go? -I can't bear to leave Dreams for two whole nights." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap13"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XIII -</h3> - -<p> -For two days it was as if an enchantment had -been thrown over Dreams, so great a quiet -held the house. Marget and Mysie went about -their work hardly speaking at all; Mrs. Douglas -sat alone with her stocking and her books of devotion; -the Tatler slept for hours together on chairs -that he knew well were prohibited; the very fire did -not crackle, but lay in a deep glow; the wind was -hushed, and moved softly round the white-faced -house among the heather. -</p> - -<p> -The enchantment lifted when the pony-cart -bringing Ann back was seen coming up the hill. -Mrs. Douglas at once began to pile the fire high with -logs and coal; the Tatler, as if aware of an impending -upheaval, awoke, stretched himself, and stalked -out of the room, while in the kitchen Mysie flew to -make hot toast and Marget gave a final polish to -the already glittering silver. -</p> - -<p> -"Hear till her," Marget said to Mysie, with a -broad grin on her face, as Ann's voice was heard -greeting her mother. -</p> - -<p> -"She was aye like that; aye lauchin', an' aye fu' -o' impudence, the cratur! It's like a death in the -hoose when she's oot o't. Awa' ben wi' the tea, Mysie -woman; she'll want it afore she tak's off her things." -</p> - -<p> -"Well," said Mrs. Douglas, some time later, "it -is good to have you back." -</p> - -<p> -She had got her "reading" over early, the pile of -books was put away, and she was ready to listen to -Ann's news. -</p> - -<p> -"After two days!" said Ann, "you remind me of -Davie when he was once in bed with a bilious turn -till lunch-time. The moment he got up he rushed -to the window and said, with a gasp of thankfulness, -'It's good to see the green grass again.' You -must have enjoyed the rest from my long tongue. -I needn't ask if anyone called." -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Sharp came to tea with me yesterday." -</p> - -<p> -"Did he? Good man! You've got a very attentive -pastor, Motherkin." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," Mrs. Douglas agreed. "I must say I'm -fond of that young man, though he does read his -sermons and his theology isn't as sound as I would -like. We had such a nice talk, and he told me all -about his people. They are evidently not at all -well off, and he says they had a great business getting -the Manse furnished. But everything is paid for. -His father and mother are coming to visit him about -New Year time. We must try in every way we can -to make their visit enjoyable. He is so young, and -there is something very innocent about him—he -reminds me a little of Davie." -</p> - -<p> -"And were you favoured with much of Marget's -conversation?" Ann asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes. She came in and out; but Marget is -very dull when you are away. She used to say, when -you were all at Etterick and the house was peaceful -and the work light, 'It's a queer thing: I like faur -better when oor bairns are a' at hame.' Well, and -was Birkshaw nice? Tell me all about it." -</p> - -<p> -Ann had seated herself on her favourite stool in -front of the fire, and she now turned round facing -her mother, and nodded happily. -</p> - -<p> -"Birkshaw was very nice, and the Miss Scotts -are exactly the kind of hostesses I thought they -would be. When I saw my room I was sure of it. -Some people's spare rooms are just free-coups full -of pictures that nobody else will allow in their -rooms, chairs that are too hard for anything but a -guest to sit on, books that no one can read. And -in these spare rooms you generally find a corner of -the wardrobe reserved for somebody's parasols, and -a fur coat in camphor occupies the only really good -drawer. My room at Birkshaw was a treasure. -There was a delicious old four-post bed, with a little -vallance of chintz round the top, and all the rest of -the furniture in keeping. A nosegay on the -dressing-table, a comfortable couch drawn up to a blazing -fire, a table with a pile of most readable-looking -books, and absolutely unencumbered drawers. There -were only three other people staying in the house—a -man and his daughter—Barnes was the name—English. -Mr. Barnes was very sprightly, and looked -about fifty, and so, oddly enough, did his daughter. -Either she looked very old for her age or her father -looked much too young for his. She was a dull little -lady with protruding eyes and unbecoming clothes, -and she appeared to me rather to have given up the -unequal contest. I have noticed—haven't you?—that -very vivacious parents have often depressed -offspring, and <i>vice versa</i>. Mr. Barnes, though -English, was a great lover of Scotland, and an ardent -Jacobite. He confused me a good deal by talking -about Charles III. I found him very interesting, but -I had the feeling that he thought poorly of my -intelligence. And, of course," Ann finished cheerfully, -"I am almost entirely illiterate." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas looked mildly indignant. "Ann, -when I think of the money spent on your education——" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, you spent money all right, but no one could -make me learn when I didn't want to. I don't know -whether I was naturally stupid, or whether it was -sheer wickedness, but, anyway, it doesn't matter -now, except that intelligent people are bored with -me sometimes——" -</p> - -<p> -"Who was the other person staying at Birkshaw? -Didn't you say there were three?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, a bachelor nephew of the Miss -Scotts'—Mr. Philip Scott." -</p> - -<p> -"Young?" -</p> - -<p> -Ann screwed her face. "Youngish. Forty or -thereabouts—forty-five, I should think. Oh yes, -because he told me he was thirty-eight when the -war came. He looked quite young because he was -slim, and he wasn't bald; rather a good-looking man." -</p> - -<p> -"Did you like him? Was he nice?" -</p> - -<p> -Ann laughed as if at the remembrance of something -pleasant. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes, I liked him. He was very companionable, -and it turned out we had a good many friends -in common. The Miss Scotts are extraordinarily -good company. There is no need to make conversation -at Birkshaw; the talk was so entertaining that -we sat an unconscionable time over our meals. And -they never worry you to do things. If you prefer -an arm-chair by the fire and a book—well and good. -You know how I hate visiting, as a rule, but I really -did enjoy my two nights away, and I learned a lot -about gardening." -</p> - -<p> -"Did you wear your new frock?" Mrs. Douglas asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes. You were quite right to advise me to -take it. You never know about people now. Some -have never got over war-habits and still wear sort -of half-and-half things in the evening—rather -tired-looking afternoon dresses or jumpers; but the Miss -Scotts came down charming in lace and jewels and -beautifully done hair. I do like that. Heaviest of -tweeds and thick boots in the daytime, but in the -evening perfect in every detail—so I was glad I -had a pretty fresh frock to do them honour." -</p> - -<p> -Ann stretched out her feet to the blazing fire. -"But it's fine to be back in this dear room, wearing -slippers not quite in their first youth, and a dress -that no amount of lounging will hurt. Birkshaw -doesn't come up to Dreams, though it is several -centuries older, and at least three times bigger and full -of priceless treasures in the way of pictures and -furniture and books——" -</p> - -<p> -Ann stopped to laugh at her own absurdity, and -her mother said, "You're like your father, child. He -never saw anything to equal his own house. He -didn't know the meaning of envy——" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, but I'm not like that. Envy! I'm sometimes -chock-full of it——" -</p> - -<p> -The door opened and Marget came in. She was -primed with an excuse for her appearance, but Ann -didn't give her time to make it. -</p> - -<p> -"Come away, Marget, and hear all about Birkshaw, -and tell me what has been happening since -I went away. I've just been saying to Mother that -I'm very glad to be back." -</p> - -<p> -Ann pulled forward a chair, which Marget -accepted primly. -</p> - -<p> -"I dare say ye are. We 'gree fine, the fower o' us." -</p> - -<p> -"And yet, Marget," said Ann, "I have just been -reading a book by a very clever woman in which she -says that women cannot live together with any -profit. They fester. That is the ugly expression -she uses." -</p> - -<p> -Marget gave a disgusted snort. "Mebbe thae -saft scented weemen, aggravatin' and clawin' at -each other like cats, no' weemen wi' self-respect an' -wark to do. A' the same, I'm no' sayin' I'll no' be -glad when Maister Jimmie comes hame. I like a -man aboot the hoose. It's kin o' hertless work -cookin' for weemen; hauf the time they're no' heedin' -what they're eatin'." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, Marget," said her mistress, "it's not like -the days when the boys were all home from school -and you couldn't make a pudding big enough." -</p> - -<p> -Marget shook her head sadly. "It is not, Mem," -she said, and then, turning suddenly to Ann, she -asked, "Hoo's the <i>Life</i> gettin' on?" -</p> - -<p> -Ann jumped up and went to the writing-table. -"That reminds me I've no business to be sitting -roasting my face at the fire when I haven't written -a word for nights." -</p> - -<p> -She found a notebook and pencil and came back -to the fireside. "The Moncrieffs will be on us before -we are half finished. We've got to Glasgow, Marget. -Tell me your first impression of that great city." -</p> - -<p> -Marget sat forward with one hand on each knee. -</p> - -<p> -"Eh, I thocht it was an awfu' place. D'ye mind, -Mem, thon day you took me awa' into Argyle Street -to see the 'Poly'—a place mair like a toun than a -shop? I was fair fear't." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas, picking up a stitch, stopped to laugh. -</p> - -<p> -"That was a great day, Marget. You suddenly -found yourself looking into a long mirror, and you -turned to me and said, 'Eh, I say—there's a -wumman awfu' like ma sister.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Didn't you know yourself, Marget?" Ann asked. -</p> - -<p> -"No' me. I had never seen the whole o' masel' -afore, an' how was I to ken I was sic a queer-lookin' -body?" -</p> - -<p> -"I know," said Ann. "I've had some shocks -myself." She turned to her mother. "I always -sympathised with Trudi in <i>The Benefactress</i> when she -looked into a mirror and was disgusted to find that -she wasn't looking as pretty as she felt. But, -Marget, what else struck you besides the size of the -'Poly' and its mirrors?" -</p> - -<p> -Marget was chuckling to herself. "I aye mind -how affrontit I was in the 'Poly.' I wanted to buy -something, but the only thing I could mind I wanted -was a yaird o' hat elastic. A young man, like a -lord, leaned over the counter and says, 'What can -I do for you, Madam?'" -</p> - -<p> -Here Marget became convulsed with laughter, -and had to wipe her eyes before going on. "'Aw,' -says I, 'a yaird o' hat elastic,' an' says he, 'One -penny, Madam.' I thocht fair shame to see a braw -man like that servin' me wi' hat elastic. I telt the -mistress I wadna gang back there till I needed a new -goon or something wise-like. Ay, there was a heap -o' queer things in Glasgae that we hadna in Kirkcaple, -but I likit it fine. We a' settled doon rale -comfortable, an' a'body that cam' to Glasgae frae -Kirkcaple cam' to oor kirk, so we never felt far -frae hame. Oh, I likit Glasgae rale weel when once -I fund ma way aboot." -</p> - -<p> -"It's odd," said Ann, "to think of Glasgow as the -'Scottish Oxford' of the seventeenth-century -traveller. How pretty it must have been, with gardens -going down to the Clyde, a college in the High -Street, an old cathedral on a hill overlooking the -city, and with so clear an air that a mountain -called 'Ben Lomond' could be seen by the -shopkeepers of King Street. Alack-a-day! the green -places have been laid waste.... Mother, do you -remember on winter nights as we sat round the fire -how we sometimes used to hear men calling 'Call-er -oy-sters? That is the most vivid recollection that -has remained with me of those Glasgow days—a -November evening with a touch of the fog that -frost was apt to bring, a clear fire burning in the -nursery grate, books and games scattered about, and -through the misty stillness outside the cry, 'Call-er -oy-sters.' I used to lift a corner of the blind to look -out, wondering if I would see some wandering sailorman -with a pokeful of oysters on his back—but there -was nothing, nothing but the strangely mournful cry." -</p> - -<p> -"Glasgae folk," said Marget, who had not been -listening, but thinking her own thoughts, "are awfu' -easy to ken and rale nice, but they're no' so -hospitable as they get the name for bein'." -</p> - -<p> -"Why, Marget," cried Mrs. Douglas, astonished, -"Glasgow people are considered the very essence of -hospitality." -</p> - -<p> -Marget set her mouth obstinately. "Weel, Mem, -it's mebbe as you say, but I've sat whole nichts in -their hooses an' they never so much as said to me, -'Collie, wull ye lick?' When ye went into a hoose -at Kirkcaple the first thing they did was to pit on -the kettle. Glasgae folk made a great fuss aboot ye, -but they're no' great at offerin' ye meat." -</p> - -<p> -"This," said Ann, sharpening a pencil, "is quite -a new light on Glasgow people. They are accused -of many things, but seldom of inhospitality." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I must say," said Mrs. Douglas, "that I -missed in Glasgow the constant interchange of -hospitality that we had in Kirkcaple. For instance, -when your father exchanged with another minister -it was always a question of staying the week-end; -and, if the minister who came to help at the -Communion was a friend, his wife (if he had one) was -always invited with him. And then we had endless -parties, and people dropping in casually all the time, -as is the friendly country way. In a big city -everything is different. Ministers came to preach, but -we only saw them for a few minutes in the vestry; -they had no time to come out to us for a meal. -Everything was a rush; we had all so much to do -that there was little coming and going between the -different ministers' wives. Almost our only -meeting-place was the house in which the Clerical Club -was held once a month, when papers were read and -we had tea." -</p> - -<p> -"I liked when the Club was at our house," said -Ann, "but I thought ministers had very poor taste -in jokes: they laughed so much at such very poor -ones. I remember one facetious minister saying -to me, 'It would be a grand job ours if it weren't -for the Sabbaths,' and looking startled when I -cordially agreed with him. To a child of twelve the -writing of sermons does seem a waste of time. But, -Mother, you knew lots of ministers' wives in -Glasgow. Why, Mr. Johnston is still a bosom friend -of yours. Oh, do you remember how you used to -tease Father by holding up Mr. Johnston as an -example of what every minister should be?" -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't mean it; your father knew that very -well, and he didn't care a scrap who was held up -to him—but I wish now I hadn't done it. But the -Johnstons were really the most exemplary couple -in every way, almost provoking in their perfection. -Their church was quite near Martyrs, and their -house was quite near ours, and we were very good -friends; but sometimes I couldn't help being envious -a little. In Inchkeld and Kirkcaple we had had -prosperous, well-attended churches, but in Glasgow that -was changed. Our new field, so to speak, was a -difficult one. Martyrs was in the heart of the town, -in a district full of Jews and Roman Catholics, -which meant that we had a very small population -to draw from, and most of our people came from -distant suburbs. When we came to Glasgow, -Martyrs was known as 'the scrapit kirk' because of -its white, unpainted seats. No hymn had ever been -sung in it; rarely, if ever, a paraphrase. A precentor -in a box led the people in the Psalms of David. -Everything was as it had been for the last hundred -years. The congregation looked a mere handful in -the great church, and I must say I quailed in spirit -when I saw the wilderness of empty seats." -</p> - -<p> -"Jeanie Tod, the nursemaid," said Ann, "always -let me read not only the letters she received, but -the letters she wrote, and in one I read: 'The -church is very <i>toom</i>, but Mr. Douglas will soon fill -it.' It was indeed <i>toom</i>, but every Sunday we -expected quite suddenly it would fill up and we would -go in and find a crowd. It did fill up a little, didn't -it Mother?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes, a lot of new people came; but it was -never anything like full. Mr. Johnston, with the -very same difficulties to contend with, had his filled -to overflowing. He was a splendid organiser, and -very wise and prudent; and his wife was just as -good in her own way. She was a miracle for -cutting out—I was no good at that—and her -sewing-classes and Mothers' Meetings, and indeed -everything she attempted, were the best in the district, -and she was so pretty and neat that it was a pleasure -to look at her. If I held Mr. Johnston up to -your father, I held Mrs. Johnston up to myself." -</p> - -<p> -"But Father worked just as hard as Mr. Johnston," -Ann said. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes, but he hadn't Mr. Johnston's business -capacity. He was the despair of those who look for -the reality of things in minute-books and financial -statements. A small audience never troubled him. -Every one was there that the message was meant -for, he sometimes told me. For what the world -calls success he never craved. I could see that it -was fine, but it was rather annoying, too." -</p> - -<p> -Ann laughed, and Marget said reminiscently, "It -was a braw kirk when we got it a' pentit and the seats -widened, and a choir and organ and hymns..." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Mrs. Douglas; "gradually the service -was brought into line with present-day ideas. -I confess I was rather sorry, and your father would -have been very pleased to leave it as it was. He -infinitely preferred the Psalms of David to mere -'human' hymns." -</p> - -<p> -"I should think so," said Ann. "Imagine singing -a chirruppy hymn when one might sing 'O thou, -my soul, bless God the Lord,' to the tune of -'French.'" -</p> - -<p> -"'Deed," said Marget, "a buddy never gets tired -o' the psalms; they're wonderfu' comfortin', but -some o' the hymns are ower bairnly even for bairns. -I've a fair ill-will at that yin aboot 'What can little -eyes do?' but I like fine to sing 'There is a happy -land far, far away.' We aye sung that on Sabbath -nichts when ye were a' wee." -</p> - -<p> -"There's a lot in association," Ann said. "Words -you have loved as a child have always a glamour -over them. I liked the sound of the psalms, but I -got dreadfully tied up in the hymns. I always -sang: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'Can a woman's tender care<br /> - Cease towards the child she-bear?'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -with the picture in my mind of a dear fubsey bear -being petted. D'you remember Robbie always -chose hymns that mentioned Satan?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ay," Marget said seriously. "Puir Maister -Robbie had aye an awfu' wark wi' Satan, when he -was a wee laddie." -</p> - -<p> -Ann laughed, and, getting up from the fender-stool, -went over to the bureau. -</p> - -<p> -"Mother," she said, "I promised to ask Mr. Scott -over to see our funny little house. Would luncheon -on Thursday be a suitable sort of time?" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap14"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XIV -</h3> - -<p> -Ann had been writing steadily for nearly an -hour. -</p> - -<p> -Her mother, watching her, said: -</p> - -<p> -"I'm afraid, if you write so hard, your brain -will go." -</p> - -<p> -Ann, as if glad of the interruption, laid her pen -in a china dish, pushed away the sheets of paper, -sighed deeply, and, rising, came over to the fire. -</p> - -<p> -"I know it will," she said. "I can feel it doing -it. It's that old <i>Life</i> of yours—I can't make it -sound right. Sir Walter Raleigh talks somewhere -of men whose true selves are almost completely -obscured beneath their ragged and incompetent -speech. I'm afraid I'm concealing you completely -under my 'ragged and incompetent' words. If you -live to be ninety, as you threaten, it will be all right; -the children will be able to make their own estimate, -but, if they have to depend on my <i>Life</i>, I -don't quite know what they'll make of you." -</p> - -<p> -Ann began to laugh in a helpless way. "It's -funny. I know so well what impression I want to -give, but when I try to write it down it's just -nothing—stilted, meaningless sentences. I want to make -a picture of Dr. Struthers. I've been trying for -the last hour, labouring in rowing, covering my brow -in wrinkles, with no result. How would you -describe him?" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas thought for a minute. "It would -be difficult to make a true picture of him. If you -simply told of the views that were his, how he -wouldn't sing a paraphrase, let alone a hymn, and -held the Sabbath day as something that must not -be broken, you would give an impression of narrowness -and rigid conservatism that wouldn't at all be -the Dr. Struthers that we knew. When we heard -that the Glasgow church had a senior minister, we -thought it was a drawback; your father rather -wondered how he would comport himself as a 'colleague -and successor,' but we didn't know Dr. Struthers -then. Sometimes, in Glasgow, when we were -inclined to regret Kirkcaple and the flourishing -congregation, and the peaceful time we enjoyed -there—but when I say peaceful I mean only -comparatively, no minister's wife ever attains to peace in -this world!—your father would say, 'But if we had -stayed in Kirkcaple we would never have known -Dr. Struthers,' and that closed the matter. When I -first met him I thought he was more like some fresh, -hearty old country laird than a parson. But he -was really very frail, and to walk even a short -distance was a great effort. He had a place about -fifty miles from Glasgow, Langlands, and as long -as he was able he came to preach in Martyrs about -once a month. The old congregation adored to have -him come, but the newcomers, who had no romance -about the old man, thought his sermons much too -long. And they were too long as sermons go now. -We are not the patient listeners our forefathers -were. Dr. Struthers once said to me that no man -could do justice to a subject under fifty-five minutes, -and we used sometimes to think that he was done -before his allotted time, but he just went on." -</p> - -<p> -"We children dearly loved Dr. Struthers," said -Ann; "but we did not appreciate the length of his -sermons. My friend, Mrs. Smail—the butcher's -wife, you remember?—used to sit with a most forlorn -face while he preached; thinking, I expect, that -she would be half an hour late, and that the -numerous young Smails would have fallen in the fire. -Dear me, it's a long time since I thought of -Mrs. Smail. I liked her very much. There was a sort of -bond of sympathy between us, and she invited me -sometimes to tea-parties where we got tea and -cookies and penny cakes and hot roast beef. I never -learned to appreciate the combination, but the rest -of the company seemed to enjoy it. I sat beside -one gentleman who, after doing full justice to the -meal, wiped his forehead with a red silk handkerchief, -and, turning to me, said, 'A grand house this -for flesh.' After the 'flesh' we all contributed songs -and recitations—great evenings. Well, what I -mean to say is that Mrs. Smail represented the new -people who were impatient of Dr. Struthers and -impatient of all the old traditions of the church -which the original members clung to with such -pathetic loyalty." -</p> - -<p> -"But in time," said Mrs. Douglas, "the new-comers -got to see how very fine the old man was, -and everybody was sorry when he got too frail to -preach. It was quite extraordinary how fond you -children were of him, for he never told you stories -or played with you." -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Ann thoughtfully, "he never did -anything to make himself popular. We didn't expect -it any more than we would have expected a god -from Mount Olympus to jest with a mortal. They -say we needs must love the highest when we see it, -but that isn't true; often the highest simply -irritates. I think it was his simple goodness that made -us fond of him, and a certain understanding and -sympathy that he had for bad children. And he -never talked down to us or became facetious." