Young Mrs. Savage, page 15
“The Douglases were very kind to Clare, but in spite of their kindness she was unhappy for she had nobody to talk to. Everybody in the castle felt anxious and unsettled because news had come that an English army under the command of the Earl of Surrey was marching through Northumberland and intended to invade Scotland.
“Marmion was anxious, too. He was an Englishman, so he felt he ought to be with the English army instead of sheltering beneath the roof of a Scottish Earl. He had seen the Scottish army camped near Edinburgh; he had seen how large and powerful it was. There were men from all parts of Scotland; men-at-arms in mail armour riding huge horses and carrying battle-axes; spearmen and pikemen, sturdy and strong, and every Highland Chief had brought clansmen from the Scottish hills—wild, fierce men with red beards who carried broadswords and shields of steel and deerskin. Marmion did not think this army would win the day for he had faith in the power of the English archers who were famed all over the world, but he knew it would be a mighty battle and he wanted to be there. Another thing that disturbed Marmion and made him anxious was the fact that the Earl, who had been very friendly with him, had become cold and haughty and unapproachable. Marmion did not like this changed attitude, he could not account for it, and it seemed to him that the sooner he left the castle the better it would be.
“Messengers came galloping into the castle with news about the English army, clattering over the drawbridge and into the courtyard at all hours of the day and night. Some of them brought good news, saying that the English army had been defeated, while others, coming a few hours later, declared that it was still advancing and that a battle was going to be fought. The soldiers were busy mending their armour and the servants were busy preparing the castle for a siege.
“Clare grew more unhappy every day. She was very lonely and she was still frightened of Marmion for she knew she was in his power. Sometimes she went up a narrow stair which led to the battlements of the castle. There were towers and turrets on the battlements and narrow windows from which the soldiers could shoot arrows when the castle was attacked; there were little flights of steps and dark corners and platforms with embrasures which gave wide views of sea and land. On the landward side there were soldiers on guard, but there was no need for sentries on the seaward side. The cliffs were so high and steep that no enemy could approach, so this side of the battlements was deserted and it was here that Clare liked to walk. She walked up and down, gazing out through the narrow windows over the grey waters of the sea and thinking sadly of Ralph de Wilton. She listened to the waves beating on the rocks and to the wild piercing cries of the sea-birds.
“One evening when Clare was walking there she saw some armour lying on the stones. It was the armour of a knight. She stood and looked at it, wondering who had put it there, and then she raised her eyes and saw a man standing beside it, a tall slim figure in the gloom . . . it was Ralph de Wilton.
“Clare could not believe her eyes. She had thought he was dead; she had thought she would never see him again. She was so surprised and so overjoyed that she could scarcely speak. De Wilton was surprised, too, for he did not know Clare was here in the castle; he had thought her hundreds of miles away, but here she was, standing before him as beautiful as ever—more beautiful than ever, or so he thought. Her golden curls seemed to glow and shine in the dim light which filtered in through the narrow window-slits and her sweet face was bright with gladness at the sight of her beloved Ralph. She was wearing a rich gown ornamented with gold embroidery, which fell in graceful folds to her feet, and round her neck was a golden chain upon which hung a golden cross with a ruby stone.
“When their first surprise and gladness was over they began to talk and to tell one another all that had happened since they had last met. Ralph de Wilton told Clare that he had been very badly wounded in the fight and left lying on the field, but a faithful old servant had rescued him and had taken him home and looked after him and nursed him back to health. When he recovered de Wilton had disguised himself as a palmer and, joining Marmion’s band, had come to Scotland with him. He had done this not because he liked Marmion, but because he knew what a wicked man Marmion was and wanted to find out more about him. He had found out a good deal and had told the Earl of Douglas how cruel and traitorous Marmion was, and this was the reason that the Earl had become less friendly towards his guest. Having listened to the story of de Wilton’s adventures and being very much impressed with his courage and his noble air, the Earl had offered to make him a knight and de Wilton had accepted gladly for he wanted to fight in the battle which was about to take place. All this de Wilton told Clare as they walked up and down the deserted battlements together, and he told her that this was the reason he had laid out his armour on the floor—for the ceremony was to take place in the castle chapel at midnight and the Earl had promised to be there.
