Young Mrs. Savage, page 14
When they had vanished from sight Dinah fetched Margy and they settled down for a quiet morning on the shore. It was astonishing how Margy had “come on” in less than a week. She was beginning to walk and her figure was improving with the exercise; she was talking better, too. Dinah had decided that Margy’s backwardness was due to a slight laziness and lack of ambition (to the fact that she was contented with her lot and felt no need to make any effort) so Dinah was beginning to stir her up a little and teach her some nursery rhymes. They were struggling with “Margy had a little lamb” when old Mrs. Monk appeared and, making her way laboriously over the soft sand, sat down beside them.
“Don’t mind me, my dear,” said Mrs. Monk. “Just go on with what you’re doing. ‘Margy had a little lamb,’” said old Mrs. Monk, smiling at the pupil. “How delightful! Margy is a little lamb, isn’t she?”
“Sometimes,” said her mother, abandoning all idea of Margy’s lesson a trifle reluctantly.
“Don’t mind me—please,” repealed the old lady. “I’ll just sit here quietly and listen. It’s just that I’m feeling a little lonely without Jack. He’s gone to Edinburgh to-day . . . a little trouble with his plate,” said Mrs. Monk, confidentially. “You have such beautiful teeth, my dear, so of course you don’t know what it means to have a plate and I hope you never will. The top one is not so bad but the bottom one is a great nuisance to Jack and won’t lie down, which seems funny when you think of it. Jack says the law of gravity doesn’t work properly with him. He went by the early train and he said he would be back to lunch so he may be here any minute now. I miss Jack terribly when he isn’t here; you see we’ve been married for thirty-five years and have never been separated. We weren’t very young when we were married. Jack likes me to get out. It will please him to see me sitting in the sun. You don’t mind, do you, Mrs. Anderson?”
“Not Mrs. Anderson,” said Dinah, smiling.
“Oh dear—of course not!” said Mrs. Monk, with a worried look. “How silly I am! Mrs. Anderson is that nice fat woman you’re staying with. I’m so silly about people’s names, especially when Jack isn’t here to keep me right.”
“He’s very kind, isn’t he?” said Dinah, who felt annoyed with herself for having drawn attention to the old lady’s mistake.
“Oh, so kind!” exclaimed Mrs. Monk, smiling proudly. “You can’t think how kind he is! I know I’m a bother but he never gets impatient with me, never. He does get impatient with other people sometimes, you know. Jack has quite a fiery temper . . . Oh, yes; you might not think it but he has quite a fiery temper. It’s all over very quickly, of course.”
“As long as people don’t sulk—” began Dinah.
“Yes, but still—still it can do a great deal of damage,” said the old lady with a thoughtful air.
Dinah couldn’t help smiling. She had a sudden vision of dear little Mr. Monk going berserk and throwing the china about . . . but of course Mrs. Monk hadn’t meant that, at all. What had she meant, Dinah wondered.
“Have you met Mr. Barrington?” inquired Mrs. Monk. “Mr. Barrington is a professor, you know. He and his little boy are staying at Miss Brown’s—they have the ground floor, of course. Jack talks to him sometimes but he’s really too clever for Jack. He doesn’t believe in God,” added Mrs. Monk, confidentially.
Dinah was about to make a suitable rejoinder, but there was no time.
“So odd,” continued Mrs. Monk. “Of course I’m not clever—especially now, when I get muddled—but if you don’t believe in God what’s left to believe in? Who made the sea, for instance? Who made the trees and the flowers? And, talking of flowers, are you going to the Flower Show?”
It was such a jump, from atheists to Flower Shows, that Dinah was slightly bewildered. She said she didn’t think she was going.
“Oh, you should, Mrs. Bell,” declared Mrs. Monk, earnestly. “Really, you should. It was always such a very good Show in the old days. Sweet peas do well here—and roses. The best sweet peas I ever saw were in the garden at a place called Abbot’s End.”
“The Armstrongs!” exclaimed Dinah in surprise.
“Yes; Sir Andrew was a delightful man. Jack knew him quite well, and liked him immensely; and of course Lady Armstrong was charming. She was small and dainty like a piece of Dresden china, and always beautifully dressed. They used to have a garden-party every year—such a beautiful garden it was.”