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas nodded. "I know. Children like -to be taken seriously, and Dr. Struthers was -certainly not given to making fun of them." -</p> - -<p> -Ann clasped her hands round her knees and -looked into the fire. -</p> - -<p> -"One thing we liked about the Glasgow Sundays -was that we stayed down in the vestry for lunch. -It was our weekly picnic, and the fact that it was -eaten in the church premises gave a touch of -solemnity to the occasion. When Dr. Struthers was -preaching, we had a more elaborate meal. Strong -beef-tea was made at home and brought down in a -bottle to be heated, for he was often very exhausted -after preaching. One never-to-be-forgotten day I -was told to watch the pan of beef-tea heating, and I -had evidently begun to dream, for the pan fell into -the fire and the contents were lost. I felt as badly -about it as any of you, but I only made a sulky face. -I knew it was a real deprivation for the old man, -though he made light of it, and said cocoa would -be a nice change, and I felt very unhappy all through -lunch. There was a particularly fine orange among -some apples on a plate, and you asked Dr. Struthers -to take it, but he looked across at my small sullen -face and said, with that most delightful smile of -his, 'I think we must give this orange to Ann.' I -never forgot the way he did it; the 'pretty and -sweet manner' of it quite conquered me and made -me far sorrier for my carelessness than any scolding -would have done. I don't believe scoldings ever -do any good, only harm." -</p> - -<p> -"Some children," said Mrs. Douglas, "are the -better of scoldings. Mark always 'took a telling,' -but the more you and Robbie were scolded, the worse -you got.... Generally Dr. Struthers stayed with -his daughter, but now and again he stayed with us. -We liked having him, but it made rather an upheaval -in our modest establishment. You see, he -had to bring his man, Samuel Thomson, with him, -and Samuel Thomson was such a very superior, -silver-haired, apple-cheeked gentleman's gentleman, -we could hardly ask him to take his meals in the -kitchen, so the boys' study had to be given up to him. -Davie was very fond of sitting with him, and I -once overhead Samuel Thomson reading aloud to -him from the Bible some Old Testament story, and -commenting on what he read. Those were grand -angels, Master David,' he was saying. It was the -time when Davie cared for nothing but to be like -a jockey." -</p> - -<p> -"'Angels!' he said, 'I thought you were talking -about horses,' and he straddled away in deep -disgust." -</p> - -<p> -Ann laughed. "Davie was very much against all -things religious at that time, and he wouldn't even -say his prayers. Marget used to toil up from the -kitchen to reason with him, and when he heard her -coming he would give a wicked wallop in his bed -and say, 'That's Marget comin' to convert me.' You -know, Mother, in some ways Davie was a much more -abandoned character than we were as children. We -reverenced the Covenanters, but Davie said he -preferred Claverhouse, and most blasphemously said of -John Brown, of Priesthill—he must have got the -expression from Marget—'I think John Brown was -a <i>gey lawd</i>.' Speaking of conversion, I think -Dr. Struthers was the only person we didn't mind -'speaking personally' to us. We realised that he, -like Nehemiah, 'feared the Lord above many.' When -Mark told him he meant to go to Oxford -and then to the Bar, he said, 'Look higher than the -Woolsack, Mark.' He spoke kindly to Jeanie Tod -about her home in Kirkcaple, and said, 'Do you ever -think where you are going?' and I shall always -remember how one day he laid his big soft hand on -my unruly head and said, 'Little Ann, <i>take -Jesus</i>.' Do you remember one day when he was preaching -I announced that I had a sore throat and couldn't -possibly go to church, and was allowed to remain -at home? Dr. Struthers missed me, and asked why -I wasn't there, and you—not greatly believing, I -daresay, in the excuse—said I had a sore throat. -Mark rushed home between services to tell me that -Dr. Struthers had prayed for me in church, prayed -that my bodily affliction might pass from me! -Guiltily aware of perfect health—my sore throat -hadn't kept me from eating apples and reading a -story-book—I didn't know what awful consequences -the prayer might have. Anyway, I flew upstairs, -flung on my coat and hat, and was in my place for -the afternoon service, determined to ward off any -more petitions on my behalf. But I was never -frightened for Dr. Struthers after I found he liked -adventure books and didn't even mind the swear -words. He was surely a very rich man, Mother? -Ministers don't as a rule have places like -Langlands, and man-servants and maid-servants. A -house and a wife, and a stranger within the gates -are about all they ever attain to." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, he was rich, but I never met anyone who -gave one so little an impression of great possessions. -Having his treasure laid up where thieves cannot -break through and steal, he cared little for the gold -of this world. He gave largely, but so unobtrusively -that it wasn't until his death that we realised -the extent of his givings. He was the humblest of -men, lowly and a peacemaker." -</p> - -<p> -"Once," said Ann, "Robbie and Jim and I went -from Etterick to spend the day at Langlands. It -was after Mrs. Struthers died, and Miss Calder kept -house. I somehow think we weren't expected. -There was something queer about it, anyway, and -Miss Calder, although she was kind, as she always -was, looked very worried. She had some engagement -in the village that morning, so she sent us up -the hill to play till luncheon. We went obediently -up the hill, but as soon as we saw Miss Calder walk -down the avenue, back we pranced. Samuel Thomson -saw us, and, conducting us to the croquet lawn, -advised us to have a game. He helped us to put -out the hoops, and we began to play. Unfortunately -Robbie and I soon fell into a discussion about -the right and wrong way to play, and I regret to -say I kicked Robbie, who at once retaliated, and -the next thing the horrified eyes of Samuel -Thornton saw was Robbie and me hitting one another -with croquet mallets. It was only the beginning -of a thoroughly ill-spent day, and if Dr. Struthers -and Miss Calder hadn't been the most patient and -forgiving of people we would never have been asked -back." -</p> - -<p> -"It was odd," said Mrs. Douglas; "but you and -Robbie could never behave properly if you were -together. I wonder I was so rash as to let you go -away for a whole day, and to Langlands of all -places. Its beautiful tidiness seemed to act on you -in a pernicious way. It was always a treat to me -to go to Langlands. I enjoyed the beauty and the -peace of it, and it seemed exactly the right setting -for Dr. Struthers. I was thankful that, when the -end came, it came at Langlands, suddenly, painlessly, -and most fittingly on the Sabbath day. 'I am -going,' he said to Samuel Thomson, and in a minute -he was gone, almost 'translated unaware.'" -</p> - -<p> -"What a beautiful way to die," said Ann. "His -task accomplished and the long day done. Without -weariness of waiting, with no pain of parting, -suddenly to find his boat in the harbour and to see his -Pilot face to face." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap15"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XV -</h3> - -<p> -The arrival of the post was almost the only -excitement at Dreams, and on the days that -the Indian and South African mails came, Mrs. Douglas -could do nothing but pore over the precious -letters. She pounced on them when they arrived, -and read them anxiously; after luncheon she read -them again, and in the evening she read them aloud -in case she or Ann had missed a word. -</p> - -<p> -One evening she sat with a pile of letters on her -lap, her large tortoise-shell spectacles on the top of -the pile, and said, with a satisfied sigh: -</p> - -<p> -"This has been a good day—news from all quarters. -I am glad Jim is having this tour. He does -love to see the world, and to be able to combine -business and pleasure makes a holiday ideal. -Charlotte and Mark seem to be enjoying their trip -greatly, but I can see Charlotte's thoughts are -always with the children. She says she knows they -won't be missing her, but I think she is wrong. I -dare say they are quite happy, but they must feel -a lack. Charlotte has such pretty ways with her -children, and I think they realise that they have got -rather a special mother, though Rory says, 'Poor -Mummy's English, but we're Scots.' I do wonder, -Ann, when Rory is going to begin to write better. -This letter is a disgrace, both in writing and -spelling, and his school report said that he cared for -nothing but cricket and food." -</p> - -<p> -"What does it matter, Mother?" said Ann comfortably; -"he is only nine. I'm glad he isn't precocious, -and I like his staggering little letters. He -said to me once, 'P'r'aps you notice that I always -say the same thing in my letters?' I said that I had -noticed a certain lack of variety in his statements, -and he explained, 'You see, those are the only words -I can spell, and I don't like to ask people.' It isn't -in the least that he lacks brains. He knows all sorts -of things outside his ordinary lessons: about the ways -of birds and beasts you can't fickle him; and he -reads a lot and has his own ideas about things. He -hates Oliver Cromwell and all his works. One day -at table some one mentioned that great man, and -Rory's face got pink all over, and he said, 'I hate -him, the sieve-headed brute.' It was funny to see -Mark, whose admiration for Oliver Cromwell is -unbounded, surveying his small son. A more unjust -accusation was never made, but Rory is a born -Royalist." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas shook her head. "He ought to -write better than he does. I don't think children -are taught properly now. Have they copy-books? -I used to write copperplate; indeed, I got a prize -for writing." -</p> - -<p> -"I know," said Ann, "and one for spelling, and -one for dictation, and one for composition, and -one for French. You used to reel them off to me -when I came home without a single one. The only -prize I got was for needlework, and I fear it was -more by way of a consolation prize than anything -else. No wonder I feel for poor old Rory. Alis is -more of your school of thought; she is a clever -child." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas refused to be optimistic. "Alis -picks things up almost too easily. I'm afraid she -will be a Jack-of-all-trades. Did you read Nannie's -letter? Rob and Davie seem to be thriving. Charlotte -will find a great difference in the little -pair." Mrs. Douglas put on her spectacles and took up a -letter to read extracts, but Ann caught her hand. -</p> - -<p> -"Not now, Mother, please; we must talk of Glasgow -now. I want to finish your <i>Life</i> this week and -get begun to my Christmas presents. You'll read -the letters to us when Marget and Mysie come in to -prayers.... I wish you would give me your advice, -for, after all, it is your affair. So far I have -drawn your portrait as a very efficient, very -painstaking, and, I fear, very dull minister's wife. You -see, that side of you is so easy to draw. But the -other side is so much more <i>you</i>. If I could only -write about you as I remember you at home with -us, anxiously doing your best for every one, slaving -away with Sales of Work and Mothers' Meetings, -incorrigibly hospitable, pretending deep and abiding -pessimism, but liable at any moment to break into -bursts of delightful nonsense and rash talking—the -person who never talks rashly is a weariness to the -flesh—a most excellent mimic—when you came in -from visiting, you made us see the people you had -been seeing—with a rare talent for living..." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laid down her stocking and gasped -at her daughter: -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Ann</i>! I don't know what you mean. There -never was a more ordinary woman, and if you try -to make me anything else, you are simply romancing. -I'm sure you have always said that you would -know me for a minister's wife a mile away." -</p> - -<p> -"In appearance, my dear lady, you are a typical -minister's wife, but your conversation is often a -pleasing surprise. And, oh! surely, Mother, all -ministers' wives don't behave to congregations as -you did. <i>Given to hospitality</i> should be your -epitaph. I remember when we left Glasgow, -Mrs. Nicol, bemoaning to me your going away, said, -'Well, we'll never get another like her. Who else -would have bothered to have me and my wild boys -in her house?' and I, remembering John and -Mackenzie, could have echoed, '<i>Who, indeed?</i>'" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas was about to speak, but Ann -hurried on: -</p> - -<p> -"No, Mother, don't defend them. You can't have -forgotten that black day when the Nicol family -arrived to spend the afternoon—John and Mackenzie, -ripe for any wickedness. The house had just been -spring cleaned, and was spotless, and those two boys -went through it like an army with banners. It was -wet, and they couldn't go out to the garden, and -they scoffed at the very idea of looking at -picture-books. They slid down the banisters, they -tobogganed down the white enamelled stairs, they kicked -the paint off the doors. They broke Davie's cherished -air-gun, and their mother, instead of rebuking -them, seemed to admire their high spirits. Utterly -worn out, I left them to work their wicked will in -the box-room—I thought they would be comparatively -harmless there; but presently we smelt burning, -and found them in your bedroom with the -towel-horse on fire. No man knows how they -accomplished it, for a towel-horse isn't a particularly -inflammable thing, but if I hadn't managed to throw -it out of the window, I believe the house might have -been burned down." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laughed, and told her daughter -not to exaggerate. -</p> - -<p> -"Mrs. Nicol was a particularly nice woman, and -there was nothing wrong with John and Mackenzie -except high spirits. Mackenzie came to see us at -Priorsford—I think you must have been away from -home—such a quiet, well-mannered young fellow. -Both he and his brother are doing very well. The -Nicols were mild compared to the Wrights—you -remember Phil and Ronald?" -</p> - -<p> -Ann threw up her hands at the mention of the names. -</p> - -<p> -"The Wrights," she said, "were really the frozen -edge. The only thing Mrs. Wright had ever been -able to teach her offspring was to call her 'Mother -dear,' which they did religiously. Davie was no -model, but he sat round-eyed at the performance -of the Wrights when they came to tea. They -mounted on the table and pranced among the butter -and jam dishes, and to all their mother's anguished -entreaties to desist they replied, in the broadest of -accents, 'We wull not, Mother dear—we wull not.' They -thought Davie's accent rather finicking—Davie's -accent which at that stage was a compound -of low Glasgow and broad Linlithgow picked up -from the nursemaid—and asked, 'Is Davie English, -Mother dear?' -</p> - -<p> -"'No, no, darlings' (Mrs. Wright's own accent -was all that there was of the most genteel), 'he only -speaks nicely.' Marget used to shake her head over -the Wrights and say, 'Eh, I say, thae bairns need a -guid skelpin'.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Mrs. Douglas; "but the last time I -saw the Wright boys they were the most glossy-looking -creatures—you know the kind of young men -whose hair looks unnaturally bright and whose -clothes fit almost too well; don't you call them -'knuts'?—with supercilious manners and -Glasgow-English voices, and I rather yearned for the -extremely bad but quite unaffected little boys they -once had been." -</p> - -<p> -"I know; one often regrets the 'lad that is gone.' Boys -are like pigs, they are nicest when they are -small. Talking of the Wrights reminds me of a -children's party we once gave, to which you invited -a missionary's little girl, and two black boys. You -had never seen them and thought they would be -quite tiny, and when they came they were great -strong creatures with <i>pointed teeth</i>. Somebody told -us they had teeth like that because they were -cannibals, and, after hearing that, it was a nightmare -evening. We played hide-and-seek, and every one -screamed with terror when caught by the poor black -boys. It was terrible to see them eating sandwiches -at supper and reflect on what they would have <i>liked</i> -to eat." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Ann! The poor innocents! They weren't -cannibals; they were rescued by the missionaries -when they were babies. But I must say I was rather -alarmed when I saw how big they were. They -didn't realise their own strength, and I was afraid -they might hurt some of the little ones. I spent an -anxious evening, too." -</p> - -<p> -"Mother," said Ann, leaning forward with her -elbows on her knees and her face supported in her -two hands, "you were dreadfully given to spoiling -the look of my parties. The boys didn't mind, but -I was a desperate little snob. It seemed impossible -for me to have the kind of party other girls had, -with all the children prettily dressed, and dancing, -and a smart supper. At the last moment you were -always discovering some child who was crippled and -didn't get any fun, or some one who hadn't a proper -party frock and hadn't been asked to any parties. -You told them it didn't matter what they wore to -our house, and insisted on their coming—'compelled -them to come in.' Oh, you were a real 'highways -and hedges person'! As a matter of fact, it wasn't -at all kind to ask those children. They felt out of -it and unhappy, no matter how much one tried. -If you had asked them when there wasn't a party, -and they could have had all the attention, it would -have been infinitely better." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I dare say," said Mrs. Douglas. "I've spent -my life doing impulsive things and regretting them. -But, Ann, though you laugh at me about having -so many people to the house, the trouble we took -was nothing compared to the pleasure it gave. In -our church there were so many who needed -encouragement: single women fighting for a living and -coming home after a long day's work to cook their -supper over a gas-ring were glad at times to get a -well-cooked and daintily served meal, with people -to talk to while they ate; and mothers cooped up in -tiny flats with noisy children liked to walk to a green -suburb, and get tea and home-made scones and jam; -and it does make a difference to boys from the -country, living in lodgings, if they know there is some -house they can go to whenever they like." -</p> - -<p> -"True, my dear, true, and I don't suppose you -ever denied yourself to anyone, no matter how tired, -or ill, or grieved you were feeling. You welcomed -them all with 'gently smiling jaws.' Do you -remember the only occasion on which we said 'Not at -home'? We had been at the church hall all afternoon -preparing it for a church 'At Home' and had -just come in for tea and a short rest, with the -prospect of three hours' solid smiling later in the -evening. When I found the housemaid going to answer -the door-bell I hissed at her, 'Say not at home,' and -by sheer bad luck the caller turned out to be a -minister's wife from a distance, who had depended on -being warmed and fed at our house. She had gone -home cold and tealess and, as a consequence, got a -bad chill, and we felt so guilty about it we trailed -away to see her, and on hearing she had a sale of -work in prospect—when has a minister's wife not -a sale of work in prospect?—we felt bound to send -her a handsome contribution. I sadly sacrificed on -the altar of remorse some pretty silver things I had -brought from India, feeling it an expensive pleasure -to say 'Not at home.' But of course you are right. -Now that it is all over and we have long hours to -read and write and think long thoughts, it is nice to -feel that you helped a lot of people over rough bits -of the road and didn't think of how tired it made you." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas looked at her daughter with -unsmiling eyes. "Do you know what I feel?" she -asked. "I feel that I have done nothing—<i>nothing</i>. -All the opportunities I was given, I can see now how -I missed them; while I was busy here and there, -they were gone. And I grumbled when I trudged -down to the sewing-class on Monday nights, -leaving all you children. I used sometimes to envy -the mothers who had no kirk, and no meetings, and -could spend their evenings at home. I had to be -out so many nights of the week. No wonder poor -little Davie said, 'I wish I had a mother who didn't -go to meetings.' And it was such a long way home. -Standing shivering in the wind and rain at the -corner of Bridge Street, waiting for a car, I wondered -if there would ever come a time when I would sit -at my ease in the evenings with no late meetings to -bother about. I didn't know how blessed I was. -'The Almighty was still with me, and my children -were about me.' How could I know when I yearned -for ease and idleness that when I got them I should -sit bereft, and ask nothing better than the old -hard-working days back——" -</p> - -<p> -Ann said nothing for a minute, but sat scribbling -on a corner of her paper; then she looked at her -mother, and her eyes were half sad, half merry: -</p> - -<p> -"It's an odd thing, Motherkin, that only very -good people feel their own shortcomings. Now, I, -covered as with a garment by sins of omission and -commission, am quite perky and well pleased with -myself. I walk on my heels and think what a noble -creature I am, and how much people must admire -me. Try being complacent, my dear, for a change! -It's much more comfortable. You know, Mother, -you should have been a Roman Catholic, then you -could have worn a hair shirt, and done all sorts of -little penances and kept yourself happy." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Ann!" Mrs. Douglas gave a laugh that -was almost a sob. "You do talk such utter -nonsense, but you look at me with your father's -eyes..." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, what I want is to get some information -about the Glasgow part of your life. You started -a lot of new things, didn't you, in connection with -the church?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes, a sewing-class and a mother's meeting, -and a fellowship meeting and a literary society—I -forget what else, but they were all more or less -successful. Martyrs people were delightful to work -with—so appreciative." -</p> - -<p> -"And very amusing," said Ann; "I always enjoyed -their remarks about things. I overheard one -young man say, as he wiped his heated brow after -a thoroughly unventilated evening spent looking at -magic-lantern slides of various mission -stations—'My! I'm fair sweatin' comin' through thae -Tropics.' We always called him 'Tropics' after -that. What they thoroughly enjoyed was being -asked to our house. It wasn't till I grew up that -I appreciated those parties, but I very distinctly -remember some you gave at the time of your silver -wedding to let every one see the presents. We tried -to assort the people—young men and women in the -evening, and matrons in the afternoon. It wasn't -always easy to find suitable topics to converse on -with the matrons, but one afternoon some one -started the subject of washing clothes, and it called -forth a perfect flood of eloquence. Every one had -something to say, and we thrashed out the subject -from the first stage of soaking the clothes until they -were starched and ironed and put away. There -didn't seem to be one more word that could be -said about it when the arrival of some newcomers -made rearranging the room necessary. As I moved -about, I saw one woman hitch her chair nearer her -neighbour and heard her say thrillingly, 'Speakin' -aboot washing, Mrs. Law, did ye ever try——' It -became a favourite saying with us. When Robbie -wanted to change the subject he always began, -'Speakin' aboot washing, Mistress Law——'" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap16"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XVI -</h3> - -<p> -When Mr. Philip Scott came to lunch at -Dreams he stayed a long time—so long that -Marget remarked to Mysie in the kitchen, "That -man is surely het at hame that he's sittin' here so -long clatterin'." -</p> - -<p> -He had had a good lunch, had been shown the -house and what would be the garden, had walked -with Ann a little way along the hill road and duly -admired the view, and had then returned to the -living-room, where he sat talking and listening till -tea was brought in, stayed for an hour after tea, -and even then had seemed loath to go away. -</p> - -<p> -"Well," said Mrs. Douglas, when the guest had -at last departed, "it's a blessing there is a moon—and -that he knows the hill road well. It will take -him all his time to be at Birkshaw in time for -dinner." -</p> - -<p> -"You shouldn't have made yourself so agreeable, -Mother. He couldn't bear to leave your interesting -conversation." -</p> - -<p> -"As to that," said Mrs. Douglas, "it does one -good to see a man sometimes and hear a man's talk." -</p> - -<p> -"Mother," laughed Ann, "you dearly love a man, -and you have all the Victorian woman's reliance on -a man's opinion. You love doing things for their -benefit; you positively <i>pander</i> to them." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas refused to be abashed by this -accusation. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, why not? I think men are the lords of -creation, and I do like them to have the best of -everything. I like the old-fashioned way of doing -everything for one's men-folk—seeing that their -bags are properly packed and their clothes kept in -perfect order. I can't bear the modern way of -letting a man look after himself; it is so nice to feel -that one's men are dependent on one for their comfort." -</p> - -<p> -Ann groaned and, sitting down on the rug pulled -the Tatler into her lap. -</p> - -<p> -"Cat, d'you hear that? Lords of creation, indeed! -Those are your sentiments, too, aren't they?" -</p> - -<p> -The Tatler blinked sleepily, and stuck his claws -into Ann's arm. -</p> - -<p> -Ann pushed him away and got up. "Ah yes, -Mother, I know you of old. I didn't mind running -errands for Father when he came in tired, but I did -resent being told: 'Run and pack Mark's bag.' 'Get -Robbie a clean handkerchief——' That was -'fair ridiculous!'' -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, but, on the other hand, the boys were -always being told, 'Give it to Ann; she's the -girl.' You were utterly spoiled, and there's one thing, -Ann, I must ask you. When I'm asking a blessing -for tea, don't go on filling cups." -</p> - -<p> -"But I don't," Ann said indignantly, "though -what you want with a blessing for tea, I don't know. -Nobody I ever heard of has a blessing for tea except -Miss Barbara, and I generally had taken a large -bite out of a scone before she began, and it lay on -my plate and looked at me reproachfully. Poor -Mr. Scott spoke right through your blessing to-day; he -didn't know what you were doing." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas sighed deeply. "Ah, well, Ann, I -don't suppose I'll be with you very long to worry -you with my old-fashioned ways." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Mother, that's not fair. You're hitting -below the belt." -</p> - -<p> -"But you may be away first," continued Mrs. Douglas, -"and then I shall be left to regret." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, then," said Ann flippantly, "we'll arrange -that neither of us will regret anything. You and -Mr. Scott made great friends, Mother. He has very -nice manners, hasn't he?" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laid down <i>Hours of Silence</i>, which -she had taken up to begin her evening's reading, -and removed the large spectacles which made her -look like a little owl. -</p> - -<p> -"I liked him, Ann. There is something very -likeable about him. He reminded me just a little of -Robbie." -</p> - -<p> -"I wondered if that would strike you," Ann said. -"It isn't that there is any resemblance, but he has -some of Robbie's ways.... He was tremendously -interested about your <i>Life</i>, Mother, so I gave him -what I had written to look over. Oh, you needn't -feel hurt about it. It's only that he may give me -some advice. He writes himself, you know. As -you say, it is nice to talk to a man again—one's own -kind of man. Mr. Sharp is a dear, but it isn't much -fun making conversation with him." -</p> - -<p> -There was silence in the room as Mrs. Douglas -began to read her evening portion out of each of her -many volumes, and Ann sat watching the flames -leap, and thinking, thinking. -</p> - -<p> -"Mother," she said suddenly, "you said a little -while ago that I was spoiled as a child, but I wasn't. -Dear me, I was a regular burden bearer, and Mark -christened me 'The Patient Cuddy'! You see, I was -hampered with always having a small brother to lug -about; I could never harden my heart enough to -leave them at home. An only girl in a family of -brothers has really a harassed existence. It would -have been different if Rosamund had lived. She -was too tiny to come into our games, though she -meant a great deal to us—much more than we -realised." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laid down her book. "She loved -being allowed to play with you," she said, "and -you were good about making games that she could -join in. But, somehow, she was more a companion -to her father and me than your playfellow. For -one thing, she shared your father's love of gardening. -The rest of you helped sometimes in the garden, -but you always let it be seen that it was a -penance. You hardly knew one flower from -another, and you sped like arrows from a bow -whenever you were released. But Rosamund trotted -about happily for hours, utterly contented to be with -her father and the flowers. We used often to say -to each other, your father and I, how different she -was to you and the boys. You were healthy, -ordinary children who never thought of saying pretty -things to your parents or anyone else. You found -the world so full of a number of things that your -days were passed in a sort of breathless investigation. -Rosamund was a revelation to us. She was -rather dignified and aloof with strangers, but for -her own people her heart was a treasure-house of -love. I never knew of so young a child having such -strong yet discerning affections. She wasn't in the -least priggish; indeed, she could be naughty in a -peculiarly impish way, and you children were -always teaching her rude expressions, which she used -to Marget, who adored her, but all Marget said was, -'D'ye think I'm gaun to quarrel wi' you, impident -little thing that ye are?' She and Marget were -great friends, and there was nothing she liked better -than to help Marget work, and bake little dough -rabbits with currants for eyes. The big black -cat—christened by Mark, 'William Tweezer, Earl of -Scullery'—superintended operations, and Marget -would say to him when he got in the way, 'Awa' oot -and play yersel', Weellum, like a man.' We had a -game that the fairy Whuppetie Stourie hid in the -nursery chimney and when little girls were good -laid a present on the hearth-rug. I didn't realise it -was all real to her until Jeanie Tod set the chimney -on fire, and Rosamund, with a white face, sobbed, -'Jeanie, you forget I've a friend up there.' I can -hear her voice now." -</p> - -<p> -"How you remember, Mother. I wish I could! -I can see her still, but I can't hear her voice. You -see, I was only about thirteen when she died, and -children forget so soon. I can remember looking -down into her face and thinking that her eyes were -like violets; and I remember a little white dress -trimmed with 'flowering,' and a blue cloak with a -hood. I remember at breakfast-time she used to -walk round the table and ask for tops of eggs. She -only got a whole egg on Sundays, and she never -forgot to pray, 'Bless my whole egg next Sabbath -day.' She was a very happy child. I think she enjoyed -the little short time she had in the world, but she -was very shy and timid, wasn't she? You remember, -when Mrs. Lang asked her to a tea-party alone, -it quite preyed on her mind? The day of the party -she summoned up courage to ring the Langs' bell, -but when the servant came she had no words. Three -times she rang the bell without being able to give -a message, and the third time Mrs. Lang came -herself and said, 'Now, Rosamund, you are a naughty -child, and you must not ring the bell again until it -is time for the party.' Poor little Rosamund crept -away without ever being able to explain that all -she wanted to ask was that I might go with her! -Rather unlike Robbie, when Mark and I were -invited to a party, and he called at the house to ask -if there had been any mistake that he hadn't been -invited." -</p> - -<p> -"Dear Robbie," said Mrs. Douglas, then fell -silent. In a little she spoke again: -</p> - -<p> -"Christmas to me, even now, always seems Rosamund's -time. It is odd to think that she was only -with us for five short years, and she has been away -more than twenty, and yet the thought of her is -always with me. She lives to me so vividly that -it seems only yesterday that it all happened. As -Christmas drew near, you were all excited, but -Rosamund seemed utterly possessed with the spirit of the -season. She wanted to give presents to every one -she knew, and couldn't understand why any limit -should be put to the size of our Christmas party. -She loved dolls—unlike you, Ann, who never knew -how to hold a doll!—and I dressed her two great -big ones for her fourth Christmas, a wax one called -Muriel, and Black Sam. Old Mrs. Hamilton in -the church made her a wonderful rag-doll, as big as -a baby, with arms and legs complete, only the face -had a gruesome lack of profile. I dressed up like -Father Christmas and brought all the presents into -the room in a big basket, and made speeches as I -gave them out, and Rosamund was speechless with -delight. She could hardly tell me about it when I -came into the room a few minutes later, and her -great regret was that I had happened to be out of -the room; she thought it was such bad luck for me. -When she was dying she said, 'When Father Christmas -comes this year, tell him you have no Rosamund, -and ask him to give my presents to Ann.'" -</p> - -<p> -Ann moved quickly in her chair, and busied herself -for a little in putting some papers in order. -Then she burst out, "Why did she die, Mother? -What made her ill?" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas shook her head. "Ah, my dear! -We have these treasures in earthen vessels. I -suppose the time had come for us to give her back. It -began so simply. She was a very healthy child and -rarely ailed anything, but one day she got her feet -wet playing in the snow, and that brought on a -slight chill. It seemed to be nothing, and passed, -but after that we noticed her droop a little. I didn't -get the doctor at once, for I had so often got him on -false pretences, and I knew he thought me an -absurdly anxious mother, and when he came I was -quite apologetic, expecting to be told I had been -fussing again. But he didn't make light of it. He -said it was slight gastric fever, and she must go to -bed. That was in February. She seemed to get -over it quickly, and was soon up and playing as -busily as ever, but we noticed that she got tired. -We had never heard the child own to being tired -before, and it chilled our hearts to see her go and -sit down quietly in her little chair. Then we found -that her temperature had begun to rise in the -afternoon. In the morning it was subnormal, but as -the day advanced it crept up. We got one specialist -after another, but no one seemed able to stop the -horrible creeping fever. It was a very hard -winter; the snow lay on the ground well into March, -and I used to sit with Rosamund on my knee at the -window while you children built snow-men to amuse -her. There were some little wild kittens that had -been turned out of their home in a stable, and -Rosamund worried about them, so you built a little house -for them of orange boxes in the shrubbery and made -it very cosy with a bit of old carpet. She could -watch them creep in and get warm. On your walks -you always went to the streets so that you might -glue your faces to shop windows and decide what -your scraped-together pennies would buy for Rosamund." -</p> - -<p> -"I know," said Ann. "One day, to my joy, I -found in a small grocer's shop tiny pots of jam and -marmalade that cost one penny each, and Rosamund -loved them for her dolls' tea-parties. If we -could find anything to interest or amuse her, we were -so proud. At first she was able to have us play -quietly with her, then she began not to be able to -walk about, and Mark carried her round the garden -to look at the snowdrops and crocuses. We never -owned to ourselves or each other that she wouldn't -recover. We said, 'Rosamund will be all right when -the spring comes,' but the spring came—— Mother, -it must have been terrible for you to see the spring -flowers come and your little Rose-of-the-world fade." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas covered her eyes for a minute with -a hand that shook, but when she spoke her voice -was steady. -</p> - -<p> -"It was the most beautiful spring and summer -that I think I ever remember, and we all went away -to Etterick in April. It seemed that the sun and -the fresh winds and the quiet of the hills must heal, -and at first she did seem to improve. But it was -only for a little. The dreaded fever returned, and -every Monday, when your father came back from -preaching in Glasgow, he knew her to be losing. -She liked being out all the time, and our days were -spent by the burnside or on the hills. We had an -old pony and a low basket carriage which she found -comfortable, and we sometimes drove by the banks -of the Tweed until we came to some place which -she liked specially, when we would lift her out into -a nest of cushions and she could sit and listen to the -voice of the Tweed as it slipped past. And we had -lunch with us, and the boys fished, and you read -aloud fairy-tales, and we were almost happy in spite -of the cloud that covered us.... She had her 'well -days' and her 'ill days,' but she never complained; -indeed, I think her patience was almost the hardest -thing to bear. One day she said to me, 'I'm talking -to Whuppetie, Mother. I talk to God when I'm -ill and to Whuppetie when I'm well.' The year -before, her great joy had been to go to the water -meadow, where the banks of the ditch were blue -with forget-me-nots. I had always avoided the -place in her illness, and she had never asked to be -taken; but one day, when we were driving past, we -heard the little Crichton girls say to their mother, -'Come after us when you're ready, Mummy; we're -going down to the water meadow to get -forget-me-nots.' Rosamund turned and looked at me, and -there was such utter sadness in her eyes that my -heart seemed as if it must break.... One very -lovely day in June we had been out till quite late, -for she wanted to see the sunset. It was so -wonderful in its rose and gold and amethyst that -Rosamund, looking with wistful eyes into the glory, said -that she thought she could see the twelve gates, -every gate a pearl. The beauty seemed to comfort -her, but she said to me: 'Mother, if you could only -go with me! If there are twelve gates, how shall -I know which one to watch for you at?' ... Mark -carried her up to bed that night, and you all sat -about on the floor for a little, talking and laughing, -and she smiled at you happily while she sipped her -milk. It was a very hot night, and a corn-crake -was calling in a hayfield near the window. -Rosamund slept a little, and woke about three. I -sponged her face and hands to cool her, and put -lavender water on her pillows; the windows were -wide open, but she seemed to be breathless. Her -father heard us moving, and came in from the -dressing-room, and Rosamund held out her hands to him. -The dawn was beginning to break, and he said, 'The -night has passed, darling; it is morning.' She -nodded. 'There's that corn-crake corn-craking yet,' -she said, and then she gave a little cry. I caught -her in my arms, and her head fell on my breast like -a dead bird's...." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap17"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XVII -</h3> - -<p> -With the last days of November winter -descended with real earnest on the Green Glen. -For thirty-six hours snow fell, blotting out the paths, -piling great drifts in the hollows, making the high -road almost level with the tops of the hedges. The -carts from the shops, the butcher, the baker, the -grocer, had to remain in the town, the postman could -not come near, Mr. Sharp stayed snugly in his -Manse, and Dreams was entirely cut off from the -rest of the world. -</p> - -<p> -When the frost came, hardening the snow, Ann -got out her toboggan and spent glorious hours flying -down the hillside and toilful ones dragging the -toboggan up again. Glowing with health and -self-satisfaction, she came in in the frosty twilight, to -drink tea and upbraid her mother for electing to -remain by the fire. -</p> - -<p> -"How can you frowst by the fire, Mother, when -you might be out looking at the most glorious -sunset and drinking in great draughts of air that is -like champagne? What? Cold? Not a bit, -once you are out; indeed, I was almost too warm. -The mistake about tobogganing is that the rush -down is so short and the toil up so long. I must -demand, like the Irishman, that all roads be either -level or downhill. What a delicious muffin this is! -May I have the jam?" -</p> - -<p> -Ann rose to get herself another cup of tea, and -looked out of the window on the way. "It's bitter -hard to-night—you know the frost is very severe -when the snow creaks. 'Hech, sirs, it's winter -fairly.' Do come and look out, Mother. It's -glorious being in Dreams in snow—like living in the -heart of a crystal." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas shivered as she looked out at the -waste of snow. "Draw the curtains, Ann, and shut -it out. I never did like snow: cold, unfriendly stuff, -making everything uncomfortable, blocking roads -and killing sheep and delaying trains; and when it -goes away, burst pipes and dripping misery. But -you children always loved it. At Kirkcaple, when -it came, you were out before breakfast snowballing -the milkman." -</p> - -<p> -Ann finished her tea and lay back in her chair -regarding her mother, who was finishing her "reading" -for the day, taking sips of tea and reading -<i>Golden Grain</i> at the same time. -</p> - -<p> -"Mother," said Ann, "did you ever give yourself -good times? You began your married life without -a honeymoon, and I'm afraid you continued on -the same principle. I don't seem to remember that -you ever got rid of us all and had a real holiday -alone with Father." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas finished what she was reading and -laid the little book on the pile before she answered -her daughter. Then she took off her spectacles and -took up her cup of tea, and said: -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes; when Jim was a baby we went to London -for a fortnight to stay with an uncle and aunt -of your father's. Don't you remember them? -Uncle John and Aunt John, we always called -them—why, I don't know. Uncle John was rather old -when he married, and had a weak heart, and Aunt -John warned me that it was safer not to contradict -him. Not that it would have entered into my head -to do such a thing. I was in too great awe of them -both. They were a handsome couple, and Uncle -John had a pair of trousers for every day of the -week—shepherd-tartan ones for Sunday. Aunt was -very tall, with a Roman nose, her hair parted at one -side, and was always richly dressed in silks that -rustled. -</p> - -<p> -"They were devoted to each other, and made such -a touching pair of middle-aged lovers, coquetting -with each other in a way that amazed us, staid -married people that we were—I suppose I was about -five-and-twenty then. I overheard Aunt say to -Uncle one day when she came in with a new hat: -'How do you like my <i>chapeau</i>, Jackie?' and always -at breakfast she greeted him with a resounding kiss, -as if she had never set eyes on him from the night -before. We must have been a great nuisance to -them, such a countrified couple as we were. Your -father was always fit to go anywhere, but I must -have been a quaint figure, in a lavender dress -trimmed with ruching, and a black silk dolman and -a lavender bonnet. They were the efforts of the -little dressmaker in Kirkcaple, one of our church -members, and we had thought them almost alarmingly -smart in the parlour behind the shop; but when -I saw myself reflected in long mirrors and shop -windows, I had my doubts." -</p> - -<p> -Ann sat forward in her chair, her eyes alight -with interest. -</p> - -<p> -"I had forgotten about the London visit. Had -you a good time? Were they kind to you?" -</p> - -<p> -"They were kindness itself. Every morning Uncle -planned out things for us to do, and arranged that -we should lunch somewhere with him—that was to -save our pockets. And Aunt's housekeeping seemed -to me on a scale nothing short of magnificent. When -I went marketing with her it thrilled me to see her -buy salmon and turbot as I might have bought -'penny haddies,' and she seemed to me to give a -dinner-party every night. And the servants were such -aloof, superior creatures. It was all very -awe-inspiring to me, a timorous little country mouse." -</p> - -<p> -Ann laughed. "'Wee modest crimson-tippit -beastie,' as Charlotte renders Burns. But tell me -what you saw, Mother. All the sights, I am sure. -But did you do anything exciting?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes. We went to hear Spurgeon, and one -evening Uncle took us to the Crystal Palace and we -saw fireworks." -</p> - -<p> -Ann hooted. "Mother, you are a pet! I asked -you if you had done anything exciting—meaning -had you seen Ellen Terry and Irving and heard Patti -sing—and you tell me you heard Spurgeon and went -to fireworks at the Crystal Palace!" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't see why you should laugh," Mrs. Douglas -said, rather affronted. "These were the things -we liked to do. At least, I think what your father -really liked best was to poke about in the old -book-shops, and he did enjoy the good food. I liked it -all, but the going home was best of all. I had felt -very small and shabby in London, but when we -came off that long night journey and found you all -waiting for us as fresh as the morning, you and -Mark and Robbie and Jim, I felt the richest woman -in the world. I quite sympathised with the mother -of the Gracchi, though before I had always thought -her rather a fool." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," Ann said profoundly. "Sometimes things -you have read and thought merely silly suddenly -become true—and did the London fortnight last you -a long time?" -</p> - -<p> -"The next summer I had my trunk packed to go -with your father to Switzerland, but at the last -moment I found I couldn't leave you, and he had to go -alone. It was very silly, but, anyway, I always saw -that he had a good holiday, and I was happy with -you children at Etterick. But as you grew older and -went away to school I often got away for a little. -One great ploy was to go to the Assembly; -sometimes we stayed with people, but we greatly -preferred to have rooms in a Princes Street hotel. I -don't mean to <i>lichtly</i> people's hospitality, but it is -a relief when you come in tired not to have to put on -a bright, interested expression and tell your hostess -all about it." -</p> - -<p> -"I do so agree," said Ann; "'a bright, interested -expression' is far too often demanded of ministers' -wives and families. What a joy to scowl and look -listless at a time. You know, Mums, a manse is a -regular school for diplomatists. It is a splendid -training. One learns to talk to and understand all -sorts of people—just think what an advantage that -gives one over people who have only known -intimately their own class! And you haven't time to -think about yourself; you are so on the alert to avoid -hurting anyone's feelings. You have to try and -remember the affairs of each different member, how -many children they possess, and all about them, and -be careful to ask at the right moment for the -welfare of each. To say to a very stout lady living -alone, 'Are you all well?' savours of impertinence.... -Yes, well, you went to a hotel to avoid having -to look 'bright and interested,' wise people; and what -did you do there?" -</p> - -<p> -"But, Ann," Mrs. Douglas protested, having been -struck with her daughter's remarks on her early -training, "you spoke as if you were brought up to be -hypocrites, and I'm sure that is the very last thing -your father and I wanted you to be——" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, well," said Ann lightly, "the best people are -all more or less hypocrites. The world would be a -most unpleasant place if we had all—like Lo, the -poor Indian—untutored minds and manners. Honesty -is sometimes almost a crime, and the man who -feels it necessary to speak what he is pleased to call -his mind in season and out of season is a public -nuisance. Hold your peace if you have nothing -pleasant to say. People need encouraging far oftener -than you think; even bumptious people are often -only bumptious because they are uncertain of -themselves. As the White Queen said, 'A little kindness -and putting their hair in curl papers' would work -wonders for them. But I don't know why I am -chattering like a swallow when what I want is to -hear about you and Father at the Assembly." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas had taken up her knitting, and with -a happy smile on her face and her fingers working -busily she said: -</p> - -<p> -"I remember one particularly happy Assembly. -Davie was about five, and you were at home to keep -things right, so my mind was quite at ease, and I -had got a smart new coat and skirt—black, trimmed -with grey cloth and braided, and a black hat with -grey feathers." -</p> - -<p> -"A most ministerial outfit," said Ann, making a -face. "I would rather have seen you in the lavender -and the dolman." -</p> - -<p> -"It was very suitable for a minister's wife, and -it must have been becoming, for almost every one -we met said I looked so young, and that pleased your -father, though, of course, it was nonsense. We were -in a mood to enjoy everything—those May mornings -when we came down to breakfast, hungry and -well and eager for a new day, and sat at a little table -in a bow window looking out on the Castle, and ate -fresh herring 'new cam' frae the Forth,' and bacon -and eggs and hot rolls." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas stopped and said solemnly: -</p> - -<p> -"Ann, if I had a lot of money, do you know what -I would do? I would send fifty pounds anonymously -to all the ministers—not, of course, to those with -big stipends, and certainly not to the ones with rich -wives—to let the minister and his wife have a week -at the Assembly. It would pay their fare and hotel -bill, and leave something over to shop with. Dear -me, I wonder rich people don't give themselves a -good time by doing happy things like that." -</p> - -<p> -"It's a game that never palls," Ann said; "planning -what you would do if you got a sudden fortune. -I'm quite sure the real owners of riches don't get -half as much pleasure out of their wealth as the -paupers who have it only in dreams. And what -followed after the large breakfast? Did you spend the -whole day in the assembling of yourselves together? -Attending the Assembly is like some sort of insidious -drug: the more you do it, the more you want to -do it. Since I have been your companion at its -deliberations I have found that I can sit in it quite -happily for hours. You wouldn't miss the Assembly -week for a lot even now, would you? It is odd -how the sight of ministers in the mass seems to do -you good. Absolutely you get quite sleek by merely -looking at them. Do you remember when you were -so very ill in London you kept worrying Sir -Armstrong to know if you would be better for the -Assembly, and the poor doctor said to Mark, 'Your -mother is very anxious to go to some assembly; but -she <i>couldn't dance</i>?'" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laughed and then sighed. "I enjoy -it still," she said; "but the Assembly Hall is a place -of ghosts to me now. There are so few of the faces -that once I knew. I look up at my old place in the -Ladies' Gallery—I never aspired to the Moderator's -Gallery in those days. I always sat in the same -seat, and then your father knew where to look up and -smile to me during debates. I often sat very -nervous, for he had a dreadful way of always being on -the wrong side—I mean by that the unpopular side—and -it wasn't nice for me to hear him shouted at. -I thought he cared far too little for what people -thought; he had no interest in which way the cat -was going to jump; he never thought of taking the -safe course simply because it was safe and would -pay best. I remember after one stormy debate in -which he had held the most unpopular view a lady -beside me said, 'Can you tell me who that -unpleasant minister is?' and I said, 'I think he comes -from Glasgow.' But my sins found me out almost -at once, for, on his way out to vote, your father stood -and grinned up at me, looking like a mischievous -schoolboy who knows he's going to get a row, and I -had to smile at him—and the lady beside me glared -at us both suspiciously." -</p> - -<p> -"It was odd," said Ann, "that in public he was -such a fighter, for in his home life, if ever man -carried in his right hand gentle peace, it was my -Father. There was a time, when Mark and I first -grew up, that we thought we knew infinitely more -about everything in heaven and earth than our -parents. There was a time when Father's beliefs -filled me with a kind of tender scorn: they were so -hopelessly out of date. I used to argue with him in -my pert way that Free Will and Election could not -be reconciled, and he would reply, with a twinkle, -'Ann, I sometimes think you are a very ignorant -creature. Give me another cup of tea.' I -remember Father's <i>innocence</i> amused us very much. He -was so far away from the ugliness and the vulgarity -and the idiotic smartness of modern life. He once -heard Robbie singing an absurd song, and asked him -to repeat the words—I forget what they were, -something very silly and rather funny about: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'How often to myself I've said,<br /> - Cheer up, Cully, you'll soon be dead,<br /> - A short life but a gay one.'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -Father listened and said gravely, 'If the wretched -fellow had had any hope of an after life...' -</p> - -<p> -"And we said, 'Isn't Father <i>quaint</i>!'" -</p> - -<p> -"And when he was no longer there to stand up for -his old-fashioned beliefs there wasn't one of us but -would have died gladly for those same beliefs -because they had been his.... When Robbie got -the cable of his death he wrote from India: 'The -best man in Scotland is gone—now he knows what -his beliefs meant to all of us'; and Davie, that -advanced young thinker, once came back from hearing -a preacher of renown, and said fiercely, 'No, I didn't -like him. He <i>sneered at the Shorter Catechism</i>.'" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap18"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XVIII -</h3> - -<p> -"Here's a nice state of things," said Ann. -</p> - -<p> -"Is anything wrong?" asked her mother. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I don't know whether you would call it -wrong or right. Mr. Philip Scott sends me back my -MS., with his criticism of it. I agree with most of -the things he says: my language is too incorrigibly -noble, my quotations <i>are</i> very frequent——" -</p> - -<p> -"But if they're good quotations," Mrs. Douglas -interrupted. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, they're good quotations. 'It was the best -butter,' as the poor March Hare said. But what he -objects to most is the sweetness of it. He says, 'Put -more acid into it.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Into me, does he mean?" -</p> - -<p> -"I suppose so. Mr. Scott evidently finds you -insipid. We must change that at once. Tell me, now, -about all the people you hated and who hated you." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas looked bewildered, and more than -a little indignant. "Nonsense, Ann. I'm sure -I'm very glad to hear you have made me -sweet—anything else would have been most undutiful; -and as for hating people, I never was any good at -that. I couldn't keep up grudges, though I was -sometimes very angry at people. I dare say it was -a weakness in my nature. But I think, if Mr. Scott -is to be allowed to criticise, I might be allowed to -read my own <i>Life</i>." -</p> - -<p> -"It's so <i>dull</i>," said Ann, looking discontentedly at -the MS. "And you're not a dull woman, Mother! -Rather a comic, really. See, read for yourself." -</p> - -<p> -Ann plumped the packet on to her mother's lap -and retired to the fender-stool with the <i>Times</i>; but -she could hardly have done justice to the leaders, for -her eyes often wandered from the printed page to the -expressive face of her mother reading her own <i>Life</i>. -</p> - -<p> -For half an hour Ann waited; then her patience -gave out, and she leant forward and put her hand -across the page. -</p> - -<p> -"That's enough, Mums. Surely you can tell me -now how you think it goes." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas smiled at her daughter. "Why did -you do that? I'm enjoying it immensely, and——" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, if anybody could find it interesting, you -would; but don't you find it rather stilted?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not stilted exactly, but if you would write in a -more homely way, it might be better. Take the -reader more into your confidence. I'm not clever -enough to explain quite what I mean; but I think -you are writing from the outside, as it were. Try -to be more—is subjective the word I want? And -don't say too much about me. After all, my life was -my husband and the children. Write about your -father and the boys. Never were brothers more -loved by a sister. As for Davie—you brought him up." -</p> - -<p> -Ann's eyes filled suddenly with tears, but in a -minute she said lightly: -</p> - -<p> -"You see, Mother, Mr. Scott asks what I am -working up to in this <i>Life</i> of yours; how am I going -to finish it, he wants to know. I hadn't thought of -that. I was just going to leave loose ends—like life. -I suppose there ought to be something—some idea -that binds the whole thing together. Oh, it is all -too difficult. I'd better burn all that I've written, -and start again in an entirely new way. How would -it do to put your life into scenes? The young girl -in a royal blue silk dress and a locket and a black -velvet ribbon, meeting her future husband. The -wedding. A nursery scene—very effective this!—and -then we might have scenes from your church life—you -holding a Mothers' Meeting or a Girls' Club, -or your first address to the Fellowship meeting. Do -you remember you began (as you begin most things) -with a deep sigh, and it sounded rather like <i>Hooch</i>, -and Robbie said you reminded him of Harry -Lauder?" Ann chuckled at the recollection, and -her mother said: -</p> - -<p> -"No wonder I was nervous. It was a great ordeal -to speak before you scoffing young things. No; I -don't like the idea of 'scenes.' I prefer it as it is. -How far are you on?" -</p> - -<p> -"I've got us all at school, and I was going to -write about Davie being born. It was the summer -after Rosamund died, wasn't it? I was at school -when I got the news, and some of the girls condoled -with me, and said a new baby in the house would be -a dreadful nuisance, and I pretended to be bored by -the prospect, when really I could hardly contain -my excitement. I had to get home for a week-end -to see him." -</p> - -<p> -"Poor little baby, to think that we were actually -disappointed when he came. We had wanted another -girl so much, and a fourth boy seemed rather -unnecessary. Of course that was only at the very -beginning. He was the plainest looking baby I ever -saw, and we would not have had him in the very -least different." -</p> - -<p> -"I thought he was lovely," said Ann. "When -Mark saw him for the first time, he said, 'Hullo, -Peter,' and Peter he was called for years. When -I came home from school he was about three years, -and he became my special charge. You were so very -busy at that time with the house and church work, -as well as a great scheme that the Member of Parliament -for the district started to teach working women -how to make savoury dinners out of nothing. You -were so keen about it that you tried all the new -dishes on your family, and we nearly perished as a -family. I can remember some of the dishes. <i>Stuffed -cod's head</i>—one glance at its gruesome countenance -was enough. <i>Mock kidney soup</i>, made with grated -liver, which, instead of being the rich brown proper -to kidney soup, was a sort of olive green. -Sea-pie—so-called, Mark said, because the sea was a handy -place when you had eaten it. I once went with you -to see a demonstration by the principal cooking -teacher, a buxom lady with quantities of glossy black -hair coiled round her head. She showed us first what -she called 'a pretty puddin'.' Instead of sugar she -had grated carrots in it, or something surprisingly -like that. Then she made shortbread, and when the -cakes were finished and ready to go into the oven -she wanted something to prick them with, and -nothing was at hand. She wasn't easily beaten, for -I saw her withdraw a hairpin from the coils on her -head and prick them with that. When they were -taken from the oven, and I saw that they were to be -handed round and tasted, I unobtrusively withdrew. -You had noticed nothing, and ate your bit quite -happily." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Ann, you always saw far too much. That's -all nonsense about the things we made. Everything -was excellent and very cheap, and the women -in the district enjoyed the lectures amazingly, and -constantly asked to have them repeated. I enjoyed -them myself. Anything to do with cooking interests -me, and I read every recipe I see." -</p> - -<p> -"You are the sort of guest, Mother, who would -appreciate a cookery book in her bedroom. It seems -an odd taste to me. I can make porridge, smooth -and soft, with no knots, and fry quite nice bacon and -eggs, and I can make some rather smart meringuey -puddings, and there I end. D'you remember how -difficult it was to get Davie to eat when he was tiny? -I had to feed him with every meal, or I don't think -he would have eaten anything. He was such a thin -little slip of a thing—like an elf. At one time I -got so desperate about his thinness that I took to -rubbing him all over every night with olive oil. -What a mess it made of everything! We took -tremendous care of him, didn't we? He never went -out in his pram with only the nursemaid; I generally -went, too, in case anything happened to him. -It's a wonder to me that we didn't spoil him utterly." -</p> - -<p> -"He was a dear, ugly wee laddie," Mrs. Douglas -said. "When Mark came down from Oxford he -used to sit and study him from the other side of the -table, and say, 'How has that child acquired such a -Mongolian cast of countenance?'' -</p> - -<p> -"It was too bad," said Ann, "and Davie so admiring -of Mark and all his Oxford friends. He used -to amuse them a lot. I once overheard him explain -to a man how he happened to live with us. 'I was -playing quite quietly in heaven one day when God -came up to me and said, "Peter, you've to go and -live with the Douglases." I said, 'The Douglases! -<i>Good Lord!</i>' The weary boredom in his voice was -delightful." -</p> - -<p> -"Many a fright he gave me," said Davie's mother. -"He picked up the most extraordinary expressions, -and seemed to know when to use them with the -most disastrous effect. By the time Davie was born -I had grown tired of training, besides it was -impossible to do anything with him when you older -children, who should have known better, laughed at and -encouraged him. He was a plaything to you all." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Ann; "there's something about the -baby of a family that's different. The youngest -never grows up, and to each of us Davie seemed -almost more a son than a brother, and we never lost for -him—even when he was grown up and a soldier—the -almost passionate tenderness that we had for the -little delicate boy. He was the delight of our lives, -always. I remember when I arrived in India almost -the first thing Robbie wanted to be told was Davie's -latest sayings. He had a name for each of us -peculiarly his own. Nobody ever called me 'Nana' -but Davie, and why he christened Jim 'Ney' no one -ever knew. But, Mother, it was only as a baby that -he was so very plain. Later he developed a sort of -horsey look, and we dressed him in a 'horsey' way, -with a snooty bonnet and a fawn overcoat. I -remember he got a very neat suit to go to a party at -Anthony's house, his first real party—brown with a -corduroy waistcoat—which he described in imitation -of Mark and his friends as 'me blood waistcoat'—and -short, tight trousers. As we dressed him we -noticed that the shirt he was wearing had been patched -at the elbow, but it was clean, and we didn't change -it. When he came home he told how this one had -sung and that one had recited, and 'What,' we asked, -'did you do?' 'Oh, me,' said Davie, 'I only took off -my coat and showed them my patched shirt.'" -</p> - -<p> -"It didn't matter at Anthony's house," Mrs. Douglas -said; "the Cochranes were well accustomed to the -vagaries of small boys. Anthony and Davie made a -funny couple. Anthony was so solemn and fat, and -so ashamed of Davie's eccentric behaviour. Davie's -way of telling himself stories 'out loud,' and going -round the room gesticulating wildly, really shocked -Anthony, who was a most self-contained child. He -never showed surprise, indeed he rarely ever showed -emotion of any sort. When he and Davie were very -small and met outside, each took off his hat to the -other and made a low bow. At the first party we -gave for Davie, the child was greatly excited, and -talked without ceasing, jumping up and down in his -chair. Anthony was sitting next him at the tea-table -in a green velvet suit, and he stood this Jack-in-the-box -behaviour as long as he could, then he turned -very quietly, slapped Davie's face and resumed his -tea without having said a word. And Davie bore -him no ill-will; they were fast friends from that -moment. D'you remember the two going alone to a -party in a cab, and they were so thrilled about it -that—we were told afterwards—they refused to do -anything but sit in the hall and wait for the cab -coming back?" -</p> - -<p> -"I loved Anthony," said Ann. "He took things -so calmly and was so speechless. One afternoon -when he was with us people began to flock up to his -front door, carriages and motors arrived, and we -called to him to come and tell us what occasion this -was. Anthony looked at the commotion for a minute, -and then said, 'It must be a party,' and not -another word passed his lips. One night we said -'Anthony will recite.' He said neither yea nor nay, -and we led him into the middle of the room. Still -he made no protest, but stood, drooping like a candle -in the sun, while large tears coursed quietly down -his face. It must have been good for Davie to have -such a phlegmatic friend. But I've seen Anthony -wakened to enthusiasm. I came home once full of -<i>Cyrano de Bergerac</i>, and, of course, told Davie all -about it—I was so pleased when I heard Davie say -after he was grown up, 'It was Nana made me like -poetry'—and it became his favourite game. He and -Anthony would crouch behind the sofa, 'behind the -walls at Arras,' and then jump wildly up shouting, -'Cadets of Gascony are we...' Mother, I think -you and I could talk for weeks on end about Davie...." -</p> - -<p> -The door opened and Marget came in. "It's no' -nine o'clock yet," she said; "but Mysie has rin oot -doon to the cottages—what wi' the mune and the -snaw it's near as light as day—an' I cam' in to -speer about your <i>Life</i>, Mem. Hoo's Miss Ann -gettin' on wi't?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not very well, Marget," Ann answered for herself. -"I'm going to finish it, but it's a much harder -job than I expected." -</p> - -<p> -Marget sniffed. "I dinna see ony hardness aboot -it. You hev a' the facts; a' that you've got to dae -is write them doon." -</p> - -<p> -"It certainly sounds very easy put in that way," -Ann said; "but facts alone are dull things." -</p> - -<p> -"But ony thing else wad juist be lees." -</p> - -<p> -Ann began to laugh. "But, Marget," she protested, -"I could put all the facts of Mother's life -into one page—born, married, number of children, -and so on; but that wouldn't be any sort of record -to hand down to the children. You want all sorts -of little everyday touches that will make them see -the home that their father was brought up in." -</p> - -<p> -"Everyday touches," Marget repeated; "d'ye -mean what we hed for oor denners an' aboot washin' -days? But thaes no things to write aboot. I could -tell ye some rale fine things to pit in a book. One -Setterday I let in a young man to see the maister—a -rale weel pit-on young man he was, an' I showed -him into the study, an' what d'ye think was the very -first thing he said to the maister?" -</p> - -<p> -Marget leant forward impressively. "He said -that he had had a veesion to kill a man an' had been -guided to oor Manse. Eh, I say! Sic a fricht I got -when I heard aboot it! It juist lets ye see how -carefu' ye should be aboot lettin' folk in even if they -look respectable." -</p> - -<p> -"And how did Father get rid of him?" Ann asked. -</p> - -<p> -"You tell her, Mem." Marget nodded towards -her mistress, and Mrs. Douglas said: -</p> - -<p> -"He was a poor fellow whose brain had gone from -over-study. Your father talked quietly to him, and -said that Saturday morning was a bad time to come, -and suggested that he should put it off till Monday. -He went away quite peaceably, and your father -went out after him and had him followed, for he -was a dangerous lunatic. On the Sunday we were -afraid to leave anybody in the house in case he came -back, so we all went to church—even Jim the baby! -On the Monday we heard that he was in an asylum. -It was a tragic case." -</p> - -<p> -"We got some awfu' frichts in the Kirkcaple -Manse," said Marget; "but I dinna mind nane in -Glesgae; we had folk a' round us there. Eh, Mem, -d'ye mind the day the maister brocht in the -auld-claes wife?" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas began to laugh, and she and Marget -sat and shook in silent convulsions while Ann -demanded to know what they were laughing at. -</p> - -<p> -At last Mrs. Douglas steadied her voice enough -to say: -</p> - -<p> -"You know your father was always being accused -of not being cordial to people—he had naturally -rather a dry manner. One day I was standing at the -study window and saw an old-clothes woman—Mrs. Burt -was her name—who came regularly to ask if -we had anything for her, standing at the gate as if -hesitating whether or not to come in. Then I saw -your father approach, raise his hat, saw him go up to -the startled woman and shake her warmly by the -hand, and then conduct her into the house. 'Nell,' -he shouted, 'here's an old friend to see -you—Mrs. Beattie from Kirkcaple! She must have some -lunch.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Mrs. Burt turned to me a distressed, red face, -and I stared at her wondering which of us had gone -mad. -</p> - -<p> -"'Mrs. Burt...' I began, and then it dawned -upon your father what he had done. There was a -faint resemblance between the old-clothes woman -and our old friend Mrs. Beattie, who had been such -a help to us in the Kirkcaple Church. For a moment -he was absolutely nonplussed, and then he began to -laugh, and he and I reeled about while Mrs. Burt -looked more alarmed every minute. We recovered -in time, and begged Mrs. Burt's pardon for the -mistake, and saw that she had a good dinner; but your -father said he had got enough of trying to be -'frank'——" -</p> - -<p> -Marget wiped her eyes. "Eh, I say," she said, -"it was an awfu' set oot." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap19"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XIX -</h3> - -<p> -The thaw came suddenly, and, almost in a -night, the snow went, leaving the moorlands -like some vast sponge. The air was full of the -rushing of a great west wind and the noise of -running water, as burns, heavy with spate, came -tumbling down the hillsides. -</p> - -<p> -Ann stood looking out at the wide view, at the -hills purple-dark, with drifts of snow still in the -hollows and at the back of dykes. -</p> - -<p> -"'As dull as a great thaw,'" she quoted. "It's -like a giant's washing day—such a sloppiness and -dreariness, and that horrible steamy feeling that a -house gets when the frost goes suddenly and leaves -everything damp, even the walls and the furniture. -A new-made road is no great treat in a thaw. I -stuck, and nearly left my big boots behind me this -morning. I wish it would get dark and we could -draw the curtains and have tea." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't want to grumble," Mrs. Douglas said, -turning the heel of a stocking with a resigned air, -"but these last few days have been very long. No -post even! That was the last straw. I've knitted -a pair of stockings for little Davie, and I've written -a lot of letters, and I've tried each of the library -books in turn, but nowadays nobody writes the sort -of book I like. No, they don't, Ann." -</p> - -<p> -"But what kind of book pleases you, Mother? -I thought we had rather a good selection this week. -One or two are quite interesting." -</p> - -<p> -"Interesting!" repeated Mrs. Douglas. "They -seemed to me the very essence of dullness. I don't -think I'm ill to please, but I do like a book that is -clean and kind. I put down each of those books in -disgust; they're both dull and indecent. Is it easier -to be clever and nasty than clever and clean?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, much," said Ann promptly. "It's a very -hard thing, I should think, to write a book that is -pleasant without being mawkish, whereas any fool -can be nasty and can earn a reputation of sorts by -writing what Davie used to call 'hot stuff.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I wish some one would arise who would -write for the middle-aged and elderly; there are a -great many in the world, and they are neglected by -nearly every one—fashion writers, fiction writers, -play writers—no one caters for them. I like domestic -fiction, gentle but not drivelling, good character -drawing and a love story that ends all right." -</p> - -<p> -"In other words," said Ann, "good print and -happy ending. What about me? Why shouldn't -I become the writer for middle-aged women? I -might almost call myself a writer now that I have -wrestled for weeks with your <i>Life</i>, and I believe I -would find it easier to write fiction than -biography—to leave what Marget calls 'facs' and take to -'lees.' Facts crib and cabin one. Given a free hand I -might develop an imagination." -</p> - -<p> -"Who knows? Only don't begin anything else -until you have finished the job you are at. I do -hate to leave unfinished work." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, so do I," said Ann, "and I mean to plod on -with the <i>Life</i> to the bitter end—but I had better -take bigger strides and cover the ground. From -Davie's birth—do you remember he used to say when -we complained of his accent, 'Well, you shouldn't -have borned me in Glasgow'—on till you went to -South Africa nothing of importance happened." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas stared at her daughter. "Seven -years," she said. "Did nothing important happen -in those years?" -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Nothing</i>," Ann said firmly, "except that the boys -left school and went to Oxford——" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, but Ann, don't hurry on so. You must put -in about the boys doing so well at school and getting -scholarships and almost educating themselves. It -might spur on that lazy little Rory to hear about -them ... and you grew up." -</p> - -<p> -"My growing up wasn't much of an event," said -Ann. "Indeed it was something of a disaster. I -had been rather attractive-looking as a schoolgirl -because my hair fluffed out round my face, but when -I put it up I dragged it all back into a little tightly -hair-pinned bump. The change was startling. I -was like a skinned rabbit. The boys hung -umbrellas on the bump and the church people came to -you and asked you to make me let down my hair -again because they couldn't bear the look of me. -And I wore a thick brown coat and a brown hat with -red in it, and I had no more notion how to dress -myself becomingly than a Kaffir woman. I was a poor -little object and I knew it. Then one night I went -to a party—an ordinary Glasgow party, full of jokes -and good things to eat—and there I met an artist; -I suppose she would be about thirty—I longed -prodigiously to be thirty when I was eighteen; it seemed -to me the ideal age—and she wore a wonderful -flowing gown, and her red hair was parted in the -middle and lay in a great knot of gold at the nape -of her neck. I had never seen anything like this -before—all your friends had their hair tightly and -tidily done up and wore bodices with lots of bones—and -I sat and worshipped. I suppose she had recognised -worship in the eyes of the awkward, ill-dressed -young girl, for she came and sat beside me and talked -to me and asked what I meant to do in the world. -I hadn't thought of doing anything, I told her; I -had a lot of brothers and a busy mother, and I -helped at home. She told me she would like to paint -me, and I was flattered beyond belief and promised -to go to her studio the very next day. Margot -Stronach and everything about her were a revelation -to me. I thought her flat—which was probably -rather tawdry and pinned together: she confessed to -me that she seldom bothered to sew things—the last -word in Art. Divans made out of discarded feather -beds, polished floors, white walls and blue jars -with cape gooseberries—what could one want more? -I felt my clothes singularly out of place in such -surroundings, and I gave you no peace until I had got a -long straight-hanging white frock with gold -embroideries which the boys called my nightgown and -in which I felt perfectly happy. Margot certainly -did improve my appearance vastly, you must admit -that, Mother. She made me take a few dozen hairpins -out of my poor hair, part it in the middle and -fold it lightly back, and she taught me the value of -line, but she turned me for the time being into a very -affected, posing young person. It was then that I -turned your nice comfortable Victorian drawing-room -upside down and condemned you as a family -to semi-darkness! I can't think why you were so -patient with me. The boys hooted at me, but I -didn't mind them, and you and Father meekly -stotted about, until Father one afternoon fell over a -stool and spilt all his tea, whereupon he flew into -one of his sudden rages, vowed that this nonsense -must cease, and pulled up the blinds to the very top." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laughed softly. "Poor Ann, we -didn't appreciate your artist friends much, but——" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, but Mother," Ann interrupted, "Margot -wasn't a real artist—not like Kathleen and Jim -Strang, or any of the serious artists. She was only -a woman with a certain amount of money and a -small talent, good looks, and a vast amount of -conceit. Even my foolish young eyes saw that very -soon." -</p> - -<p> -"She put me very much about," Mrs. Douglas -said; "she had such a wailing, affected way of -talking. I never could think of anything to say in -reply. Besides, I knew all the time she was -thinking me an ignorant, frumpish woman, and that -didn't inspire me. You admired her so much that -you even copied her voice...." -</p> - -<p> -Ann began to laugh. "It must have been terrible, -Mother. I remember Davie meeting Margot -on the stairs, and she knelt down and began to talk -to him in that wailing, affected voice. Davie was -a little fellow and easily frightened, and he -suddenly clutched my dress and burst into tears, -sobbing 'Nana, Nana, it's the <i>bandarlog</i>.' Fortunately -Margot didn't know her 'Jungle Book,' so she missed -the allusion." -</p> - -<p> -"What happened to her?" Mrs. Douglas asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Kathleen told me she had met her somewhere -quite lately. She married a rich business man, -stout and a little deaf—that was all to the good!—and, -Kathleen said, looked very fat and prosperous -and middle-aged. She said to Kathleen, 'Still -painting away?' and Kathleen, greatly delighted, replied, -'Still painting away.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, yes, Kathleen would appreciate that remark.... -What was your next phase, Ann?" -</p> - -<p> -"I had no more <i>phases</i>," said Ann, and got up to -get a paper to hold between her face and the fire. -"I began to go to London for a month in the spring, -and Uncle Bob took me with him when he went -abroad, and Mark took me to Switzerland to climb—that -was absolutely the best holiday of all—and I -had a very, very good time." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said her mother, "I remember a poor -bed-ridden girl in the church saying to me wistfully, -'Miss Ann's life is just like a fairy tale.'" -</p> - -<p> -Ann nodded. "It must have seemed so to her, -poor child! And indeed I was very fortunate; I -had such wonderful brothers. But I never really -liked going away from home unless we went as a -family. I hated to leave Davie. How quickly we -all seemed to grow up after we left Kirkcaple, -Mother!—Robbie especially. It seems to me, -looking back, that he sprang quite suddenly from an -incredibly mischievous, rough little boy into a gentle, -silent schoolboy." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas stopped knitting and looked -thoughtfully into the fire. "Robbie," she said—how -soft, thought Ann, her mother's voice was when -it named her boys—"Robbie changed quite suddenly. -Up to thirteen he was the firebrand of the -household. Your father alone never lost patience -with his wild laddie. 'Let him alone,' he would say, -'he'll be the best of the lot yet.' Marget used to say, -'There's naething for it but to make him a sodger; -the laddie canna get his fill o' fechtin'.' I don't -know what changed him. I think he just got sense. -Children do, if you let them alone. He began to be -keen to take a good place at school. Robbie had lots -of brains, Ann." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, brains! He was one of the most capable -men I ever knew. In India there was no limit to -the expectations his friends had for him." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Ann, I wish he hadn't gone to India, but his -heart was set on it always. The Indian Army! -How he used to talk to me about it, and beg me not -to make a fuss about letting him go! I would have -been so pleased if all my boys had been ministers. -I used to picture to myself, when you were all little, -how I would go from manse to manse, and what a -proud mother I would be. I never could bear the -Army as a profession; your father and I never saw -eye to eye about that——" -</p> - -<p> -"Poor Mother, it was too bad! You wanted nice -little clucking barndoor fowls, and you found -yourself with young eagles! I know. It would have -been a lovely life for you to do nothing but visit -manses. I can see you doing it. But even you -stretched your wings a little. Was the South -African trip a silver-wedding jaunt?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes; don't you remember? The congregation -gave us a cheque at your father's semi-jubilee, and -that was how we spent it." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, the semi-jubilee!" said Ann. "That was a -great occasion. A social meeting, with tea and cakes -and speakers and presentations. Eminent men -brought from a distance to say complimentary -things to you and Father, and all sorts of old friends -from Inchkeld and Kirkcaple came with offerings, -and so many of them stayed with us that the family -had to be boarded out! We acquired a lot of loot -at that time in the way of fitted dressing-cases and -silver things, and we had a gorgeous silver-wedding -cake. Robbie had thought that you couldn't have -a bridescake unless you were being married, and -when he found he had been mistaken he said the -only reason for marrying was gone! It was a -glorious cake. The boys were all at home for the -Christmas holidays, and when they got hungry in the -forenoon they would go and cut chunks off it with a -pen-knife—until we had to hide it. You didn't go away -directly, Mums. It was the next November before -you left for South Africa, and what a business it -was getting you away!" -</p> - -<p> -"'There's muckle adae when cadgers ride,'" Mrs. Douglas -quoted. "And it was a great undertaking. -I didn't in the least want to go, but your father was -as keen as a schoolboy, and I couldn't let him go -alone, and I couldn't leave Davie, so the three of us -went. Mark had gone to London and was settled in -his rooms in the Temple. Robbie and Jim were -studying, and you had invitations to fill up all the -time." -</p> - -<p> -"I only visited between the boys' vacations, then -we were all together at Uncle Bob's. What angels -he and Aunt Katharine were to us! The rest of the -time I paid visits, and very nearly had a bad nervous -breakdown through having to be consistently pleasant -for nine months at a stretch. You see, I stayed -with such very different people, and the effort to -adjust myself to each in turn was rather wearing. -When the boys went back for the summer term, -Uncle Bob took Aunt Katharine and me over to -Touraine. We stayed at Tours, and made expeditions -all round to the lovely old châteaux, and came home -by Paris and London and finished up at Oxford for -Eights' Week. Wasn't it kind of Uncle Bob? Oh, -I do wish all the nice people weren't dead! Each -one that goes takes so much of the light away with -him.... You didn't regret taking the trip, -Mother?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not for a minute, except, perhaps, when Davie -supped a whole tin of condensed milk and nearly -perished, and your father was poisoned by a -mosquito bite and was blind for two days. It did me -a world of good to come across people who had never -heard of the United Free Church of Scotland and -who had no desire to hear about it, and who -interested me enormously by the way they looked at life. -Mark always used to tell me that with me journeys -ended in Mothers' Meetings, and I was too much -like that. I hadn't, perhaps, realised that people -might be opposed to everything I thought right and -proper and yet be good people. I worried a good -deal about you children at home—it wouldn't have -been me if I hadn't had a trouble—but your father -and Davie were blissfully happy." -</p> - -<p> -"You wrote splendid letters," said Ann, "telling -every detail. Father hated writing letters—we used -to tell him that he would rather walk five miles than -write a p.c.—and his efforts were quite short and -chiefly confined to statements such as: 'What a -beautiful blue the ocean is'; 'the veldt is much what I -thought it would be.' Davie wrote delicious letters -on oily scraps of paper—oily because he was -generally anointed with a lotion for mosquito bites—which -invariably ended: 'Now I must finch up.' He -never ceased to mourn the little mongoose that -died before he could bring it home, but he did fetch -a giant tortoise, which snowked about at Etterick -until a specially cold winter finished it. And you -brought home a gorgeous fur rug and piles of ostrich -feathers. How did you collect so many presents?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, you see, part of the time your father was -taking services for a minister home on leave, and the -kindness and hospitality of the people were boundless. -And I felt so mean about doing so little to -entertain them when they turned up in Glasgow. -We had a few to stay, but most of them were only -asked to luncheon, and it sounded so shabby." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, but it's different out there," Ann said -comfortably. "I felt I could never repay the hospitality -of the people I met in India. But Robbie didn't at -all take up that attitude. 'It's jolly nice for them to -have you,' was what he said, and I suppose he meant -that visitors from 'home' are sure of a welcome from -exiles from 'home.' You are a stranger in the land -of their adoption, and they want you to see the best -side of things. It is different when they come back, -then we are all at home together. Aha, tea at last, -and Marget bringing it in!" -</p> - -<p> -"Ay," said Marget, putting the kettle on the -spirit-lamp, and carrying the covered dish of -muffins to the brass stool in the fireplace. "Mysie went -awa' doon to the village, seein' it was fresh again. -She's young, ye ken, and juist deein' for a crack wi' -some o' her frien's. There's a mune, and somebody'll -see her hame I've nae doot. Will I licht the -lichts the noo?" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas smiled at the old woman. "I think -we'll have tea in the firelight, Marget. I'm glad -Mysie has gone out for a little. It's a dull life up -here for a young girl." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, her," said Marget, dismissing her niece and -her possible dullness with a gesture. "D'ye mind, -Mem, the maister never likit his tea in the dark. He -said he couldna see the road to his mooth. 'Marget,' -he would say to me, 'let's have some light on the -subject.' That was aye what he said." -</p> - -<p> -Marget stood in the firelight and looked at the -two women at the tea-table. -</p> - -<p> -"D'ye ken what I was thinkin' this afternoon -when I was ma lane? I was thinkin' how queer it -was that a' oor men-folk are awa' and three -weemen's a' that's left." -</p> - -<p> -"Marget," said Ann, "what a croaking old raven -you are! We're not alone for always. Mr. Mark -and Mr. Jim will be back in the spring." -</p> - -<p> -Marget shook her head gloomily. "I've nae comfort -in thinkin' aboot folk awa' ower the sea. It's -a terrible dangerous thing to travel." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, Marget," said her mistress, "we've just -been talking, Miss Ann and I, about our trip to -South Africa. You washed your hands of us then." -</p> - -<p> -"Me! I never thocht to see ony o' ye again. An' -takin' wee Davie into sic danger! A' the sailin' -I ever did was from Burntisland to Granton afore -they pit up the Forth Bridge." -</p> - -<p> -"You're as bad as little Tommy Hislop," said -Ann. "I spoke to him the other day—you know he -is going out with his mother to join his father in -South Africa?—and asked him how he would like -the big ship. 'I'm no gaun in a ship,' he said; 'I -dinna like them. I'm gaun roond the road in a -cairt wi' ma Uncle Jake.'" -</p> - -<p> -"He's a wise laddie," said Marget. "But it was -an awfu' set-oot when you gaed awa' to Africa. An' -we thocht we'd better try and let the hoose for the -winter and keep it fired, an' some queer American -folk cam' aboot it, kin o' missionaries they were, an' -the maister said they were decent folk and let them -get it." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, and we knew nothing about them," said -Mrs. Douglas. "They belonged to some sort of -religious sect in America, and had come over here -to do propaganda work. They seemed to live like -the early Christians, having all things in common -and taking no thought for the morrow, and they -could only offer us a nominal rent; but your father -talked to them and thought them sincere and liked -them, so we gave them the house. We had a cellar -full of coal and a cupboard full of jam, and we -asked them if they would care to take them both -over. They said they would have to ask the Lord, -and they came back and said: The Lord says we -may take the coal, but not the jam,' and we felt so -sorry for the funny little people that we gave them -the jam. They had the wildest of accents, and we -had difficulty in understanding them when they -asked, 'Is there a crack in the door to let the mail -through?' and 'Has the yard been spaded over this fall?'" -</p> - -<p> -"Wasn't it like our daft ways," said Ann, as she -sipped her tea, "to let our house at a ridiculously low -rent to people we knew absolutely nothing about? -You know, Mother, they held meetings in the -drawing-room, and the neighbours, watching the people -troop in, shuddered for our carpets. I think it was -some sort of faith-healing that they did. When -they left, a month before you were expected back, -Aunt Agatha and Jim and I went to see what the -house was like, and arrange about having it -thoroughly cleaned. We found it in perfect condition. -Two of the women came to see us the night we were -there, and told us something of the work. I asked -them how they had kept the carpets so fresh, and -they said quite simply, 'We asked the Lord.' I -shall never forget poor Aunt Agatha's face of utter -terror—you know her almost insane horror of -infection—when one of those Bible Christians said, -'Would you believe it, we cured a case of smallpox -in this very room?' They had replaced everything -they had broken, so they did very well by us. It's -nice not to have to think hardly of Christians, -whatever sect they belong to." -</p> - -<p> -"That's true," said Marget, "but I think the puir -bodies had leeved on cocoa. Sic a cocoa-tins they -left in a press!" -</p> - -<p> -"Ann," said Mrs. Douglas, "I've just been thinking, -you should tell about old Christina in my <i>Life</i>. -She was a most interesting character." -</p> - -<p> -Ann shook her head as she rose from the tea-table. -"I've too many old women in it already. Besides, -I'm not going to write just now. I'm going to lie -in the most comfortable chair the room contains and -read an article in the <i>Times Literary Supplement</i> -called 'Love and Shakespeare.' Does that sound -good enough?" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap20"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XX -</h3> - -<p> -The next evening when Ann sat down with an -air of determination at the writing-table she -asked: "Shall I make another stride, Mother? Go -on another seven years? It's fine to wear -seven-league boots and stride about as one likes among -the years. What I ought to do, really, before I -write any more, is to read one of the books -Mr. Philip Scott sent me this morning. They are lives -of different people, and he thinks they might help -me a lot with yours." -</p> - -<p> -"It was kind of him to send them," Mrs. Douglas said. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, thoughtful, right enough, as Glasgow people -say. I shall thank him in a sentence I found in -Montaigne—here it is. 'They who write lives,' says -Montaigne, 'by reason that they take more notice -of counsels than events, more of what proceeds from -within doors than of what happens without ... are -the fittest for my perusal.' Mr. Scott will be -rather impressed, I should think." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas appeared to take little interest in -Montaigne. She was looking over a book that -Mr. Sharp had brought her to read that afternoon. -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Sharp was telling me," she said presently, -"how good the Miss Scotts are about helping with -anything in the village. He is very keen about -getting up a club for the young men, and he told them -about it, and they at once promised to have that -empty house at the top of the village put in order, -and their nephew, Mr. Philip Scott, sent a sum of -money and is going to supply papers and books and -magazines. Mr. Sharp was quite excited about it, -quite boyish and slangy when he told me about the -football and cricket clubs he hoped to start; you -would hardly have known him for the shy, douce -young man coming solemnly as a parson to talk to an -old woman. I hadn't realised how young he was -until to-day." -</p> - -<p> -"I wish I had seen him," said Ann. "I hadn't -thought of him as caring for football and cricket. -When do his people come?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, not till just before New Year. And the -housekeeper has already begun to hold it over his -head that the extra work will probably prove too -much for her, and says that perhaps she ought to -go now." -</p> - -<p> -"Better not tell Marget that," Ann warned her -mother. "She is so sorry for Mr. Sharp that she -is quite capable of going to the Manse and publicly -assaulting the woman. But he would be much better -to get rid of her at once; there shouldn't be much -difficulty about getting another." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas looked doubtful. "Better rue sit -than flit," she quoted. "Unless there happened to -be a suitable woman in the district, I'm afraid it -wouldn't be easy to induce one to come to such an -out-of-way place. And they ask such outrageous -wages now. When Marget came to me she said, 'I -doot ye'll think I've an awfu' big wage. I've been -gettin' seven pound in the half-year.' And she said -it in a hushed voice as if the very sound of the sum -frightened her." -</p> - -<p> -Ann laughed and quoted: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'Times is changed,' said the cat's-meat man.<br /> - 'Lights is riz,' said the cat's-meat man.'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -The days are over when people could be passing -rich on fourteen pounds in the year. Mother, are -you quite sure you want to stay here over Christmas? -It is such a deadly time at the best. Won't you go -and stay with some of the people who have asked us?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, I think not. I wouldn't like to be with -anyone but my very own at Christmas time, and it -would be ridiculous to bring the children so far—so -we shall just stay quietly here." -</p> - -<p> -"Very well," said Ann. Then, after a pause, -"I'm asking you, Mother, but you won't pay any -attention, where shall I begin to-night? I have -written about the South African trip, shall I go on -another seven years?" -</p> - -<p> -"Seven years," her mother repeated. "That -makes Mark thirty-one. Oh, a tremendous lot -happened in those seven years, Ann. Robbie went to -India; Jim left Oxford and had just finished his law -studies when Uncle Bob died and he had to take -his place; Mark married; you went to India. And -you talk glibly about writing it in one evening." -</p> - -<p> -"It is rather a spate of events," Ann confessed. -"Did they really all happen in seven years, before -Davie was fourteen? First, Robbie sailed for -India. One of the church people who deeply deplored -his going said, 'He's far ower bonnie a laddie for -India.'" -</p> - -<p> -"So he was," said Robbie's mother. "It was like -cutting off a right hand to let him go." -</p> - -<p> -"But, Mother," Ann said, "I don't think we need -grudge the years he was in India, for he was never -really divided from us, his heart was always at -home. People there told me that though he loved -his work he was always talking of Scotland, his -heart was full of the 'blessed beastly place' all the -time. D'you remember his first leave? Long before -it was sanctioned he had engaged a berth and given -us elaborate instructions about writing to every -port. It was only three months—six weeks at -home—but it was enough, he said, to build the bridge. -He was just the same, the same kind simple boy, -eager to spend his money buying presents for every -one; then, of course, his money went done! I can -see him now, lying on the floor with a bit of paper -and a pencil trying to make out if he had any money -to go back with.... I wonder what made Robbie -so utterly lovable? If we could only recapture the -charm and put it into words—but we can only -remember it and miss it. I think it was partly the way -he had of laughing at himself, and the funny -short-sighted way he screwed up his eyes—when he missed -a shot he would call himself a 'blind buffer.' I -always remember his second leave as being, I think, -almost the happiest time in my life." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. It was the last time we were all -together—two years after Mark's marriage. Mark took -Fennanhopes, which held us all comfortably, and -there was good shooting. Alis was a year old, and -the idol of her uncles. Davie was about fourteen, I -suppose. Robbie was particularly pleased that -Davie showed signs of being a good shot, and poor -Davie was so anxious to please that he fired at and -brought down a snipe, and then suffered agonies of -remorse over killing what he described as 'that wee -long-nebbit bird.'" -</p> - -<p> -"I remember that," said Ann. "Mother, wasn't -it odd how like Robbie and Davie were? Plain -little Davie and Robbie who was so good-looking. -After Robbie was gone, when Davie and I were -together in a room, I used to shut my eyes and make -myself almost believe it was Robbie talking to -me—and both were so like Father. It must have been -the way they moved, and the gentle way they -touched things—and the way they fell over things! -Mark called Davie 'light-footed Ariel,' from his -capacity for taking tosses. They were such friends, -Father and the four boys, and Father was the -youngest of the lot." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas sat with her hands clasped in her -lap, looking straight before her. When she spoke -it was as if she were speaking to herself. -</p> - -<p> -"Robbie used to say that it was a mistake for a -family to be too affectionate, for when we were -parted we were homesick for each other all the time. -But he wrote once: 'Foreign service must be a -cheerless business for the unclannish....'" -</p> - -<p> -"Mother," Ann said gently, "I think you can -almost say Robbie's letters by heart. It wasn't so -bad saying good-bye to him, after his first leave—at -least, not for me, for I was going out to him for -the next cold weather. And Mark's marriage was -our next excitement; we were frightfully unused to -marriages in our family, for you had no brothers -or sisters married, and Father had none. Had you -and Father proved such an awful example?" -</p> - -<p> -"It is odd," Mrs. Douglas agreed; "but some families -are like that. Others flop into matrimony like -young ducks into water. Mark's engagement gave -me a great shock. It came as a complete surprise, -and we knew nothing about Charlotte, and it seemed -to me that it must break up everything, and that I -must lose my boy." -</p> - -<p> -"It might have meant that, Mother, if Charlotte -hadn't been Charlotte. I know young wives who -have taken their husbands completely away from -their own people. I don't think Mark would have -allowed himself to be taken, and I am very sure that -Charlotte never tried. How odd it is to remember -that first visit she paid to us after she got engaged. -None of us had ever seen her, and we wondered -what we would talk to her about for a whole fortnight. -And if it was bad for us to have a stranger -come in amongst us, how infinitely worse it was for -poor Charlotte to have to face a solid phalanx -of—possibly hostile—new relations! We have often -laughed at it since, and Charlotte has confessed that -she had a subject for each of us. To you, Mums, -she talked about the poor; to Jim, poetry; to -Father, flowers; Davie needed no conversation, only -butter-scotch; my subject was books. The great -thing about Charlotte was that she could always -laugh, always be trusted to see the funny side if -there was one, and as a family we value that more -than anything. And we are pagans in our love for -beauty, and Charlotte was very good to look at. -We weren't really formidable, Charlotte says. -Father she loved at once. Having no brothers of -her own, she was delighted to adopt Robbie and Jim -and Davie. You and I were the snags, Mother." -</p> - -<p> -"I?" said Mrs. Douglas in a hurt voice. "I'm -sure I tried to be as kind as——" -</p> - -<p> -"Of course you did, you couldn't be anything else -if you tried; but you had just a little the air of a -lioness being robbed of its whelps—and you sighed -a good deal. Mark and I had been so much to each -other always that it wouldn't have been surprising -if Charlotte had disliked the person that she was, -in a way, supplanting—but we both liked Mark too -well to dislike each other, so we became friends. I -never hear a joke now but I think 'I must remember -to tell Charlotte that,' and I never enjoy a book -without thinking 'I wish Charlotte were here that -we might talk it over.' We have laughed so much -together, and we have cried so much together, that -I don't think anything could come between us. And -she has been so good about letting us share the -children—What an event the wedding was! D'you -remember the hat you chose for it in the middle of -a most tremendous thunderstorm? It didn't seem -to matter much what hat you took for we expected -to be killed any minute, and it always rather -solemnised you to put it on." -</p> - -<p> -"It was too youthful for me," Mrs. Douglas said -gloomily. "Weddings always depress me, and -when it's one of your own it's worse." -</p> - -<p> -"You enjoyed it in spite of yourself," said her -daughter. "I know I enjoyed it—one of the seven -bridesmaids in pink and silver, and I know Davie -enjoyed it, flying about in his kilt. It was his very -first visit to London, and we took him to <i>The Scarlet -Pimpernel</i>, to a <i>matinée</i>. When we came out into -the sunny street after three hours' breathless -excitement, he was like an owl at noonday; I think he had -forgotten entirely that he lived in the twentieth -century. It was hard luck that Robbie couldn't be at -the wedding. He was so amused when we wrote -to him about Father kissing the bride—kissing was -an almost unheard-of thing with us in those days. -He wrote: 'To think of my elderly, respectable -father kissing his daughter-in-law and jaunting over -to Paris! He'll be losing his job one of these days.' We -went on to Paris after the wedding and then -to the Lakes, and all got more or less seedy. Father -and I were the only two who kept quite well, and we -had to go and buy hot-water bags for the rest of you. -Davie was in Jim's room, and in the middle of the -night, feeling ill, he thought he would go and tell -me about it, and on his way to my room he saw in -the moonlight a statue on the landing, and in his -fright he fell down a whole flight of stairs. And -none of you could eat the good dinners—it was all -very provoking." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Mrs. Douglas; "it is very provoking -to pay for meals you haven't eaten. And no sooner -did we get home than we were all as hungry as -hunters! We had to begin after that to get your -clothes ready for going to India." -</p> - -<p> -"That was great fun. I did enjoy getting all the -new frocks and the hundred and one things I needed. -My bridesmaid's frock made a very pretty evening-dress, -and I had a white satin one for my presentation, -and a pale green satin that was like moonlight. -Robbie was dreadfully given to walking on my train -when we went out to dinner; I was usually -announced to the sound of the rending of gathers. I -wonder if other people find as much to laugh at in -India as Robbie and I did? Practically everything -made us laugh. I can never be sufficiently thankful -that I was allowed to have that six months alone -with him. It is something precious to remember all -my life.... But the leaving him was terrible. By -some wangling he managed to get down the river -with me; that gave us a few more hours together. -He had just left me, and I was standing straining -my streaming eyes after the launch, when another -boat came to the side of the ship and a man sprang -out and came up to me. It was one of Martyrs' young -men, Willie Martin, a clerk in a shipping office, who -had watched for my name on the passenger list and -had come to say good-bye. It was very touching of -him. I expect I reminded him of home." -</p> - -<p> -"His people were so pleased that you had seen -him," Mrs. Douglas said. "You had to go the -minute you came home and tell them all you could -about him. He never came home, poor boy! When -war broke out he joined up in India, and was one -of the missing." -</p> - -<p> -"I know. A decent laddie he was. When we -were in Calcutta Robbie and I invited him to tea -one Sunday afternoon, and he came, and was so nice -and modest and shy; Robbie was loud in his praises -because he went away directly after tea. You see, -I had got the names of several young men from -Scotland who were in business in Calcutta, and we asked -them to tea on Sunday afternoons, when they were -free, and Robbie didn't like the ones who sat on and -on making no move to go away. Some we had to -ask to dinner because they hadn't gone away at -eight o'clock!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap21"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XXI -</h3> - -<p> -"... It was our favourite occupation, your -father's and mine, when we had an hour -together by the fire, to dream of the good times we -would have when he retired. When we got very -tired of plodding along with our faces against the -wind, when people seemed indifferent about our -efforts and ungrateful, when something we had taken -immense pains about proved a failure, when -term-time came and family after family whom we had -learned to count on moved away to outlying -suburbs, leaving gaps that couldn't be filled, your -father would say to me, 'Never mind, Nell; it'll be -all over some day and we'll get away to the country,' -and we would talk about and plan what we would do -when we had no longer a congregation to tend. But, -inside me, I was always sceptical about the dream -ever coming true. I knew he wouldn't leave his -work until he had to; and I had visions of going on -and on until we were old and grey-headed. One -should never let oneself weary in this world, for -everything stops so soon." -</p> - -<p> -Ann sat on the fender stool sharpening a pencil, -very absorbed in the point she was making. When -it was done to her satisfaction she turned round to -her mother. -</p> - -<p> -"Did you really ever weary in well-doing, -Mother? Ah, well! 'Rejoice that ye have time to -weary in.' But it was a pretty uphill job you and -Father had in that district. There was one thing, -though the congregation was small it was tremendously -appreciative. You remember Mr. Gardner, -the elder? I used to like to watch his face when -Father preached—it was a study. He had the nicest -little doggy face, with honesty written all over it. -And his friend, great big Mr. Law who sat in the -seat behind him—he was exactly my idea of the -Village Blacksmith." -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Law should have been put into a book," -Mrs. Douglas said. "Don't you remember how he -used to stand up and square his great shoulders and -speak in broad Lowland Scots?" -</p> - -<p> -"I should think so. Mr. Law's addresses were our -great delight. He began one on Evolution with: -'Some folk say that oor great-grandfathers hoppit -aboot on the branches.' He always talked of 'the -Apostle Jims,' and do you remember the description -he gave us of some picture he had seen of the 'Last -Judgment,' by Michael Angelo? I don't know -where this masterpiece is hung, but Mr. Law said -that it depicted 'Michael Angelo creepin' oot o' a -hole aneath the throne and a look o' hesitancy on -the face of God!' And he told us one day that he -was sure the Apostle Paul had never been to Scotland -or he most certainly would have put on record -that Ben Lomond was the finest hill that he had -ever set eyes on." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas smiled. "Mr. Law was a fine man -and a most original speaker, but he felt so strongly -on certain things that he was apt to upset other -members." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah," said Ann, shaking her head wisely, "one -dreads that class of lad in a church." -</p> - -<p> -"John Gardner, on the other hand," Mrs. Douglas -went on, "was an undiluted blessing in the -church. He was willing to do—indeed he liked -doing—all the work that brought no kudos, all the dull -jobs that most people try to evade. And he was -always there. No matter how bad the night, you -were always sure that his 'doggy' face would beam -on you. 'Thank God,' your father used to say, -'thank God for the faithful few.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Ann. "I remember I was discussing -with the boys, in our usual rather irreverent way, -who of the people we knew would be 'farthest ben' -in the next world. We denied admittance to quite -a number of people famous for their good works; -others, we thought, might just scrape in. 'But,' said -Mark, 'I back Father and Dr. Struthers and wee -Gardner to be sitting on the very next steps of the -Throne.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Ann!" her mother expostulated. "I never -did like the way you and the boys spoke of sacred -things; it sounded so flippant. But 'wee Gardner,' -as you call him, was a great gift to us. Oh, and -there were others almost as good. And the young -men and women were really rather special." -</p> - -<p> -"They were," said Ann. "The books they read -and the wideness of their interests put me to shame. -You know, Mother, it must have been very interesting -for them, for they found their whole social -life in the church. What fun they had at the social -meetings! I almost envied them. At one social -a girl said to me that she wished the men would -come up—I suppose they were talking and smoking -in the lower hall—and I said, stupidly, that I -thought it was nicer without the men, and the girl -replied with some sagacity, 'you wouldn't say that -if they were your own kind of men.' A church is a -great matchmaker. Old Mrs. Buchanan, talking one -day of the young men and maidens in the choir, -said, 'They pair <i>just like doos</i>.' There is one good -thing about a small congregation—everybody knows -everybody else. We were like one big family. It -is touching to hear them talk now about those days; -they look back on them as a sort of Golden Age. -And the presents they gave us! And they were so -poor. Each of the boys got a gold watch and chain -when they left home, and when I went to India I -had quite a collection of keepsakes, some very odd, -but all greatly valued by me, their owner. Mother, -why are you sitting 'horn idle,' as Marget would -say? Have you finished your knitting?" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas looked at her idle hands. "My -knitting is like Penelope's web," she said; "there is -no end to it. I'm simply sitting idle for a change, -sitting thinking about days that are past, and about -people I shall never see again on this side of time. -I think a great deal of Martyrs, and I feel very -humble when I think of the affection and loyalty given -to us." -</p> - -<p> -"But, Mother, you can't have liked everybody in -the church. The thing's not possible. Think of -Mr. Philip Scott and the 'acid' he thinks necessary, -and say something really unkind.... You know -you never liked Mrs. Marshall, the elder's wife—she -was a terrible tale-bearer, and always making mischief." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, she was, poor body. But, Ann, she was -kind when Rosamund was ill, and——" -</p> - -<p> -Ann threw up her hands. "Mother, you are hopeless. -I'm not going to try to put any acid into you. -You're just like strawberry jam. I'm afraid I've -got your share of acid as well as my own, that's why -I've such an 'ill-scrapit tongue.'" -</p> - -<p> -But Mrs. Douglas wasn't listening. She was -looking before her, dreaming. Presently she said: -</p> - -<p> -"Ann, it doesn't seem a very complimentary thing -to say to you, but I look back on the winter you -were in India with very great pleasure. We were -quite alone, your father and I, for the first time -almost since we were married, and he often said, -laughing, 'We're never better than when we're -alone, Nell.' The letters were such a pleasure—Mark's -every morning, Jim's every other morning, -a curious scrawl from little Davie once a week, and -on Saturday Robbie's letter and your great budget. -Oh, Ann, Ann, why was I not deliriously happy? -All of you well, all of you prospering, my man -beside me, and life full of sunlight." -</p> - -<p> -"Ay, Mother, you should have been down on your -knees thanking heaven fasting—and if the truth -were known I dare say you were. But it's only -afterwards you realise how happy you have been!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, afterwards," said Mrs. Douglas. "It was -when you came home from India that you noticed -that your father was failing. Living with him I -had noticed nothing." -</p> - -<p> -"There was hardly anything to notice. He didn't -walk with the same light step. He sometimes -wondered why his congregation always chose to live up -four flights of stairs, and one night he said to me, -half laughing, half serious: 'I'm beginning to be -afraid of that which is high.' But he was well for a -year or two after that, till he had the bad heart -attack, and the doctor warned us that it was time he -was thinking of giving up his work." -</p> - -<p> -Ann got up and stood with both hands on the -mantelshelf looking into the fire. -</p> - -<p> -"I remember," she went on, "the curious unreal -feeling I had, as if the solid earth had somehow -given way beneath my feet when I realised that -Father's life was in danger. And then, when days -and weeks passed, and he didn't seem to get worse, -we just put the thought away from us and told -ourselves that doctors were often mistaken, and that if -he took reasonable care all would be well." -</p> - -<p> -"He was only sixty-one," Mrs. Douglas said, -"and the doctors assured us that if he gave up -preaching he might have years of fairly good health. -He had worked himself done. Twenty-two years in -Glasgow had been too much for him." -</p> - -<p> -Ann nodded. "He never said a word, but the -fact was Father hated cities. Rosamund used to -call the Park 'the policeman's country,' because of -the notices to keep off the grass, and she called -Etterick 'God's country.' Father longed all the time -for 'God's country.' He would have been supremely -happy as minister of some moorland place, with -time to write, and time to love his books and flowers, -and instead he had to spend his days toiling up and -down endless stairs, never getting away from the -sight of squalor and misery, doing the King's work -through the unfeatured years. And yet he was -perfectly content. He was able to find a Sabbath -stillness in the noise, and from some hidden spring he -could draw wells of living water to make in that -dreary place a garden 'bright with dawn and dew' -to refresh a haggard world.... You must have -felt very bad about leaving Martyrs, Mother?—after -all those years." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh.... We felt it to be almost treachery on -our part to leave some of those poor people. They -depended on us. We considered whether we ought -to stay on in Glasgow and still help a little, unofficially, -as it were, but you were all against that, and -finally we took a house in Priorsford to be near Jim. -I was glad when it was settled, and glad when those -last months in Glasgow were over. It was miserable -work dismantling the house and packing up and -saying good-bye." -</p> - -<p> -"Everything has an end," said Ann, "'and a -pudden has twa,' to quote Marget's favourite -saying. But I could hardly believe we were finished -with Martyrs, that we would tramp no more that -long road, and sit no more in that back pew to the -side of the pulpit, and look up at Father Sunday -after Sunday—Mother, surely Father was a very -good preacher?" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas sat up very straight, as if she were -challenging anyone to contradict her, and said -proudly: "He was the best preacher I ever heard. -And if he were here he would laugh at me for saying so." -</p> - -<p> -"He would," said Ann; "but I think I agree -with you." -</p> - -<p> -"A communion in Martyrs," her mother went on; -"what an occasion it was! Except for length—our -services were always short—I expect it was the same -service that the Covenanters held, fearfully, as -hunted men. 'Following the custom of our fathers'—can't -you hear him say it?—your father always -'fenced' the tables and read the warrant. Then we -sung those most mournful words: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - ''Twas on that night when doomed to know<br /> - The eager rage of every foe';<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -and your father took his place among the elders -round the table in the choir seat. He always held -a slice of the bread, and, breaking it, said, 'Mark -the breaking of the bread,' and after the tables were -served he said a few concluding words. I used to -listen for his voice falling on the -stillness—'Communicants!' It seemed to me very beautiful." -</p> - -<p> -"I know. But what will always remain with me -is the way he said the Benediction. He was a very -vigorous preacher, my father. There was no -settling down to sleep 'under' him. Sometimes he -would describe the fate of those who wilfully -refused salvation, very sadly, very solemnly, and then -he would shut the big Bible and, leaning over the -side of the pulpit, he would say, 'But, brethren, I -am persuaded better things of you.' Then came -the Benediction, and I listened for the swish of the -silk of the Geneva gown as he stretched his arms -wide over the people, and his voice came healing, -soothing, restful as sleep: 'May the peace of God -which passeth all understanding...' On that last -Sunday—the last time he ever preached—he gave -us no farewell words, and I was thankful, for he had -an uncanny gift of pathos; but he offered us, as he -had offered us every time he preached in that pulpit, -Christ and Him crucified. We sang 'Part in Peace,' -and then he looked round the church, slowly, searchingly, -round the wide galleries and through the area. -Was he seeing again all those brave old figures who -had so loyally held up his hands until they had to -step out into the Unknown? In twenty-two years -one sees many go. Then he held out his arms—the -swish of the Geneva gown—and for the last time -the listeners heard that golden voice saying, 'May -the peace of God which passeth all understanding -keep your hearts and minds.' ..." -</p> - -<p> -There were tears standing in Ann's grey eyes as -she said, "I know it's a ridiculous thing to say, but -it seems to me that the people who knew Father -and were blessed by him have a better idea of what -that peace means—oh, Mother, aren't we a couple -of foolish women sitting lauding our own!" -</p> - -<p> -"No," Mrs. Douglas said stoutly; "we're not. If -Martyrs' people were in the room now I'm sure they -would say 'Amen' to all you say of your father. -And I lived with him for thirty-four years and I -couldn't imagine a better man. He was a saint, and -yet he was human and funny and most lovable, -and that isn't too common a combination. There -can be nothing more terrible than to be married to -a sanctimonious saint. Imagine being <i>forgiven</i> all -the time! Every time you lost your temper or spoke -maliciously or unadvisedly, to see a pained -expression on his face!" -</p> - -<p> -"It would drive one to crime," said Ann solemnly. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap22"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XXII -</h3> - -<p> -Marget stood in the middle of the room -pleating her black silk apron between her -fingers. She wanted to be asked to sit down, for -she had heard Ann and her mother talking of the -removal from Glasgow, and she felt that what she -had to say on the subject was of value. -</p> - -<p> -"Cornel and Mrs. Moncrieff 'll be comin' next -week," she reminded them. "I'm airin' the rooms -an' pitten' bottles in the beds noo for I'm never verra -sure aboot unused rooms in a new hoose. Ye'll no' -can write when they're here, Miss Ann. It'll tak' -ye a' yer time to crack wi' the Cornel." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, but it's a long time till next week, Marget," -Ann said, as she went over to the bureau to address -a parcel she had been wrapping up. "I'll have -finished my writing by then." -</p> - -<p> -"Is that sweeties for the bairns?" Marget asked, -eyeing the parcel and sitting down as if by accident. -"Ye'll file their stomachs." -</p> - -<p> -"It's only Miss Smart's tablet. I never go to -Priorsford without getting them some tablet at their -dear Miss Smart's. Rory said to me solemnly the -last time he was here, after a very successful visit to -the shop, 'There's nobody in England like Miss -Smart.'" -</p> - -<p> -"I dare say not," said Mrs. Douglas. "London -shops don't encourage small boys to poke in behind -the counter. Miss Smart is so good-natured that her -shop is a sort of Aladdin's Cave to all young -Priorsford—Ann, have you remembered to put in my <i>Life</i> -about Alis and the others being born?" -</p> - -<p> -"Goodness gracious, I have not," cried Ann. -"But I haven't got to that time yet, have I? You -shouldn't give me unnecessary frights, Mother. -Imagine leaving out Alis! Davie would have been -annoyed. He was the proudest young uncle—was -he thirteen?—and Alis adored him. 'My saucy -Uncle Boy' she named him, when she could speak; -and they were inseparable. He was a mixture of -playmate and kind old Nannie to her. If anyone -made Alis cry, in a moment Davie appeared and -snatched her up and dried her tears. 'You don't -know how I love my Uncle Boy,' I heard her telling -some one. 'He's my favourite of men.' No, Davie -wouldn't like Alis forgotten." -</p> - -<p> -"I used to hear Alis boast," Mrs. Douglas said, -"about her young uncle to Mary Elizabeth, and -when Mary came to stay she warned her, 'He is my -Uncle Boy, you know, Mary, not yours,' and Mary -said nothing until she got Davie alone, then she -whispered to him, 'Uncle Boy, will you be my -Daddy,' and thought she had scored off poor Alis -completely." -</p> - -<p> -"A' the bairns likit Davie," Marget put in. "He -had sic a cheery face an' he was aye lauchin'. I've -seen me lauch mysel' in the kitchen when I heard -him lauchin' up the stairs. He fair hated to be -vexed aboot onything. Ye mind when you were ill, -Mem, he took it awfu' ill-oot." -</p> - -<p> -"All our troubles began after we left Glasgow," -Ann said gloomily. "All those years we had been -extraordinary healthy; doctors would have starved -if they had had to depend on us. I know I used -to look pityingly at sick people and wonder to -myself if they wouldn't be quite well if they only made -an effort. We talked bracingly about never having -people ill in bed in our house. 'We treat our -patients on their feet,' we said, with what must have -been an insufferably superior air. And then we had -been so lucky for so long; the boys got everything -they tried for, and everything prospered with us, -so I suppose it was time we got a downing; but that -didn't make it any easier when it came. We left -Glasgow knowing that father's health would always -be an anxiety; but we didn't bargain for your -crocking up, Mums." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sure I didn't want to 'crock up' as you call -it," said Mrs. Douglas, looking aggrieved. -</p> - -<p> -"Of course you didn't," Ann hastened to soothe -her mother's ruffled feelings. Then she began to -laugh. "But it was rather like you, Mother, to go -and take a most obscure disease! We can laugh at -it now because you got better, but we put in a -terrible year. First the removing to Priorsford in -May—taking the books alone was like removing -mountains, though we gave away armfuls to anyone who -could be induced to take them—and we were no -sooner settled down in our new house than you began -to feel seedy. It began so gradually that we thought -nothing of it. You looked oddly yellow, and seemed -to lose strength; but you said it was nothing, and I -was only too glad to believe it. When at last we -got the doctor he said you were very seriously ill, -sent you to bed, and got a trained nurse." -</p> - -<p> -"Eh, I say," Marget began. "I'll never forget -that winter. We juist got fricht efter fricht. It -was something awfu'. It was a guid thing we left -the new hoose and gaed to live wi' Mr. Jim." -</p> - -<p> -"It was," said Ann; "we needed Jim beside us. -Those awful attacks of fever when you lay delirious -for days at a time! We dragged you through one -turn and got you fairly well, only to see you take -another. It was most disheartening. No wonder -poor Davie stamped with rage. Doctors and nurses -walked in and out of the house, specialists were -summoned from Edinburgh and Glasgow. All our -money was spent on physicians, and, like the woman -in the Bible, you were none the better, but rather -the worse. None of them gave us any hope that -you would recover. One evening we were told you -couldn't live over the night, and Mark and -Charlotte came flying up from London, only to find you -sitting up knitting a stocking! I never really -believed that you wouldn't get better. You weren't -patient enough somehow; indeed, my dear, there -was nothing of the story-book touch about you at -all when you were ill. What a thrawn, resentful -little patient you were! You occupied your time -when you were fairly well upbraiding me for -keeping the house so extravagantly. You said you were -sure there was great leakage. I'm sure there was, -but I couldn't help it. It took me all my time to -nurse you and keep things comfortable in the house -and see that Father didn't over-exert himself. -Marget's whole time was taken up cooking—illness -makes such a lot of extra work—and, fortunately, -we had a very good housemaid. But if you didn't -shine as a patient, I certainly didn't shine as a nurse. -I'm afraid I hadn't the gentle, womanly touch of -the real ministering angel, smoothing pillows and -such like. I knew nothing about nursing, and you -said I heaved hot-water bags at you." -</p> - -<p> -"So you did; but you were an excellent nurse for -all that. But, oh, I did feel so guilty keeping you -hanging round me. It was more than a year out of -your life, just when you would have been having -such a good time." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh," said Ann, "I don't grudge the year—I've -had heaps of good times. The only really bad times -were when the attacks of high fever came and you -got unconscious; then you wouldn't let a nurse into -the room. Jim and I had to sit up with you for -nights on end. But you were very brave, and you -never let your illness get on our nerves. You just -bounded up from an attack like an india-rubber ball. -The doctors simply gasped at you. You said good-bye -to us so often that we began to take it quite -casually, merely saying, 'Well, have some beef-tea just -now, anyway'; and Father used to laugh and say, -'You'll live and loup dykes yet.'" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sure I wasn't at all keen to live, Ann. When -you get very far down dying seems so simple and -easy; but I did want to see Robbie again. I think -that kept me alive. When did you take me to -London? In spring, wasn't it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, in March. You weren't getting a bit better, -and some one told Mark about the vaccine treatment, -and he thought it might be worth trying. We -were told that the journey would certainly kill you, -but you said, 'No such thing,' so off we set, you and -I, all on a wild March morning. You stood the -journey splendidly; but two days after you arrived -you took the worst fever turn of all. The London -doctors came and told me you wouldn't live over -the night, and I really thought they were going to -be right that time. I telephoned to Priorsford, and -it was Davie answered me, 'Is that you, Nana?' I -was sorry to worry the boy, but I had to tell you -were very ill, and that I thought Jim should come -up by the night train. But you warstled through -again, and then Mark brought Sir Armstrong Weir -to see you. We had seen several London doctors, -very glossy and well dressed, with beautiful cars, -and we wondered if this great Sir Armstrong would -be even smarter. But the great man came in a taxi, -and wasn't at all well dressed—grey and bent and -very gentle." -</p> - -<p> -"He looked old," Mrs. Douglas said; "but he -couldn't have been so very, for he told me his own -mother was living. He was very kind to me." -</p> - -<p> -"He cured you," said Ann. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh no," said Mrs. Douglas. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, it was partly his vaccine and partly your -own marvellous pluck." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh no. It wasn't pluck or vaccine or anything, -but just that I had to live more days on the earth." -</p> - -<p> -"'Deed ay," said Marget, nodding in agreement -with her mistress. "Ye never did ony guid until -ye had given up doctors a'thegither. As soon as we -got quat o' them ye began to improve." -</p> - -<p> -"Now, now, Marget," said Ann, "you get carried -away by your dislike of doctors. We've been very -thankful to see them many a time." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, they're a' richt for some things; but whenever -it's ony thing serious ye canna lippen to them. -When there's onything wrang wi' yer inside -naebody can help ye but yer Maker." -</p> - -<p> -Ann laughed. "What a gloomy view to take, -Marget. You remind me of the old lady who said -that she gave to Dr. Barnardo's Homes 'because he -has no one to help him but God.' I won't let you -malign doctors. The best kind of doctor is about -the highest type of human being. What are you -snorting at, Marget?" -</p> - -<p> -"I could wish them a better job! Hoo onybody -can like clartin' aboot in folks' insides! Doctorin's -a nesty job, and I'm glad nane o' oor laddies took -up wi't. They a' got clean, genteel jobs." -</p> - -<p> -"Such as soldiering?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I'm no' heedin' muckle aboot sodgerin' -aither," said Marget. Then, turning to her -mistress, she said, "As you say, Mem, nae doctor can -kill ye while there's life in the cup. D'ye think it -was mebbe the flittin' that brocht on yer trouble? -Ye ken ye washt a' the china yersel'." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas smiled at her. "All the years -you've known me, Marget, have you ever heard of -housework doing me any harm? No. It was some -sort of blood-poisoning that went away as mysteriously -as it came. Though what I was spared for I -know not. If I had died, how often you would have -said of me, 'She was taken from the evil to come.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Poor darling!" said Ann. "Do you think you -were spared simply that you might receive evil -things? Say, rather, that you were spared to help -the rest of us through the terrible times.... -Father, mercifully, had kept wonderfully well -through your illness. He had accepted his limitations -and knew that he must not attempt a hill road, -or fight against a high wind, or move quickly; and -really, looking at him, it was difficult to believe that -anything ailed him." -</p> - -<p> -"But it must have been very bad for him, Ann, -all the scares he got with my illness. It's dreadful -for me to think that the last year of his life was -made uncomfortable and distressed by me." -</p> - -<p> -"But you mustn't think that. Even in those -stormy days he seemed to carry about with him a -quiet, sunny peace. What a blessing we had him -through that time; the sight of him steadied one." -</p> - -<p> -"And I'm sure I couldn't have lived through that -time without him," Mrs. Douglas said; "although I -sometimes got very cross with him sitting reading -with a pleased smile on his face when I felt so -miserable." -</p> - -<p> -"I think he really enjoyed his restricted life," said -Ann. "To be in the open air was his delight, and -he was able to take two short walks every day and -spend some time pottering in the garden, going -lovingly round his special treasures, those rock plants -that he was trying to persuade to grow on the old -wall by the waterside. We wanted him to drive, -but he hated driving; he liked, he said, to feel the -ground under his feet. He never looked anything -but well with his fresh-coloured face." -</p> - -<p> -"He got younger lookin'," Marget said. "I suppose -it was no havin' a kirk to worry aboot, the lines -on his face got kind o' smoothed oot. D'ye mind -when he used to come into the room, Mem, you -aye said it was like a breath o' fresh air." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, Marget, I mind well. Neil Macdonald -said when he was staying with us once that when -Father came into the room he had a look in his eyes -as if he had been on a watch-tower, 'As if—Neil -said, in his soft, Highland voice—'as if he had been -looking across Jordan into Canaan's green and -pleasant land.'" -</p> - -<p> -Ann smiled. "I know what he meant. D'ye remember -Father's little Baxter's <i>Saints' Rest</i> that he -carried about with him in his pocket and read in -quiet moments? And his passion for adventure -books? I think Jim got him every 'thriller' that -was published. And the book on Border Poets that -he was writing? He always wrote a bit after tea. -No matter who was having tea with us, Father -calmly turned when he was finished to the bureau, -pulled forward a chair—generally rumpling up the -rug, and then I cried, 'Oh, <i>Father</i>!'—and sat quietly -writing amid all the talk and laughter. He had -nearly finished it when he died.... That last week -he seemed particularly well. He said his feet had -such a firm grip of the ground now. I didn't want -him to go out because it was stormy, and he held up -one foot and said, 'Dear me, girl, look at those -<i>splendid</i> soles!'" -</p> - -<p> -Marget put her apron up to her eyes. "Eh, lassie, -ye're whiles awfu' like yer faither." -</p> - -<p> -There was a silence in the room while the three -women thought their own thoughts. -</p> - -<p> -At last Ann said, "What pathetic things we mortals -are! That Saturday night when we sat round -the fire my heart was singing a song of thankfulness. -You were still frail, Mother, but you were wonderfully -better, and to have you with us again sitting -by the fire knitting your stocking was comfort -unspeakable. Jim had been reading aloud the <i>Vailima -Letters</i>, and the letters to Barrie and about Barrie -sent us to <i>The Little Minister</i>, and I read to you -Waster Luny's inimitable remarks about ancestors, -'It's a queer thing that you and me his nae ancestors.... -They're as lost to sicht as a flagon-lid that's -fa'en ahint the dresser.' I forget how it goes, but -Father enjoyed it greatly. I think anything would -have made us laugh that night, for the mornin's -post had brought us a letter from Robbie with the -unexpected news that he had been chosen for some -special work and would be home shortly—he -thought in about three months' time. And as I -looked at you and Father smiling at each other in -the firelight I said in my heart, like Agag, '<i>Surely -the bitterness of death is past!</i>' and the next day -Father died." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas sat silent with her head bowed, but -Marget said, "Oh, lassie! lassie!" and wept openly. -</p> - -<p> -In a little while Ann spoke again: -</p> - -<p> -"It isn't given to many to be 'happy on the occasion -of his death,' but Father was. His end was as -gentle as his life. He slipped away suddenly on -the Sabbath afternoon, at the hour when his hands -had so often been stretched in benediction. He died -in his boyhood's home. The November sun was -going down behind the solemn round-backed hills, -the familiar sound of the Tweed over its pebbles -was in his ears, and though he had to cross the dark -river the waters weren't deep for him. I think, like -Mr. Standfast, he went over 'wellnigh dry shod.' -And he was taken before the storm broke. Three -months later the cable came that broke our hearts. -Robbie had died after two days' illness on his way -to Bombay to get the steamer for home." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap23"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XXIII -</h3> - -<p> -They had been talking of many things, Ann -and her mother, and had fallen silent. -</p> - -<p> -The wind was tearing through the Green Glen, -and moaning eerily round the house of Dreams, -throwing at intervals handfuls of hail which struck -against the panes like pistol-shots. -</p> - -<p> -"A wild night," Mrs. Douglas said, looking over -her shoulder at the curtained windows, and drawing -her chair nearer the fire. "This is the sort of night -your father liked to sit by the fireside. He would -lift his head from his book to listen to the wind -outside, look round the warm, light room and give -a contented sigh." -</p> - -<p> -"I know," said Ann; "it was very difficult doing -without Father. He had always enjoyed the good -things of life so frankly there seemed no pleasure -any longer in a good dinner, or a fine morning, or a -blazing fire, or an interesting book, since he wasn't -there to say how fine it was. Besides his very -presence had been a sort of benediction, and it was -almost as if the roof of life had been removed—and it -was much worse for you, poor Mother. We were -afraid you would go, too." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Ann," Mrs. Douglas, clasping <i>Hours of -Silence</i>, raised tearful eyes to her daughter, "I'm sure -I didn't want to live. I don't know why I go on -living." -</p> - -<p> -Ann caught her mother's hands in her own. "You -funny wee body! You remind me of the Paisley -woman who told me she had lost all her sons in the -war, and was both surprised and annoyed that she -hadn't died of grief. 'An' ma neebor juist lost the -one an' <i>she</i> de'ed, and folk said she niver liftit her -heid efter her laddie went, and here wis me losin' a' -mine and gaun aboot quite healthy! An' I'm sure -I wis as vext as whit she wis. It's no want o' grievin' -for I'm never dune greetin'—I begin early i' the -mornin' afore I get ma cup o' tea.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, the poor body!" said Mrs. Douglas. "I -know so well what she meant. It sounds funny, but -it isn't a bit.... Your father's death was sheer -desolation to me. I remember, a long time ago at -Kirkcaple, going to see a widow who had brought -up a most creditable family, and, looking round her -cosy kitchen, I said something about how well she -had done, and that life must be pleasant for her -with her children all up and doing well. And the -brisk, active little woman looked at me, and I was -surprised to see tears in her rather hard eyes. -</p> - -<p> -"The bairns are a' richt," she said; "but it maks -an awfu' difference when ye lose yer pairtner....' And -then I have so many things to regret...." -</p> - -<p> -"Regret?" Ann laughed. "I don't think you -have one single thing to regret. If ever a man was -happy in his home it was my father." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, but I was bad to him often. I pretended to -be a Radical—a thing I never was really—simply -from contrariness. If I had him back——" -</p> - -<p> -"Now what would you change if you could?" -Ann asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, for one thing I would never contradict -him, or argue..." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, how Father would have loathed that. Arguing -was the breath of life to him, and he hated to -be agreed with." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas went on. "And I would never -worry him to do things that went against his -judgment. When people took a <i>tirravee</i> and sent for -their lines he always wanted to give them to them -at once, but I used to beg him to go and reason with -them and persuade them to remain. They generally -did, for they only wanted to be made a fuss of, but -I see now I was quite wrong; people so senseless -deserved no consideration. And I wouldn't worry him -to go and ask popular preachers to come to us for -anniversary services and suchlike occasions! That -was the thing he most hated doing." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't wonder," said Ann. "To ask favours is -never pleasant, and popular preachers are apt to get -a bit above themselves and condescend a little to -the older, less successful men who are living in a -day of small things. But I don't think any of us, -you least of all, need reproach ourselves with not -having appreciated Father. And yet, when he went -away it seemed quite wrong to mourn for him. To -have pulled long faces and gone about plunged in -grief would have been like an insult to the happy -soul who had finished his day's work and gone home. -It wasn't a case of -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'Better by far you should forget and smile,<br /> - Than that you should remember and be sad.'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -It was simply that we had so many happy things -to remember we couldn't but smile. We wouldn't -have had anything changed. To the very end his -ways were ways of pleasantness and all his paths -were peace. But when Robbie died——" -</p> - -<p> -Ann stopped, and her mother took up her words: -</p> - -<p> -"When Robbie died we seemed to sink into a -black pit of horror. We didn't want to see anyone. -We could hardly look at the letters that poured in; -their lamentations seemed to add to our burden. -Only Miss Barbara's was any use, and all she said -was, 'I have prayed for you that your faith fail not.'" -</p> - -<p> -"It seemed so <i>unfair</i>," Ann said slowly. "In a -shop one day the woman who was serving me asked -so kindly for you, and wanted to know how you -were bearing up. Then she said suddenly: 'When -thae awfu' nice folk dee div ye no juist fair feel -that ye could rebel?' Rebel! Poor helpless -mortals that we are!" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas shook her head. "If there is one -lesson I have learned it is the folly of kicking against -the pricks. To be bitter and resentful multiplies -the grief a thousandfold. There is nothing for it -but submission. Shall we receive good at the hand -of the Lord and not receive evil? There is an odd -text that strikes me every time I come to it: '<i>And -David was comforted concerning Ammon because -he was dead</i>.' I don't know what it means, perhaps -that Ammon fought with David so David was -glad he was dead, but it always has a special -meaning for me. We had to come to it, Ann, you and I, -when we tramped those long walks by Tweedside -rather than sit at home and face callers and -sympathy. It was Robbie himself who helped us most. -The thought of him, so brave and gay and gentle, -simply <i>made</i> us believe that in a short time he had -fulfilled a long time, and that God had taken him -against that day when He shall make up His jewels. -We could only cling to the fact that God is Love, -and that it was to Himself He had taken the boy -who seemed to us so altogether lovely." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas took off her spectacles and rubbed -them with her handkerchief, and Ann said: -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, Mother, at moments we felt all that, and -were comforted, but there are so many days when -it seems you can't get above the sense of loss. Those -nights when one dreamed he was with us, and wakened. -There's not much doubt about Death's sting.... -But what kept me from going under altogether -was the thought of Davie. I tried never to let him -see me with a dull face. All his life the child had -dreaded sadness, and it seemed hard that he should -so early become 'acquainted with grief.' After -Robbie's death, when he came into a room the first -thing he did was to glance quickly at our faces to -see if we had been crying, and if we looked at him -happily his face cleared. If anybody mentioned -Robbie's name he slipped quietly out of the room. -Jim was the same. I think men are like that. -Women can talk and find relief, but to speak about -his grief is the last thing an ordinary man can do. -That's why I was sorrier for the fathers in the war -than the mothers.... I was glad Davie was at -college and busy all day. I think he dreaded -coming home that Easter." -</p> - -<p> -"But I don't think he found it bad, Ann. He -had his great friend Anthony with him, and we all -tried our best to give him a good time. And at -seventeen it isn't so hard to rise above trouble." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh no," said Ann; "and Davie was so willing -to be happy." She laughed. "I never knew -anyone so appreciative of a joke—any sort of joke. -When he was a tiny boy if I said anything which -I meant to be funny, and which met with no -response, Davie would say indignantly: 'Nana's -made a joke and nobody laughed.' He always gave -a loud laugh himself—'Me hearty laugh,' he -called it." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I'd forgotten that," cried Davie's mother; -"'me hearty laugh.' We all treated Davie as a joke, -and didn't bother much whether his school reports -were good or only fairly good. He wasn't at all -studious naturally, though he was passionately fond -of reading, and I'm afraid we liked to find excuses -to let him play. Only Robbie took him seriously. -You remember when he was home on leave he -protested against Davie bounding everywhere and -having no fixed hours of study. 'We've got to think -of the chap's future,' he said." -</p> - -<p> -"Robbie and Davie adored each other," Ann said. -"They were so funny together—Davie a little bashful -with the big brother. I remember hearing Davie -telling Robbie about some Fabian Society that he -belonged to, and what they discussed at it, and -Robbie stood looking at him through his eyeglass -with an amused grin on his face, and said, 'Stout -fellow!' That was always what he said to Davie, -'Stout fellow!' I can hear him now.... But the -odd thing was that Davie seemed to take no interest -in his own future. It was almost as if he realised -that this world held no future for him. Mark, -always careful and troubled, used to worry about -a profession for him. He wanted him to go into -the Navy, but you vetoed that as too dangerous; -it mustn't be India, because we couldn't part with -our baby." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas leaned forward to push in a falling -log. "I was foolishly anxious about Davie always; -never quite happy if he was away from me. I -worried the boy sometimes, but he was patient with me. -'Poor wee body,' he always said, and put his arms -round me—he learned that expression from Robbie." -</p> - -<p> -"I have an old exercise book," said Ann, "in which -Davie made his first efforts at keeping accounts—David -<i>Douglas in account with self</i>. It is very -much ornamented with funny faces and not very -accurate, for sums are frequently noted as 'lost.' It -stops suddenly, and underneath is scrawled, 'The -war here intervened.' We didn't need to worry -about his work in the world. That was decided for -him when— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'God chose His squires, and trained their hands<br /> - For those stern lists of liberty.'"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas caught her breath with a sob. "At -once he clamoured to go, but he was so young, only -eighteen, and I said he must only offer for home -defence; and he said, 'All right, wee body, that'll -do to start with,' but in a very short time he was -away to train with Kitchener's first army." -</p> - -<p> -"He was miserable, Mother, until he got away. -Jim was refused permission from the first, and had -to settle down to his job, but for most of us the -bottom seemed to have fallen out of the world, and -one could settle to nothing. In the crashing of -empires the one stable thing was that fact that the -<i>Scotsman</i> continued its 'Nature Notes.' That -amused Davie.... He began an album of war -poetry, cutting out and pasting in verses that -appeared in the <i>Times</i> and <i>Spectator</i> and <i>Punch</i> and -other papers. 'Carmina Belli' he printed on the -outside. He charged me to go on with it when he -went away, and I finished it with Mark's poem on -himself: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'You left the line with jest and smile<br /> - And heart that would not bow to pain—<br /> - <i>I'll lay me downe and bleed awhile,<br /> - And then I'll rise and fight again</i>.'"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Ann got up and leaned her brow on the mantel-shelf, -and looking into the fire, said: -</p> - -<p> -"D'you know, Mother, I think that first going -away was the worst of all, though he was only going -to England to train. Nothing afterwards so broke -me down as seeing the fresh-faced boy in his grey -tweed suit going off with such a high heart. I don't -know what you felt about it, but the sword pierced -my heart then. You remember it was the Fair at -Priorsford! and the merry-go-rounds on the Green -buzzed round to a tune he had often sung, some -ridiculous words about 'Hold your hand out, you -naughty boy.' As I stood in my little swallow's-nest -of a room and looked out over the Green, and -saw the glare of the naphtha lamps reflected in the -water, and the swing-boats passing backwards and -forwards, through light into darkness, and from -darkness into light, and realised that Davie had -been born for the Great War, every chord seemed -to strike at my heart." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Ann," Mrs. Douglas cried, "I never let myself -think. It was my only chance to go on working -as hard as ever I was able at whatever came to my -hand. I left him in God's hands. I was helpless." -</p> - -<p> -The tears were running down her face as she -spoke, and Ann said, "Poor Mother, it was hardest -for you. Your cry was the old, old cry: 'Joseph -is not, Simeon is not, and ye will take Benjamin -away....' But our Benjamin was so glad to go. -And he never found anything to grumble at, not -even at Bramshott, where there was nothing fit to -eat, and the huts leaked, and the mud was unspeakable, -and his uniform consisted of a red tunic made -for a very large man, and a pair of exceedingly bad -blue breeks. When he came at Christmas—he made -me think of one of Prince Charlie's men with his -shabby uniform and yellow hair—how glad he was -to have a real wallowing hot bath, with bath salts -and warm towels, and get into his own tweeds. He -was just beginning to get clean when he had to go -again! In a few weeks he got his commission, and -in the autumn of 1915 he went to France—'as gentle -and as jocund as to jest went he to fight.'" -</p> - -<p> -There was a silence in the pleasant room as the -two women thought their own thoughts, and the fire -crackled and the winter wind beat upon the house. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas spoke first. "It was a wonderful -oasis in that desert of anxiety when Davie was -wounded and at home. Those nights when we had -lain awake thinking of him in the trenches, those -days when we were afraid for every ring at the bell, -and hardly dared look when we opened the hall door -after being out, in case the orange envelope should -be lying on the table. To have all that suddenly -changed. To know that he was lying safe and warm -and clean in a white bed in a private hospital in -London, 'lying there with a face like a herd,' Mark -wrote, with nothing much the matter with him but -a shrapnel wound in his leg—it was almost too -much relief. And we had him at Queensferry all -summer. We were greatly blessed, Ann." -</p> - -<p> -"And it wasn't quite so bad letting him go the -second time," Ann said. "He had been there once -and had got out alive and he knew the men he was -going to, and was glad to go back; and Mark wasn't -far from him, and could see him sometimes." -</p> - -<p> -"His letters were so cheery. From his accounts -you would have thought that living in the trenches -was a sort of jolly picnic. Oh, Ann, do you remember -the letter to me written in the train going up to -the line, when he said he had dreamt he was a small -boy again, and 'I thought I had lost you, wee body, -and I woke up shouting "Mother," to the amusement -of the other men in the carriage?'" -</p> - -<p> -"Some people," said Ann, "go through the world -afraid all the time that they are being taken -advantage of. Davie never ceased to be amazed at the -kindness shown him. He was one of those happy -souls whose path through life is lined with friends, -and whose kind eyes meet only affectionate glances. -His letters were full of the kindness he received—the -'decent lad' in his platoon who heard him say -his dug-out was draughty, and who made a shutter -for the window and stopped up all the cracks; the -two corporals from the Gallowgate who formed his -bodyguard, and every time he fell into a shell-hole -or dodged a crump shouted anxiously, 'Are ye hurt, -sirr?' You remember he wrote: 'These last two -years have been the happiest in my life,' and other -men who were with him told us he never lost his -high spirits." -</p> - -<p> -"That was such a terribly long, hard winter," -Mrs. Douglas said. "The snow was never off the -hills for months. And then spring came, but such -a spring! Nothing but wild winds and dreary sleet. -We hoped and hoped that Davie would get leave—he -was next on the list for it—but he wrote and -said his leave had gone 'very far West.' We didn't -know it, but they were getting ready for the big -spring offensive. Then one day we saw that a battle -had begun at Arras, and Davie's letter that -morning read like a farewell. Things may be happening -shortly, but don't worry about me. I've just -been thinking what a good life I've had all round, -and what a lot of happiness I've had. Even the -sad parts are a comfort now....'" -</p> - -<p> -"Mother, do you see," said Ann, "there's your -text about Ammon. Out there, waiting for the big -battle, Davie didn't feel it sad any more than Father -and Robbie had gone out of the world—he was -<i>comforted concerning them because they were dead</i>. -We were thinking of him and praying for him every -hour of the day, but he felt them nearer to him -than we were." -</p> - -<p> -"To think that when that letter came he was -dead! To think that I was in Glasgow with Miss -Barbara talking of him nearly all the time, for Miss -Barbara loved the boy, and nothing told us he was -no longer in the world. To think of the child—he -was little more—waiting there in the darkness for -the signal to attack. He must have been so anxious -about leading the company, so afraid——" -</p> - -<p> -"Anxious maybe," said Ann, "but not really -afraid. Don't you remember what his great friend -Captain Shiels wrote and told us, that while they -waited for the dawn Davie spoke 'words of comfort -and encouragement to his men.' I cry when I think -of that...." -</p> - -<p> -"My little boy—my baby. Away from us all—<i>alone</i>...." -</p> - -<p> -"No. No, Mother, never less alone; 'compassed -about with a great cloud of witnesses.' I have a -notion that all the great army of men who down -through the centuries have given their lives for our -country's bright cause were with our men in that -awful fighting, steeling the courage of those -boy-soldiers.... And Father and Robbie were beside -him, I am very sure, and Father would know then -that all his prayers were answered for his boy—the -bad little boy who refused to say his prayers, the -timid little boy who was afraid to go into a dark -room—when he saw him stand, with Death tapping -him on the shoulder, speaking 'words of comfort -and encouragement to his men.' I think Robbie -would say, 'Stout fellow.' That was the 9th. The -telegram came to us on the afternoon of the 11th. -Jim and I were terribly anxious, and I had been -doing all the jobs I hated most with a sort of -lurking, ashamed feeling in my heart that if we worked -our hardest and did our very best Davie might be -spared to us." -</p> - -<p> -Ann stopped, and went on, half-laughing, half-crying: -</p> - -<p> -"Like poor Mrs. Clark, one of my women. She -told me how she had gone out and helped a sick -neighbour, and coming home had seen some children, -whose father was fighting and whose mother was -ill, playing in the rain, and she had taken them in -and given them a hot meal. As they were leaving -the postman brought her a letter saying her son -was dead in Mesopotamia. She said to me, defiantly, -as if she were scoring off Providence, 'I'm -no gaun tae <i>pray</i> nae mair,' and I knew exactly what -she felt." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, the poor woman," said Mrs. Douglas weeping. -</p> - -<p> -"I thought," Ann went on, "that if no wire came -that day it would mean that Davie had got through—but -at tea-time it came. I went into Glasgow -next morning by the first train to tell you. Phoebe -was washing the front door steps at No. 10, and she -told me you and Miss Barbara were in the dining-room -at breakfast. I stood in the doorway and -looked at you. You were laughing and telling Miss -Barbara something funny that had been in one of -Davie's letters. I felt like a murderer standing -there. When I went into the room your face lit up -for a moment, and then you realised. 'It is the -laddie?' you whispered, and I nodded. You neither -spoke nor cried, but stood looking before you as if -you were thinking very deeply about something, -then 'I would like to go home,' you said...." -</p> - -<p> -"And to think," Mrs. Douglas said, breaking a -long silence, "that I am only one of millions of -mothers who will go mourning to their graves." -</p> - -<p> -"I know, Mother. I know. But you wouldn't -ask him back even if that were possible. You -wouldn't, if you could, take 'the purple of his blood -out of the cross on the breastplate of England.' Don't -you love these words of Ruskin? It's the -proudest thing we have to think about, and, -honestly—I'm not just saying this—I believe that the -men who lie out there have the best of it. The men -who came back will, most of them, have to fight a -grim struggle, for living is none too pleasant just -now, and they will grow old, and bald, and ill-tempered, -and they have all to die in the end. What -is twenty more years of life but twenty more years -of fearing death? But our men whose sacrifice was -accepted, and who were allowed to pour out the -sweet, red wine of youth, passed at one bound from -glorious life to glorious life. 'Eld shall not make a -mock of that dear head.' They know not age or -weariness or defeat." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap24"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XXIV -</h3> - -<p> -The December day had run its short and -stormy course and the sun was going down -in anger, with streaks of crimson and orange, and -great purple clouds. Only over the top of the far -hills was one long line of placid pale primrose, like -some calm landlocked bay amid seas of tumbling -waters. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas, crossing the room to get a paper -from the table, paused at the wide window and -looked out. Desolate the landscape looked, the -stretch of moorland, and the sodden fields, and the -empty highroad running like a ribbon between hills -now dark with rain. -</p> - -<p> -She sighed as she looked. -</p> - -<p> -Ann was writing at the bureau, had been writing -since luncheon, absorbed, never lifting her head, but -now she blotted vigorously the last sheet, put the -pen back in the tray, shut the lid of the ink-bottle, -and announced: -</p> - -<p> -"Now, then, Mother, that's your <i>Life</i> written!" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas looked at the finished pile of -manuscript and sighed again. -</p> - -<p> -Ann got up and went over to the window. "You -are sighing like a furnace, Mother. What's the -matter? Does it depress you to think that I've -finished my labours? Oh, look at the sunset! It bodes -ill for the Moncrieffs ever getting over the door, -poor lambs! Look at that quiet, shining bit over -the Farawa, how far removed it looks from -tempests! D'you know what that sky reminds me of, -Mother? The story of your life that I've just -finished. The clouds and the angry red colour are all -you passed through, and that quiet, serene streak is -where you are now, the clear shining after rain. -It may be dull, but you must admit it is peaceful." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, we are peaceful enough just now, but think -of Jim in South Africa, and Charlotte and Mark -in India—who knows what news we may have of -them any day? I just live in dread of what may -happen next." -</p> - -<p> -"But, Mother, you've always lived in dread. -Mark used to say that the telegraph boys drew lots -among themselves as to who should bring the -telegrams to our house. You used to rush out with -the unopened envelope and implore the boy to tell -you if it were bad news, and when you did open it -your frightened eyes read things that never were -on the paper. If we happened to be all at home -when you were confronted with a wire you didn't -care a bit—utterly callous. It was only your -husband and your children you cared about—ah, well, -you had the richest, fullest, happiest life for more -than thirty years, and that's not so small a thing -to boast of." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Ann, I'm not ungrateful, only——" -</p> - -<p> -"Only you're like Davie when we told him to go -away and count his blessings. 'I've done it,' he -came back to tell us, 'and I've six things to be -thankful for and nine to be unthankful for.'" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laughed as she went back to her -chair by the fire and took up her knitting. "No, -I've nothing to be unthankful for, only I think so -much of me died with your father and Robbie and -Davie that I seem to be half with you and half -with them where they are gone." -</p> - -<p> -Ann nodded. "That may be so, but you are more -alive than most of us even now. I don't know -anybody who takes so much interest in life, who has -such a capacity for enjoyment, who burdens -herself with other people's burdens as that same -Mrs. Douglas who says she is only half-alive and longs -to depart—and here is Mysie with the tea." -</p> - -<p> -Mysie lit the lamp under the kettle and arranged -the tea-things. She drew the curtains across the -windows, shutting out the last gleam of the stormy -sunset, and turned on the lights, then she stood by -the door and, blushing, asked if she might go out -for the evening, as she had an engagement. -</p> - -<p> -"Now where"—cried Mrs. Douglas as the door -closed behind the little maid—"where in the world -can Mysie have an engagement in this out-of-the-world -place on this dark, stormy night?" -</p> - -<p> -Ann smiled. "She's so pretty, Mother, so soft -and round and young, and have you forgotten: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'For though the nicht be ne'er sae dark,<br /> - An' I be ne'er sae weary O,<br /> - I'll meet ye by the lea-rig,<br /> - Ma ain kind dearie O.'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -I haven't a doubt but that pretty Mysie has got a -'lawd.' And what for no? I do hope Marget isn't -too discouraging to the child." -</p> - -<p> -Ann sat on the fender-stool with her cup and -saucer, and a pot of jam on the rug beside her, and a -plate with a crumpet on her lap, and ate busily. -</p> - -<p> -"Life is still full of pleasant things, Mums, pretty -girls and crumpets, and strawberry jam, and fender-stools, -and blazing fires, and little moaning mothers -who laugh even while they cry. Your pessimism -is like the bubbles on a glass of champagne—oh, -I know you have been a teetotaller all your days, -but that doesn't harm my metaphor." -</p> - -<p> -"Ann, you amaze me. How you can rattle on -as if you hadn't a care in the world—you who have -lost so much!" -</p> - -<p> -Ann looked at her mother in silence for a minute, -then she looked into the dancing flames. "As you -say, it is amazing—I who have lost so much. And -when you think of it, I haven't much to laugh at. -I've got the sort of looks that go very fast, so I'll -soon be old and ugly—but what about it"? -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'I may never live to be old,' says she,<br /> - 'For nobody knows their day....'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -And I've got work to do, and I've still got brothers, -and I've got Charlotte and the children, and I've -more friends than I sometimes know what to do -with. It's an odd thing, but I do believe, Mother, -that I'm happier now than when I was twenty and -had all the world before me. Youth isn't really -a very happy time. You want and want and you -don't know what you want. As you get older you -realise that you have <i>no right to bliss</i>, and must -make the best of what you have got. Then you -begin to enjoy things in a different way. Out of -almost everything that happens there is some pleasure -to be got if you look for it, and people are so -funny and human and pitiful you can't be dull. -Middle age brings its compensations, and, anyway, -whether it does or not it is a most miserable -business to be obsessed by one's own woes. The only -thing to do is to stand a bit away from oneself and -say, 'You miserable atom, what are you whining -about? Do you suppose the eternal scheme of -things is going to be altered because <i>you</i> don't -like it?'" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas laughed rather ruefully. "You're a -terribly bracing person, Ann; but I'm bound to -confess that you practise what you preach." -</p> - -<p> -"But I've really no right to preach at all!" Ann -said. "I always forget one thing, the most -important of all. I've always been perfectly well, so -I've no right to sit in judgment on people who -struggle all their lives against ill-health. It is no -credit to me—I who hardly know what it means to -have a headache—to be equable and gay. When I -think of some people we know, fighting all the time -against such uneven odds, asking only for a chance -to work and be happy in working, and knocked -down time and again, yet always undefeated, I could -go and bury my head ashamed. Don't ever listen to -me, Mother, when I preach to you; squash me at once." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I'll try to—but, Ann, there is one thing -that worries me. Remember, I will not have you -sacrifice your life to me." -</p> - -<p> -"No fear of that," said Ann airily. "There's -nothing of the martyr about me." -</p> - -<p> -"That Mr. Philip Scott——" Mrs. Douglas -hesitated. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, him!" said Ann, "or, to be more grammatical, -oh, he! I had a letter from him this morning—did -I forget to show it you? He says he is to be at -Birkshaw for Christmas." -</p> - -<p> -Ann stopped. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, Ann?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, Mother?" -</p> - -<p> -"Don't be provoking, Ann. Is Mr. Scott anything -to you?" -</p> - -<p> -Ann turned serene grey eyes to her mother. -"Nothing," she said, "except a pleasant friend. -That's all he wants to be, I'm sure." -</p> - -<p> -"But, Ann, don't you think..." -</p> - -<p> -"I never think, Mother..." -</p> - -<p> -Ann caught the Tatler in her arms and sank with -it into the depths of an arm-chair. -</p> - -<p> -"There's something exceedingly nice about being -a spinster. Here's Marget. I shall ask her what -she thinks. Marget, you don't regret being a -spinster, do you?" -</p> - -<p> -Marget came farther into the room and peered -suspiciously at Ann in the arm-chair with the cat -in her arm. -</p> - -<p> -"Ye're no' gaun to pit it doon in writin' are ye? -Weel, that's a' richt. To tell the truth I hadna -muckle encouragement to be onything else. I wasna -juist a'thegither negleckit, but I never had a richt -offer. But lookin' roond I've often been thankfu' I -wasna trachled wi' a man. Ye see, livin' a' ma life -wi' kin o' better folk I wad ha' taken ill wi' a man -sittin' in his stockin' feet and spittin' into the fire. -Genteel service spoils ye; but, of course, a'body's -no sae particlar.... Mysie, the monkey, hes gotten -a lawd." -</p> - -<p> -"What did I say," Ann cried. "Who is he, Marget?" -</p> - -<p> -"His name's Jim Stoddart, a dacent lawd and no -sae gawky as maist o' them. He was an officer's -servant in the war, and learned mainners." -</p> - -<p> -"But, Marget," said Mrs. Douglas, "we're so far -away from people here—how did Mysie meet him?" -</p> - -<p> -"Tuts, Mem, let a lassie alane for that. If there's -a 'come hither' in the e'e the lawd 'll turn up, -though he has to tramp miles o' heather and hard -road. I never kent hoo lassies did thon. I used -often to watch them and wonder, but I could niver -learn—I was aye a muckle hoose-end even as a -lassie, an' tricks wad hev ill become me." -</p> - -<p> -"It's a wise woman that knows her limitations," -said Ann. "I wish we were all wise enough to avoid -being arch—Marget, I've finished Mother's <i>Life</i>.'" -</p> - -<p> -Marget immediately dropped into a convenient -chair. "Let's hear it," she said. -</p> - -<p> -"What! Now?" -</p> - -<p> -"What for no? Is't that lang?" -</p> - -<p> -"Long?" said Ann; "like the White Knight's -song, but very beautiful!" -</p> - -<p> -"Aw, if ye're gaun to haver." Marget turned -to her mistress. "What's it like, Mem?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know, Marget, I've hardly seen a word -of it, but it will certainly have to be censored before -you get it typed, Ann." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes," said Ann. "You will read it and -'riddle oot the biggest lees frae ilka page,' and then -I'll send it to the typing lady Mark told me about; -if she can make out Mark's handwriting she won't -be so aghast at mine. One copy for each of -ourselves and some for very great friends——" -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas broke in. "If you begin with -friends there will be no end to it." -</p> - -<p> -"Then, perhaps, we had better have it privately -printed and get about a hundred copies. Have we -a hundred friends?" -</p> - -<p> -"Liker twa hunner," Marget said gloomily. "To -me it seems a queer like thing to print a body's -life when she's still leevin'." -</p> - -<p> -Ann quoted, "That horn is blowen for me," said -Balin, "yet I am not dead," then, laughing at the -expression on Marget's face, she said, "It's often -done, Marget, only you call it 'reminiscences.' Mrs. Asquith -wrote her reminiscences, and you can't accuse -her of being dead." -</p> - -<p> -Marget muttered something, and Ann continued, -"Mother is very fortunate to have a daughter to -write hers for her." -</p> - -<p> -"Fortunate!" said Mrs. Douglas. "I'll tell you -when I've read it." -</p> - -<p> -"Weel," said Marget, "I hope she made it interestin', -Mem, for I'm sure we hed a rale interestin' -time baith in Kirkcaple and Glasgae—an' Priorsford's -no bad aither, though, of course, we're no -ministers' folk there an' that maks a big differ: we -havna the same posseetion." -</p> - -<p> -"Marget," said Ann, "I believe you think a minister -and his wife are the very highest in the land, -higher even than a Provost and his lady; infinitely -higher than a mere earl." -</p> - -<p> -Marget said "Earls!" and grunted, then she -explained, "I yince kent an earl. When ma faither -was leevin' an' we were at Kinloch we kept yin o' -the lodges for the big hoose, and I used to see the -young earl playin' cricket. He minded me o' Joseph -wi' his coat o' many colours, but, hech! he was nae -Joseph. I doot Potiphar's wife wad hae got nae -rebuke frae him. I dinna hold wi' thae loose lords -mysel' onyway." She turned her back on Ann and -addressed her mistress. "It's a queer thing, Mem, -that the folk we have to dae wi' now are no' near -as interestin' as the folk we kent lang syne. I sit -by the fire in the foresuppers—my eyes are no what -they were, an' I get tired o' sewin' and readin'—an' -I think awa' back to the auld days in Kirkcaple. -Thae were the days! When the bairns were a' at -hame. Eh, puir things, mony a skelp I hed at them -when they cam' fleein' wi' their lang legs ower ma -new-sanded kitchen! Thae simmer's afternunes -when I went oot to the Den wi' Ellie Robbie and -them a' and we made a fire and hed oor tea; an' -winter nichts when we sat roond the nursery fire -and telt stories. An' the neebors drappin' in: -Mistress Peat as neat as if she hed come oot o' a -band-box, and Mistress Goskirk tellin' us hoo to mak' -jeely—we kent fine oorsels—an' hoo to cut oot -breeks for the laddies—we were never guid at cuttin' -oot, ye'll mind, Mem? An' Mistress Dewar sittin' -on the lobby chair knittin' like mad when I got doon -the stair to open the door for her, and Mr. Dewar -sayin', 'Is it bakin' day, Marget?' An' in Glasgae -there was Mistress Burnett comin' in, aye wi' a -present, an aye wi' something kind to say. Some -folk ye wad think tak' a fair delight in tellin' ye -things that chaw ye, they juist canna help bein' -nesty, puir sowls; ye mind Mrs. Lawrie was like -that, she couldna gang awa wi'oot giving ye a bit -sting—but Mistress Burnett cheered up the whole -day wi' her veesit. An' Miss Barbara—she aye cam' -at the maist daft-like time so that she wadna bother -us for a meal, her that wad hae fed a' the earth! -An' Mistress Lang—a braw wumman thon—she -likit to come in efter tea an' hae a guid crack. An' -Dr. Struthers—my! He pit us sair aboot when he -cam' to stay, but I was rale pleased, it was like -haein' yin o' thae auld prophets bidin' wi' us. An' -the hoosefu's we had in the holidays when the -bairns grew up, we whiles didna ken whaur to turn.... -An' thae times are a' past, an' here we are -sittin' an' a' the folk I've been speakin' aboot are -deid, an' the Moncrieffs are comin' the morn——" -</p> - -<p> -"And if you don't keep the water boiling hot, -you'll hear about it," Ann warned her. -</p> - -<p> -Marget drew herself up. "If the Cornel speaks to -me as if I were a black oot in India I'll speir at -him..." -</p> - -<p> -"Marget, more and more you remind me of the -late Queen Victoria. You have the grand manner." -</p> - -<p> -"Havers!" said Marget. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas broke in. "You'll have to be very -kind to Colonel and Mrs. Moncrieff, Marget. You -know since we last saw them they have lost both -their sons, and from what I hear they are very -broken." -</p> - -<p> -Marget shook her head. "It's awfu' hertless work -leevin' now that sae mony o' the young folk are deid. -A' ma life I've been fear't to dee, an' at meetings -I never sang at 'O for the pearly gates o' Heaven' -for fear I'd be taken at ma word, but the ither nicht -I hed sic a bonnie dream. I thocht I was in an -awfu' neat wee hoose, an' it was Johnnie Johnston's -hoose—ye mind him, Mem, at Kirkcaple?—an' -I said, 'My, Johnnie, ye're awfu' comfortable -here,' an' he says, 'Ay,' he says, 'Look oot o' the -windy.' An' there was a great sea, a terrible sea wi' -waves an' a' kinds o' wee boats on it, some o' them -gettin' an awfu' whummlin. An' I says, 'Eh, is -that Galilee?' an' he says, 'Na, it's the Sea of -Life.' An' he says, 'Look oot at the other windy noo,' an' -here was anither sea, but it was a wee narra sea an' -awfu' quait, an' I says, Is that the Jordan?' 'Look -ower at the ither side,' he says, an' I lookit, and -there was the Golden City. It was the bonniest -place I ever saw, the <i>very bonniest</i>, an' I said, 'Eh, -I wad like awfu' weel to get ower there, Johnnie -Johnston, an' he said, 'No the day, but there's -naething surer than that ye'll get ower some day.' An' -wi' that I wakened.... I was that vexed I -fair grat, but I'll mind ma dream an' it'll help me -when ma time comes to gang." -</p> - -<p> -Marget wiped her eyes and then, as if ashamed -of having shown emotion, stalked majestically from -the room. -</p> - -<p> -Ann and her mother, left alone, sat looking into -the fire. For a long time they sat. The logs burned -through and fell together, but Ann did not seem to -notice that the fire needed mending. The Tatler -playfully clawed her hand to entice her to a game, -but she pushed him away. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas was the first to break the silence. -"Dear me, I've never begun my 'reading,' and it -will soon be dinner-time. Give me my books over, -Ann." -</p> - -<p> -Ann rose and fetched the pile and put them -beside her mother. "Biggest first," she said, and -handed her <i>Hours of Silence</i>. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas put on her large tortoiseshell spectacles -and began at once to read, but presently her -eyes strayed from the printed page to her daughter's -face, and she said, "Why are you sitting looking -at me, Ann?" -</p> - -<p> -"Because you're such a queer little mother sitting -there, with your owlish spectacles and your -devotional books." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Douglas sighed, and then she smiled. "Poor -Marget with her 'bonnie' dream! I was sitting -thinking just now how well off I am having her to -go back with me to the old days. As she says, it -is heartless work living now, and yet there is -something very heartening about the continuity of life. -When I stay with Mark and Charlotte and see Mark -rushing, the moment he gets home, to his garden, -and watch him among the flowers, one hand behind -his back in his father's very attitude, it might be -my Mark with me again. And Rory, who came into -the world the day his grandfather went out of -it—one Mark Douglas going and another Mark Douglas -taking his place—Rory sidles up to me and puts -his head on my shoulder when he wants something, -just as his father did thirty years ago—I think they -should stop calling him Rory now and call him Mark." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, it's a little confusing for Charlotte to have -two Marks in the house unless she does as Marget -suggests, and 'ca's Mr. Mark Papaw.' But I know -what you mean about the feeling of continuity. -Last summer Alis and Rory, greatly condescending, -were allowing young Robbie to play some game with -them. I came upon them suddenly, and the years -seemed to roll back when I saw the earnest -absorbed face of Robbie as he padded about—it -might have been my own Robbie. He, too, played -with his whole might.... Oh, look at the fire -going out rapidly." -</p> - -<p> -Ann knelt down and mended the fire with great -care, sweeping in the ashes and making the hearth -clean and tidy. -</p> - -<p> -"I spent my life tidying up this fireside. I might -as well be a vestal virgin in a temple. There, that -will be a fine fire when we come back. Have you -finished your reading, Mother? We must go and -change. It's a good thing the Moncrieffs are coming -to-morrow. You and I have been living so much -in the past that we are like two little grey ghosts." -</p> - -<p> -"I've enjoyed it," said Mrs. Douglas. "But think -a long time before you decide to print what you've -written." -</p> - -<p> -She gathered up her devotional books and built -them in a neat pile on a table. -</p> - -<p> -"I wonder who you think could possibly be interested -in such an uneventful record? All about nothing, -and not even an end——" -</p> - -<p> -"I <i>wonder</i>," said Ann. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -THE END -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ann and her Mother, by O. 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