“Poor Clare did not know whether to be glad or sorry. She was glad that Ralph had won the Earl’s favour and was to be made a knight, but she was distressed at the news that he must leave her again. She loved him so dearly that all she wanted was to be his wife and live with him in a humble cottage—that would have been happiness to her—but she knew it was his duty to fight and she must be brave and not try to keep him from going.
“At midnight Clare and Ralph de Wilton went down the winding stair together and across the courtyard to the chapel. It was a beautiful building with finely carved stone pillars and rich moulding. The moonlight streamed in through the arched windows, it gleamed upon Ralph’s silver armour and made pools of light upon the floor. Two priests were there, holding blazing torches, and at the altar stood the bishop with the great Earl of Douglas by his side. The Earl was old and grim; his hair was white as snow but his eyebrows were dark and his eyes were proud and melancholy. He was tall and gaunt with broad shoulders and long arms. When he was younger he had been one of the strongest men in the land; his sword was so big and so heavy that nobody but he could use it, but in his hand it was deadly to his enemies and many had fallen before its fierce attack.
“Ralph hesitated for a moment and then he went forward and knelt at the altar and Clare bound his spurs on his heels and fastened on his sword. It was the custom in those days that a knight’s chosen lady should prepare him for war and Clare was proud to do Ralph this service. Then the old Earl spoke to Ralph and wished him good fortune, and raising his famous sword struck him on the shoulder and dubbed him Knight.
“Next morning very early Sir Ralph de Wilton set off to join the Scottish army, and later the same day Marmion mustered his men in the courtyard and told them to saddle their horses. Marmion had made up his mind that he could wait no longer but must join the Earl of Surrey without delay. He told his men to ride on and take Clare with them while he, himself, waited in the courtyard to say good-bye to his host.
“When the Earl came down to the courtyard Marmion held out his hand and thanked him for his hospitality, but by this time the Earl knew some of the wicked things that Marmion had done, and wrapping himself in his cloak and looking at Marmion with scorn he declared that he would never take his hand in friendship. Marmion’s eyes flashed with anger—he was a proud man and the insult was more than he could bear—and he replied with such fierce cruel words that the Earl was enraged and called to his soldiers to draw up the bridge and let down the portcullis and to hold Lord Marmion prisoner; but it was too late—Lord Marmion heard the order, he turned and spurred his horse so that it gave a great leap and galloped out of the castle doors . . . and the portcullis fell behind him with a crash and shaved off the plume which floated from his helmet. Away he went, galloping over the moor and shouting defiance at the Douglas and all his clan.”
Dinah paused. It was very quiet in the little garden.
“Go on, Mummy,” said Mark. “That isn’t the end, is it?”
“Tell us about the battle,” urged Nigel.
Dinah did not want to tell them about the battle. She said slowly, “You can read about it when you’re older. It was a terrible battle. Flodden Field was a black day for Scotland—one of the blackest days in all her history—everything went wrong. The Scottish king was killed and hundreds of his knights—the best and bravest in the land. Marmion was killed—”
“But not Ralph!” exclaimed Polly in anxious tones.
“No, not Ralph. He was one of the few who survived. He fought bravely until the Scottish king was dead and all hope of victory had gone, and then he swam across the Tweed and got back to Scotland and made his way to Tantallon Castle to bring the news to the Earl. Later, when things had settled down, he was able to find Clare and they were married.”
“And lived happily ever after,” nodded Polly.
“It’s a lovely story,” said Flo, with a sigh. “I’d like to read it, Mrs. Savage.”
“Why not?” said Dinah, smiling at her.
19
The thunder clouds had passed and the sun was shining brilliantly when Dinah walked along to the harbour. She had had some trouble in escaping from Nannie without the comforts which Nannie considered essential for a sea voyage. Nannie had wanted her to take a thermos flask full of coffee and a packet of sandwiches, a cushion to sit on and a warm rug to wrap round her knees. Nannie had offered Mrs. Turtle’s Flo as a beast of burden to carry everything down to the harbour. Dinah had refused the offer. She refused the offer of seasickness tablets and Wellington boots and a pair of Nannie’s woollen knickers, but agreed to take her mackintosh and a warm scarf to tie round her head. Much as she loved Nannie she could not consent to set out for an evening sail looking as if she expected to be wrecked upon a desert island.