“But Lady Armstrong is tall—” began Dinah.
“Oh, not this Lady Armstrong, dear. She’s a very large woman; rather coarse, isn’t she? I’m talking about David’s mother, you know. His name is David, isn’t it?”
“Malcolm,” suggested Dinah.
“Of course! Well, it was Malcolm’s mother. She died about four years ago—no, long before that, it must have been, because it was before the war started. Oh dear, I do get so muddled,” declared poor Mrs. Monk. “I never used to get muddled when I was young—before my illness, I mean. Did I ever tell you about my illness, dear?”
Dinah was unkind enough to head her off this fascinating subject, not because she would have minded listening to Mrs. Monk’s recital of her misfortunes but because she was anxious to hear more about Lady Armstrong. “The first Lady Armstrong—” began Dinah.
“Was Malcolm’s mother,” interrupted Mrs. Monk. “She was a beautiful creature, quite small and fairy-like (Malcolm is very like her, not exactly fairy-like but small and well-made). She was very sociable and friendly, and her parties were always delightful. Edith Grover is quite different in every way.”
“You mean Lady Armstrong’s niece,” suggested Dinah.
“No dear; I’m still talking about the second Lady Armstrong—Edith Grover that was. Edith Grover is her niece, her brother’s child. I knew them very well when I was young. Edith’s mother went to school with me.”
Dinah was beginning to get a little muddled herself. She decided it must have been the first Edith’s mother who went to school with Mrs. Monk.
“So then—” continued the old lady, leaving a gaping void in her story. “So then, when Lady Armstrong died (it really was dreadfully sad because she and Sir Andrew were very happy and suited one another beautifully) Malcolm had to go to Australia on business and while he was away Edith got hold of Sir Andrew and married him. Some men just have to have wives, and Sir Andrew was one of them; he was so kind and considerate, you know. I mean it had to have an outlet, hadn’t it? But I was sorry for Malcolm. It’s all very well for men to marry again, but when the second wife is a good deal younger it isn’t fair on his family because of course sooner or later he dies and his second wife is a nuisance.”
“Not always,” began Dinah. “I mean I know several cases—”
“If they’re like Edith they are,” said Mrs. Monk, firmly. “Poor Malcolm would be much happier without Edith. I could tell you things about Edith that would make you open your eyes; discontented and underhand, we thought her. Of course, I don’t know anything about the niece. Is she a pleasant person?”
“Well—” began Dinah in a doubtful tone.
“I thought as much,” declared Mrs. Monk. “They’re all tarred with the same brush. How dreadful for Malcolm to have two Ediths on his hands! I wonder he doesn’t get rid of them. We never see Malcolm nowadays because of course he’s very busy and you couldn’t expect him to be interested in old people like Jack and me. We used to see him sometimes when he was a little boy—such a dear little boy he was! I never see Edith, either. And I think,” added Mrs. Monk, wrinkling her brows, “I rather think there was a little tiff between Edith and me. I can’t remember much about it.”
“If you mean Edith Armstrong,” said Mr. Monk, who had approached noiselessly in the soft sand, “there was a severe disagreement. You told her she had caught Sir Andrew and she objected to the term.”
“I was sure you would remember,” declared Mrs. Monk, with a satisfied air. “I remember now, myself—perfectly. What I said was true, so Edith was very foolish to take exception to it.”
“It was because it was true she minded,” said Mr. Monk, chuckling.
“So that was the reason,” said Mrs. Monk, nodding to Dinah. “That was the reason why she stopped inviting us to Abbot’s End.”
Dinah could not feel they missed much. Her own experience of hospitality at Abbot’s End had been exceedingly unpleasant.
“What a delightful gossip we’ve had!” said Mrs. Monk, as she struggled to her feet and took her husband’s arm.
Gossip was the word, thought Dinah, smiling.
18
The shoppers had a successful morning and returned laden with spoils. Dinah heard full details of the expedition at lunch; everybody had been kind and friendly; everybody had remembered their grandfather and spoken of him with affection.
“They do talk a funny language!” Nigel declared.
