Young Mrs. Savage, page 17
“You mean . . . to-night?” inquired Dinah, somewhat taken aback.
“There’s another dance to-night. I could get that little bit of fluff out of the tobacconist’s, but I’d rather have you.”
“I’m afraid it will have to be the little bit of fluff,” said Dinah, trying not to laugh.
“I thought so,” he said.
She showed him down the stairs, reflecting with some amusement that she was only taking Tapioca’s own advice. Oddly enough she would have liked to go to the dance (she had been tempted to accept for she had enjoyed herself on Friday) but it was better for him that she should not go. Tapioca was transparent as plate glass.
Dan will laugh, thought Dinah, as she stood at the door and watched Tapioca walk away. Dan will laugh like anything.
Dinah herself did not feel like laughing. She had her supper and, going upstairs, sat by the drawing-room window and looked out. She felt lonely and dejected; she almost regretted her refusal to go to the dance. Hadn’t she been rather silly to refuse? She had refused to go for a sail with Malcolm and she had refused to go to the dance . . . and now she was feeling lonely . . . and dejected.
The sea was very calm this evening; it was about halfway in but everything was so quiet that Dinah could hear the splash of the waves breaking upon the sand. The sun was sinking into a bed of soft grey clouds, tinging their edges with fiery red. Gradually the sun sank and the light faded. The lighthouse on the far-off island began to wink. It was a familiar sight—the winking of that far-off light—and it took her away back down the years. Dinah was a young girl again, wondering about life, dreaming of what life held in store for her. And now, she thought, my life is fixed. My bed is made and I must lie on it. She did not pity herself, nor entertain the foolish idea that at twenty-eight her life was over—but certainly it was fixed. Her work was cut out for her. It was good work and she intended to do it well, to bring up her children to be useful members of society. She did not rebel (indeed, she would have rejected the idea of changing places with any one); but she would not have been human if she had not had moments of regret, moments of longing for the old days when she had been herself (not the mother of four children, but belonging to herself alone and complete in herself) looking towards a future full of rosy hopes and dreams: romance, travel, adventure. She had had romance, of course. Gilbert had been her fairy prince and for a little while she had been wildly, madly happy. It had not lasted long but she had had it. Some women did not even have that.
It was nearly dark now. There were footsteps on the road. She could see two shadowy figures strolling past very slowly, with their arms entwined.
“You’re wonderful!” a man’s voice exclaimed.
Dinah could hear a murmured reply as they passed on and vanished in the gloom.
Lucky woman, thought Dinah. It was lucky to have someone who cared like that, someone to lean on. Life was very frightening sometimes. Dinah wanted someone who would make her feel safe; someone who would share her responsibilities and settle things for her—it was a weary business making decisions yourself—she wanted someone to consult and defer to, someone to order her days. Looking forward, she saw herself growing older, the children growing up: she saw herself walking with a stick (like Mrs. Monk) with her hand on Mark’s arm—or Polly’s. She could not see herself leaning on Nigel’s arm.
There were tears on Dinah’s cheeks, but she brushed them away impatiently for she was not given to pitying herself. She agreed wholeheartedly with Mrs. Wiggs: people who pitied themselves were despicable creatures.
Dinah was thinking of Mrs. Wiggs and trying to smile when Nannie came in with the usual tray of milk and biscuits.
“All in the dark!” exclaimed Nannie, turning on the light.
“I was thinking,” replied Dinah. She hesitated and then continued: “What an odd thing life is, isn’t it? So different from what one expected!”
“Maircy me!” exclaimed Nannie. “You’re talking as if you were dead.”
Dinah laughed. “Not dead, exactly: just settled.”
Nannie put down the tray. “Not settled, eether,” she declared. “There’s a lot of life to be worked out before you’re through with it—maybe you’re never through. I used to think when the Doctor was alive: This is my life for ever and ever; keeping house and looking after things, answering the telephone, going out Sundays to tea and the Kirk—and, mind you, I liked it. I wasn’t complaining. But then, in a moment, it was all changed.”
“You like it better?” asked Dinah.