Seatown harbour had changed very little since Dinah was a child. The tall red-stone houses where the fishermen lived were still standing, facing west over the bay—and what a beautiful colour they were in the evening sunshine! Flights of stone steps, worn into hollows by the passage of feet, led up to the open doors. There were still fishermen in dark-blue jerseys, lounging in the doorways, and women and girls sitting on the steps, mending nets and chattering to one another as they worked. There were still lobster-pots, bleached by salt, piled up into heaps, waiting to be baited and slung into the boats; and a horde of small children were running about playing together—different children, of course, but to Dinah’s eyes the same.
The harbour itself was enclosed by breakwaters which had been built to last by people who knew the power of the winter gales; they consisted of huge blocks of stone—red and white and mauve and brown—fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle and weathered into a harmonious whole. These walls sloped inwards from the base and were so thick that one could have driven a coach and four along the top of them. To-night the harbour was full of boats; fishing-boats, rowing-boats, yachts and dinghies lay peacefully within the sheltering walls. The light of the sun, which was beginning to decline towards the west, made a bright shimmer upon the clear water.
Dinah stood upon the quay and looked down. There was Malcolm! He was already seated in a big, solid-looking fishing-boat. He was waving to her. She waved back and walked along to the stone steps near which the boat was lying. The two fishermen who had been sitting in the boat with Malcolm sprang up as she approached. One of them was tall and strong and old with features which looked as if they had been carved out of mahogany; the other was younger and less spectacular in appearance.
“Mind, noo!” said the older man—obviously Ben Johnstone—as he took her hand to help her down the steps. “Jist tak’ it easy. They steps is slipp’ry. That’s fine. Will ye sit there in the bows wi’ Mister Mawlcolm?”
They pushed off, easing the boat along with their hands against the wall. Then the huge oars came out and the boat floated between the great red pillars that guarded the harbour entrance. The sea caught the boat and she lifted to the swell.
“She’s alive!” exclaimed Dinah, smiling at Malcolm as she spoke.
He nodded. “It’s a grand feeling, isn’t it? But wait till the sails go up. Ben has no engine; that’s one of the reasons I like to come with him.”
“We’re auld-fashioned,” said Ben. “The engine’s a useful contraption, but it tak’s the life oot o’ a boat.”
“Aye,” growled his friend. “An’ it’s dangerous, mind you. There’s no telling when it’ll conk oot—mebbe when the boat’s nigh on the roacks—I’ve seen that happen. Ye ken whaur ye are wi’ sails.” He pulled on a rope as he spoke and the sails went up—they were brown and carefully patched—the breeze filled them and the old boat gave a joyous bound.
The tide was in. The water looked green this evening, green like bottle-glass and so clear that one could see shells and stones and seaweed on the sandy bottom. They were making straight out to sea and ahead of them lay the rocky island veiled by faint haze; it looked drowsy and peaceful as though it were resting after the heat of the day. Behind them lay Seatown, its houses stretching all along the bay and rising steeply to the Station Hill . . . the little houses by the harbour were already decreasing in size and looked like a cluster of children’s toys.
Dinah felt the breeze on her hot cheeks, she felt the breeze in her hair. Beside her sat Malcolm, wrapped in an Inverness cloak—an ancient garment of lovat tweed—he was hatless and was smoking a pipe with a silver lid.
“It’s a lovely motion,” Malcolm said. “It knocks flying into a cocked hat. Riding comes nearest to it, perhaps.”
“But it’s easier than riding,” said Dinah, thoughtfully. “Unless you mean a white circus horse with a broad back that goes round and round the ring.”
“I didn’t,” replied Malcolm. “The circus horse isn’t getting anywhere; it canters round and round, while the spangled lady jumps on and off, and the ring-master cracks his whip. We’re going places, as the Americans say. To-night I feel as if I’d like to go on and on, away to the horizon and beyond. I feel as if I should find freedom there.”