“Nannie can talk the language,” said Polly. “Nannie talks our sort of language and Seatown-language, too.”
They discussed Seatown-language, and decided that they must learn it without delay.
It was a friendly language to Dinah of course. She enjoyed hearing it spoken—as one who has been long in exile thrills to the sound of her mother-tongue—and she had discovered that when she was in the bathroom (washing the children’s socks and pullovers) she could hear Nannie chattering with people who called or brought messages to the back door. There was the man who brought round vegetables, for instance, and sold them from a cart. Dinah had thoroughly enjoyed his little chat with Nannie.
“Chairley Broon!” Nannie had exclaimed. “D’ye mean tae tell me ye’re askin’ yon money for a quarter stone o’ sproots! It’s sproots I’m needin’—no pairls.”
“It’s awfu’, Mistress Anderson, but it’s no’ me, ye ken. It’s the price o’ everything that’s gone up. I’m no’ makin’ muckle oot o’ it—that’s the truth.”
“Och, I ken fine ye’re daeing it for fun. It’s a fine life stravaigling roond the toon wi’ a cairt—better nor the mines!”
“I’d no’ hae tae worry masel’ wi’ a wheen o’ chattering weemen in the mines—that’s ae thing. They’ll keep me stannin’ for ten meenits an’ no’ buy a haeporth’s worth at the end o’ it.”
“I’ll tak’ a haeporth o’ sproots, Chairley,” said Nannie, dryly. “Ye’ll need tae cut yin in hauf, I’m thinking.”
Dinah had chuckled. It was all the more amusing because the protagonists were staunch friends. They were like fencers—or, perhaps, more like boxers, who, once their bout is over, are more friendly disposed to one another than before. Shrewd blows are given and taken and each respects the other for his prowess.
No sooner had Chairley gone than the joiner, another friend of Nannie’s, had presented himself at the back door.
“My land!” Nannie had exclaimed in well-simulated amazement. “Sakes alive, if it’s no’ Wullie Ferguson! Ye’ve no come tae sort the bathroom snib?”
“Ye were speirin’ for me—”
“Aye, I was speirin’ for ye sax weeks syne, but I wisna’ expeckin’ ye for anither sax months. Is there nae ither body in Seatown needin’ ye, Wullie? . . . Mphm, ye’re sure o’that? I wouldna’ like tae tak’ ye frae some ither job, ye ken.”
Unfortunately Dinah had finished her washing by this time so she was obliged to desert her post of vantage, but she was still smiling when she went down with the wet garments and hung them out on the line, for somehow or other this brand of dry, pawky humour was exactly the kind of humour she appreciated. It tickled her deliciously under the ribs.
The afternoon was hot and sultry, there was thunder in the air and Dinah suggested that they should sit in the garden instead of going on the sands.
“Tell us a story,” said Polly eagerly. “Another story about the Dees—or tell us again about the day they went to the Black Rocks and got stranded.”
“I’ll tell you a different kind of story,” said Dinah.
“What about?” asked Mark.
“About Tantallon Castle. It’s a fine old castle on the cliffs not very far from here. I’ve told you about the Dees going over there and having picnics and exploring the ruins but this story is about the castle as it was long ago when it was in its pride, when the Great Earl of Douglas lived there with all his family and his servants and his soldiers. It isn’t my story,” explained Dinah; “it’s really part of a long poem called Marmion written by a very famous and wonderful man, but the poem would be too difficult for you, I’m afraid.”
“Could Flo come?” asked Polly. “Flo knows the castle and she’d be awfully interested to hear about it.”
“Yes, if she wants to,” Dinah agreed.
They went into the back garden and spread rugs in the shade. Dinah drew up her knees and put her arms round them; she looked thoughtful for she was beginning to wonder whether she had undertaken a task beyond her powers. Marmion was an old favourite; she and Dan had learnt long pieces of it and used to walk along the sands declaiming it in dramatic fashion to the sea-birds. Sometimes they had acted it together, dressing up and playing different scenes. They had liked it all except the last canto which describes the battle of Flodden; it was really the best, of course, and tremendously exciting, but being staunch Scots the Dees had hated to think of the defeat of Scottish arms. Dinah knew the story well; it was like a little series of jewelled pictures in her memory, but it was so rich and varied and so brilliant in colouring that she doubted her ability to render it into simple prose.