“Better—and worse,” said Nannie, doubtfully. “There’s more to it, having a man of your own, but there’s more worries. If the roof leaked I would say to Doctor Bell the roof was leaking and that was all. He’d see the slater came up the very next day. Now I’ve got to go after Will Thomson myself and make sure he comes and pay for it as well. It’s the same with everything. There’s a deal more work and worry nowadays.”
“But you wouldn’t go back?”
Nannie smiled.
“I’d miss Andrew—and that’s the truth,” she admitted.
Nannie had found somebody who cared.
22
The evening was silver, not golden as Tuesday evening had been. Dinah walked along to the harbour as before and, as before, she found the Kilty lying at the steps with Malcolm already aboard. There was more breeze to-night and quite an appreciable swell, but this only made it more pleasant for Dinah was an excellent sailor. They tacked westward along the shore and saw the green stretch of the golf course and people playing. A motor boat, full of people, chugged past them, making for a wreck at the end of the west bay.
“Queer!” said Malcolm, pointing to the boat with his pipe. “It wouldn’t amuse me a bit to go out in a boat like that.”
“There’s lots o’ queer things in this wurrld,” declared Ben who had come to sit near them. “There’s lots o’ things that’s difficult tae understand.”
“What sort o’ things are you thinking of?” inquired Malcolm with interest. Malcolm was always interested in the working of other people’s minds.
“Weel,” said Ben, as he filled his pipe and packed it carefully with his enormous finger. “Weel, Mister Mawlcolm, I wis jis’ thinking o’ a wee crack I wis having wi’ Mister Harvey—he’s the meenister, ye ken. I’m no’ a verra regular attendant at the Kirk, but I ken ma Bible an’ I wis jis’ asking him a wee question an’ he couldna’ answer it.” Ben smiled and shook his head. “It fair stumped him,” declared Ben.
“Let’s have it,” suggested Malcolm, with a chuckle.
“Aye, ye can have it. Noo, see here, there wis Adam and Eve, an’ they had three sons,” said Ben, gravely. “There wis nae ither body in the wurrld but them—Adam an’ Eve an’ Cain an’ Abel an’ Seth. That’s richt enough, is it no’?”
“Perfectly correct,” agreed Malcolm.
“Weel, the Buik says Cain went oot intae the wilderness an’ took wives an’ his descendants bred an’ mustered. Noo then, Mister Mawlcolm, can ye tell me this (an’ if ye can tell me ye’ll be a deal cleverer nor the meenister) whaur did Cain find wives, eh? Whaur did they come frae? There wis nae ither body in the wurrld—only beasts,” declared Ben, nodding gravely. “But Cain got wives. There’s a puzzle.”
Malcolm said he had no idea where Cain’s wives had come from.
“God sent them to him,” suggested Dinah.
“Weel then, it should of said,” objected Ben. “There’s naething aboot it in the Buik. It should of said, ‘An’ God sent wives tae Cain,’ an’ then there’d hae been nae doots aboot it.”
Ben’s friend who had been listening in silence to the discussion cleared his throat and remarked, “There’s things we’re no meant to ken. It’s Goad’s will—that’s a’ ye can say.”
“Na, na; that’ll nae dae,” retorted Ben. “If we dinna ken we’re meant tae find oot. We’re no intended tae sit doon an’ dream. Puzzles is sent us tae mak’ us use oor brains. Thawr wis Newton that saw an aipple fall an’ he asked himsel’ why; an’ there wis Watt that saw the lid o’ his mither’s kettle lifting wi’ the steam. Did Watt say, ‘That’s unco’ queer, but there’s things we’re no’ meant tae ken, sae I’ll tak’ a wee darder roond the toon an’ mebbe hae a game o’ bowls’?”
Dinah laughed, but there was no suspicion of a smile upon Ben’s mahogany features.
“An’ there wis Lister,” continued Ben. “Lister saw folks deeing like flees wi’ gangrene. Mebbe if you’d been Lister you’d hae said, ‘Weel, weel, that’s a peety—puir bodies—but it’s Goad’s will.’”
Ben’s friend was silent under this fearful accusation.
“Na, na,” continued Ben. “We’re no’ intended tae sit doon an’ dream. We’re intended tae use the brains we’re given . . . an’ mebbe ye’ll use what brains ye’ve bin given,” added Ben, in a different tone of voice. “We’ll be on the roacks in a wee meenit if ye dinna bring her roond.”