He had spoken with such force, though the force was controlled, that Dinah was quite disconcerted. She had not the feeling that she wanted to escape from life.
“It’s silly, isn’t it?” he continued. “We’re supposed to be free agents, but in reality we’re bound hand and foot. It’s only when I’m on the sea with Ben that I lose the feeling and imagine myself free.”
“What binds you?” Dinah asked, for it seemed to her that Malcolm was a free agent. He was a single man and ran his own business and had enough money to live on very comfortably.
“People, possessions, responsibilities, disabilities,” he said slowly.
She was silent for a few moments and then she said, “Yes, I see that. One is bound by one’s responsibilities to people, but if one loves the people . . .”
“I dare say that would make a lot of difference!” agreed Malcolm. He was smiling at her now—though somewhat ruefully.
Having seen Lady Armstrong and her niece, Dinah understood. She returned the smile and asked; “Why do you let people cramp your style, Malcolm?”
“Heaven knows!” he replied. “I don’t wonder you ask that after what happened on Sunday night. My stepmother isn’t always so—so difficult.”
“She didn’t like me.”
“No, I don’t think she did,” agreed Malcolm, chuckling. “Her likes and dislikes are somewhat peculiar.”
Dinah was silent. It was a little difficult to know how far to go.
“The fact is I’ve got tangled up,” explained Malcolm. “When my father died it seemed natural to go on living with my stepmother at Abbot’s End. Incidentally, the house belongs to me and I love it. What can I do? That’s the question. I’ve got tangled up and I don’t possess a sharp enough knife to cut myself loose.”
“But when Lady Armstrong goes to Edinburgh—”
“Goes to Edinburgh!” echoed Malcolm, in amazement.
“I thought—”
“You thought she was going to Edinburgh?”
“I’m sure she’s thinking of it,” declared Dinah, making up her mind to be frank (for Malcolm was her friend; he had been good to her, whereas Lady Armstrong had not). “Yes, I’m perfectly certain she’s thinking of leaving Abbot’s End, and going to live in Edinburgh. It was something she said—I forget the exact words—and afterwards she and Miss Grover both denied it vehemently—far too vehemently, I thought. The impression I got was that they had discussed the matter together but hadn’t intended to mention it to me.”
“Well!” he exclaimed. “Well . . . Good heavens, that takes the cake!”
“You had no idea of it?”
“None whatever. Of course my stepmother often says that Seatown doesn’t agree with her, but I had no idea she was thinking of going away. We’ll get this cleared up,” declared Malcolm thoughtfully. “We’ll bring the whole subject into the open and discuss it. I hate underground currents.”
Dinah wondered if she should warn Malcolm not to say that he had got wind of Lady Armstrong’s intentions through her, but she cared so little what Lady Armstrong thought of her that she decided to leave it alone. If Malcolm wanted to quote her as his authority he could do so. She hated underground currents as much as he did.
They were silent for a few moments, busy with their thoughts. Then Malcolm laughed. “This looks like the sharp knife,” he said. “This looks extremely like the sharp knife. Thank you for giving it to me, Dinah.”
They talked about other things after that, talked or were silent with equal felicity. Dinah had met very few men in her life, for she had had little opportunity of meeting people. There was Dan, but he scarcely counted for he was a part of herself, her alter ego; and then there was Gilbert, of course. Malcolm was different. His manner was different; his approach to herself. Gilbert had treated her as a plaything, as a sort of ornament—amusing, precious and beautiful. Malcolm treated her as an equal, exploring her mind, asking for her opinions upon this or that and considering them carefully before agreeing—or disagreeing and offering his reasons for so doing. He was completely natural and friendly; there was no indication in his manner that he admired her, or that he thought her pretty or charming. There was no gallantry in his attitude, no “man to woman” business at all. She felt as if she were talking to a tried friend, a friend wiser than herself and more experienced, somebody who could be relied upon for sound advice . . . but he was amusing, too, capable of mischievous little turns of phrase and of light-hearted gaiety. She had discovered that he could be indiscreet and this discovery put her at her case with him (for the person who speaks with considered care is the person to be treated with caution).