“Go on, Mummy,” said Nigel eagerly. “How does the story begin?”
“Long ago,” said Dinah, “in the days when England and Scotland used to fight against one another, there was a proud English Baron called Marmion. He was very brave and strong and a fine soldier, but he was cruel and wicked and liked to have his own way in everything. Marmion wanted to marry a young girl called Clare; she was good and beautiful and also very rich; it was more for her rich lands than for herself that Marmion wanted to marry her. Clare had no wish to marry Marmion. She had been in love with a fine young man, whose name was Ralph de Wilton, and although he had been killed in a fight she still loved him and was faithful to his memory.
“It happened that Clare was in Edinburgh, staying with the Abbess of Whitby, who was her friend. They wanted to travel south, so it was arranged that they should go to a convent near North Berwick and there take ship to Whitby, but it was so dangerous to travel about the country in those days that they could not go without an escort.
“James the Fourth was King of Scotland. He held his court in Edinburgh, and Lord Marmion had been sent to Edinburgh by the King of England with important letters. As the two countries were at war King James did not want Marmion roving about at large for he was afraid Marmion might play the part of a spy, so he asked the Earl of Douglas to take Marmion with him to his castle at Tantallon and see him safely over the border. In addition to this King James arranged that the Abbess and Clare should travel with them as far as North Berwick, for they would be safe with Marmion’s soldiers as an escort.
“The Abbess and Clare were somewhat alarmed when they heard they were to ride with Marmion for they knew what a traitorous, cruel man he was, but the King’s command had to be obeyed so they had no choice in the matter.
“One fine morning they all set off. Marmion rode in front wearing his polished steel armour which flashed like silver in the sunshine; his helmet was embossed with his crest, a golden falcon, and his horse had trappings of blue velvet and gold. Beside him rode the Earl of Douglas, a magnificent old man, and with them was a palmer, or travelling priest, who had joined Marmion’s band and come to Scotland with them to act as guide. The palmer wore a long black habit with a red device upon his shoulders and a hood pulled over his face. These three rode in front with the Earl’s men-at-arms; behind came Clare and the Abbess and Marmion’s soldiers.
“The road which they followed was little more than a track, winding hither and thither up hill and down dale through beautiful wooded country. Clare and the Abbess were glad that Marmion had left them to themselves and had not attempted to speak to them. Soon they would reach the convent and all would be well. But Marmion had arranged otherwise, and when they got to the convent and were about to dismount, one of the soldiers rode forward and said he had orders to bring Clare to Tantallon Castle.
“Poor Clare was very much distressed when she heard this for she hated Marmion and distrusted him. The Abbess did all she could to persuade the soldiers to leave Clare with her, but the soldiers were far too frightened of their master to disobey his orders, so Clare was forced to say good-bye to her good old friend and ride on to Tantallon.
“They had not gone far when they mounted a little rise in the ground, and suddenly in front of them they saw the castle. What an enormous place it was! How massive and imposing, with its high walls and its three great towers outlined against the sky! It had been built on the very edge of the cliff, its foundations welded into the solid rock, and there was a double moat in front of it stretching from side to side of the promontory. The double moat was spanned by two narrow bridges, guarded by bastions or foreworks of enormous strength, for it was only on this side of the castle that the Earl of Douglas need fear an enemy’s attack and it was here that he had built all his strong fortifications.
“Clare and her escort rode over the drawbridge, beneath the great portcullis with its iron spikes, through heavy doors studded with iron nails and so into the castle. They found themselves in a wide courtyard with a well in the middle and all round were fine rooms and halls and stately chambers hung with tapestry. The Douglas was so rich and powerful that his castle was more like a small town than a dwelling-place; it was full of all sorts of people. There were the Douglas family and their guests and there were soldiers and armourers and men who worked in leather or sewed clothes or made bows and arrows, and there were other men who looked after the horses—grooms and smiths and huntsmen—and there were servants who cooked the food and waited at table and attended to the fires.