Ben’s friend used his brain and brought her round skillfully. “Aye, that’s a’ verra weel,” he declared, as he completed the evolution. “That’s a’ verra weel for folks like Lister an’ Watt, but they’re special kind o’ folks wi’ special kind o’ brains. The likes o’ us isn’t intended tae question Goad’s will. We’ve no grand eddication like them. We’re just puir ignorant fisherfolk an’ naething mair.”
Malcolm leant forward. “You’ve forgotten one thing,” he declared. “Christ’s chosen companions were poor ignorant fishermen.”
“Aye, ye’d forgotten that!” cried Ben, in delight. “Mister Mawlcolm’s got ye there. That’s one ye canna’ answer in a hurry. Tak’ Peter, noo. Peter wis forever asking questions. He got a wee set-doon noo an’ then, but he wisna’ discouraged—not him! He wis up an’ at it again, wanting tae ken this an’ that an’ the ither. It wis aye Peter that asked the questions, it wis Peter had a’ the ideas . . . Aye, an’ it wis Peter that wis chosen abune a’ the ithers tae be their heid.”
“Och away!” exclaimed Ben’s friend in disgust. “It’s a meenister ye should of been. Yer faither should of made a meenister o’ ye, Ben.”
They had turned now and were running home before the westerly breeze with a lovely free, bounding motion which was most exhilarating. Malcolm had not talked so much to-day, but his silence was friendly and without strain. Dinah had enjoyed every moment of her outing. She wondered if Malcolm would ask her to come again (she was half afraid he would and half afraid he wouldn’t) and as they approached the East Bay to land her on the rocks she tried to make up her mind what to do about it. There was no reason why she should not go with him again—if he asked her—but somehow she felt uneasy. Somehow she felt it would be better not to go again. He might not ask her, of course, in which case there would be no difficulty about it. But the idea that Malcolm might not ask her was not wholly pleasant.
“What about Monday evening?” asked Malcolm, as Ben brought the boat skilfully to the landing place. “Would Monday suit you, Dinah?”
“The tide’ll be oot, Monday,” said Ben’s friend.
“An’ who asked ye fer an opeenion?” demanded Ben. “Can we no’ tak’ the boat oot in the efternune an’ get Mister Mawlcolm off the pier?”
Ben’s friend was suitably crushed.
“Monday?” said Dinah, trying somewhat half-heartedly to look for an excuse . . . but what excuse could she find? Seatown did not offer many evening entertainments.
“Tuesday, then?” suggested Malcolm. “Would Tuesday suit you better?”
Dinah could find no excuse—she had not tried very hard—so she thanked him and agreed to come on Tuesday.
23
By this time Dinah’s children had made friends with other children who played on the shore and sometimes they split up and could be seen in widely scattered groups, building castles, or sailing boats, or hunting for crabs in the seaweed. The odd thing was they seemed to have different friends . . . but perhaps it was not really odd for they were all so different from one another. Dinah regretted this splitting up of her family. She and Dan had been enough for one another and had never wanted outside friends.
Nigel was the most popular member of his family; he was tall for his age, and extremely good-looking and he had a charming manner with strangers. It was a pity his manner was not so charming when he was at home in the bosom of his family, but there are quite a number of people in the world with the same peculiarity.
Dinah was thinking about this and wondering what could be done about it when she saw Pat coming towards her across the sands.
“No golf this morning?” she inquired.
“The old heel has let me down,” replied Pat.
“The old heel?” repeated Dinah, chuckling. “Who on earth is that?”
“Who?” inquired Pat, in a bewildered manner.
“Yes,” nodded Dinah. “Which of your friends?”
“Oh, I see the idea! The old heel! But it isn’t a friend, it’s a blister, that’s all. Better to-morrow,” said Pat cheerfully. He sat down on a nearby rock and watched Dinah, who was trying to induce her younger daughter to paddle in a pool.
“Cold,” said Margy, trying the temperature of the water with the tip of her toe and withdrawing hastily. “Too cold.”
“Lovely,” declared Dinah, enticingly. “Lovely water.”
“Mummy put hot in,” said Margy, making this admirable suggestion with one of her ravishing smiles.
“No,” replied Dinah. “Don’t be silly, Margy. Mummy can’t put hot in—besides, it’s nicer cold.”
“Nastier cold,” said Margy, firmly.
Pat laughed. “But why bother?” he inquired. “I mean if she doesn’t like paddling, she doesn’t. I wouldn’t put my big toe into ice-cold water for a good deal.”
“The others like it,” explained Dinah, tossing back her curls which had fallen over her face during her efforts. “The others simply love it and so would Margy if she would only try it properly. Margy is like—like a cushion,” continued her mother, looking at her with a mixture of amusement and vexation. “She’s soft and comfortable but you can’t squeeze her into another shape.”
“You can squeeze a cushion,” objected Pat . . . and then he stopped. “Hallo! What’s up?” he exclaimed.
Polly was running towards them at full speed, dragging a boy by the hand. He was a tall thin boy, a good deal bigger than herself.
“What’s up?” repeated Pat. “That’s the Barrington boy she’s got in tow. They’re staying at Miss Brown’s.”
By this time the pair had arrived; Polly, breathless and obviously distressed, pushed her friend forward.
“Tell him, Mummy!” she cried. “Tell him it’s true. Tell him.”
“It’s all right,” said the boy disengaging his hand and smiling at Dinah disarmingly. “I shouldn’t have said it, really, because she’s just a kid—I mean kids believe in fairy stories, don’t they? I’m eleven, you see, so of course I don’t believe in Santa Claus—”
“Tell him!” besought Polly. “Please tell him quickly. It’s wicked, isn’t it? But he doesn’t mean to be.”
Dinah hesitated.
“Of course there’s a Santa Claus,” declared Pat, with conviction. “Who do you think fills your stocking if it isn’t Santa Claus?”
“It’s your father dressed up,” replied the boy.
“But our father wasn’t there!” cried Polly.
“It’s your mother, then,” said the boy, smiling at Dinah as he spoke.
Pat shook his head sadly. “Of course if you don’t believe in him you can’t expect him to come, can you? I’m afraid that’s the reason you don’t get a Christmas stocking.”
“But I do get a stocking,” declared the Barrington boy. “I get a marvellous stocking every year. My father fills it for me. My father says it’s silly to believe in Santa Claus, but he doesn’t want me to miss any of the fun.”
“It seems to me you miss all the fun,” said Pat thoughtfully. “I can remember when I was a kid and Santa Claus came and filled my stocking. Gosh, what a thrill! I mean it wouldn’t have been the same at all if my father had done it.”
“But it isn’t true!” cried the boy. “It must have been your father!”
“Santa Claus came to me—always,” declared Pat with the utmost conviction. He rose as he spoke and taking Polly’s hand began to walk up the beach.
Dinah picked up Margy and followed. Dinah had not spoken at all; she had left it to Pat, and Pat had done it beautifully. She had not spoken because she could not make up her mind what to say. Was it right to tell children lies—even innocent lies about a time-honoured myth such as Santa Claus? It was such fun for them . . . but lies were horrible.
Pat was in no doubts about the matter and as Dinah followed them up the beach she could hear snatches of his conversation with Polly.
“ . . . There was a sort of clatter,” Pat was saying earnestly. “And when I opened my eyes, there he was . . . no, it was the fire-irons, I think . . . Yes, an enormous sack, goodness knows how he got it down the chimney . . . Yes, it was red and trimmed with white fur and there was a hood pulled over his head . . . No, not really. I shut my eyes light in case he would see I was awake . . . No, of course he wouldn’t come unless you believed in him. I mean why should he? There are lots of children who do believe in him, so naturally . . . No, I wouldn’t talk to Philip about it any more . . . Yes, but I wouldn’t if I were you . . . No, honestly, it wouldn’t be a bit of good . . .”
The afternoon was dull and misty and the sands looked less attractive than usual so when Dinah suggested a walk up the glen the children agreed to come.
“It will be fun to explore,” said Polly. “We can pretend we’re exploring the jungle. Did the Dees go for walks in the glen?”
Dinah tried to remember but for some reason she could not. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “We liked the sands better; but it will be nice for a change.”
