Young Mrs. Savage, page 18
They set off after tea, walking along the bay to eastward and turning inland when they came to the burn. The glen was a cleft in the hill through which the burn ran down; it was filled with trees, oaks and hazels and elms, twisted and bent by the winter gales. There was a ruined mill at the bottom of the glen, a small tumbledown house with thick walls, and a steep path led upwards beside the burn, winding this way and that between fallen rocks.
Dinah and the three children crossed the meadow and entered the wood, and as they did so the sun broke through the clouds, touching the trees with gold and throwing dappled patches of light and shade up on the grass and the tangled undergrowth. The children were running about, dabbling in the little burn, climbing on the rocks and calling to one another. It was a splendid place for children to play, thought Dinah, and again she tried to remember why she and Dan had not made it one of their “haunts.” She was sure they had not; no, she couldn’t remember a single picnic here.
She climbed on, looking about her as she went. There were masses of brambles. Soon the fruit would ripen and she and the children must come and pick the berries; bramble jelly would be lovely, and Nannie made it so well. Suddenly Dinah found a hot little hand thrust into hers and looking down she found it was Polly’s.
“I don’t like it,” said Polly earnestly.
“You don’t like it!” exclaimed Dinah, in surprise.
“Let’s go home,” said Polly and she tugged at Dinah’s hand so that Dinah was obliged to stop.
“But, Polly—why?”
“I don’t like this walk.”
“But it’s such a pretty place. Look at the foxgloves, Polly! Look at the funny old trees! They’re very old, you know. Why don’t you play with the boys?”
“I want to go home.”
Dinah hesitated. The boys had run on; they had disappeared round a bend in the path. “We’ll go and find the boys,” said Dinah.
“No,” said Polly, hanging back. “No. Mummy, let’s go home!”
“We can’t go without the boys,” said Dinah, reasonably. “You know that as well as I do. We’ll go and find them and then we’ll all go home together.” She tried to walk on as she spoke, but Polly, clinging to her hand like a limpet, held her back.
“Very well, then,” said Dinah. “You can wait here. I’ll go on, and—”
“Don’t leave me,” said Polly, in a low voice. “They’ll be all right. It isn’t them, it’s me.”
“I don’t know what you mean!” exclaimed Dinah in amazement.
“Let’s go home,” repeated Polly, urgently. “Please, Mummy, please—I want to go home. I don’t like it here.”
It was so unlike Polly to be deaf to reason that Dinah was alarmed.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll call to the boys, but we must wait for them.”
“Don’t call,” said Polly, earnestly. “They might hear you. They don’t like you to make a noise.”
There was silence. There was not a sound in the little wood; not a bird sang, not a leaf moved. The burn ran muted in its pebbly bed. Dinah felt a curious sensation at the back of her neck; she was panic-stricken. She knew suddenly for the first time in her life what panic really meant. If Polly had not been there she would have taken to her heels and run helter-skelter down the stony path.
“Home,” whispered Polly, beginning to whimper. “Home, Mummy!”
“Not without the boys.”
They stood there together on the path. Polly was trembling; she had pressed her face against Dinah’s side.
“It’s all right,” said Dinah, trying to control her voice. “It’s nothing, Polly. Don’t be silly! The boys will come.”
They waited. It seemed a long time. There wasn’t a sound except the uneven beating of Dinah’s heart. She moistened her lips and said again, “It’s all right; it’s nothing—don’t be silly—”
The sun had vanished behind a cloud and the little wood was damp and cold. There was an odd sort of mist rising from the burn. There wasn’t a sound . . . and then they heard the boys coming back.
“Hallo!” exclaimed Nigel. “We’ve been to the top! There’s nothing to see, really. It’s a silly old wood.”
“Just a few old trees and a broken-down cottage,” added Mark, lightheartedly.
“Lots of nettles and toadstools!” shouted Nigel.
They ran past, scattering the stones and gravel with their feet, jumping over the rocks and whistling cheerfully. Dinah and Polly followed, hand-in-hand.
Nothing was said about the incident and by the time they reached Craigie Lodge Polly’s colour had returned and she was chattering away as usual—it was as if she had forgotten all about it. But if Polly had forgotten Dinah had not and later that evening she made some pretext for going into the kitchen.
The Andersons were having their nine o’clock tea and they invited Dinah to sit down and join them. Mr. Anderson was a retiring sort of man; except for an occasional meeting on the stairs when they exchanged polite greetings and commented upon the weather Dinah would not have known that he was in the house, but to-night he seemed more approachable. He brought a chair for Dinah and offered her scones and cakes and seemed pleased to see her.
“Why didn’t we ever play in the glen, Nannie?” asked Dinah, as she accepted a large chunk of gingerbread.
“Dear knows,” replied Nannie. “There were plenty of cold days when the glen would have been nice and sheltered, but I could never get you to come. There was always some excuse or other.”
“Did we ever tell you there was something rather odd about it?”
“Gracious, no!” said Nannie with conviction.
“But there is something odd about it, Nannie.”
“There’s nothing odd that I ever saw.”
“But you’ve heard odd things about it?”
“Folks will say anything,” declared Nannie. “There was a lady staying here two summers ago that had some tale about feeling queer in the glen—indigestion, if you ask me!”
“Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t,” said Mr. Anderson, impartially.
“Phooh!” exclaimed Nannie, tossing her head.
“And she was not the only one.” Mr. Anderson continued. “There was the wee Dobbie girl that went to pick brambles and sprained her ankle running down the path. You’ll mind she was funny in the head when they found her, Annie?”
“Funny in the head! She was always a bit daft. I’ve no patience with yon kind of nonsense. Many a time I’ve walked in the glen and I’ve never felt queer.”
Dinah could well believe it.
“I’ve a book about Seatown,” said Mr. Anderson, turning to Dinah. “It’s an old book—a bit shabby and dirty—but you might care to take a look at it some time.”
“Dinah doesn’t want to be bothered with your dirty old book!”
“It’s interesting,” said Mr. Anderson apologetically.
“Is there something about the glen in it?” Dinah inquired.
“There’s quite a bit. The Ladies’ Glen they called it in the old days.”
“Not such old days,” put in Nannie. “I mind when it was called the Ladies’ Glen. It would be because ladies used to walk there, most likely.”
“It was because witches used to dance there,” said Mr. Anderson, leaning forward and helping himself to a cookie.
“Andrew!” exclaimed Nannie. “I never haird such nonsense in all my days! You know as well as I do that it’s all nonsense!”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” remarked Mr. Anderson, in his slow deep voice. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was all nonsense, Annie. There’s a good deal of nonsense talked about witches, but there’s no doubt they existed and folks believed in them—and what’s more they believed in themselves. There’s a wee clearing half-way up the glen where they used to meet and dance, it’s said that’s the reason the sward is so green.”
“Maybe you saw witches when you were in the glen this afternoon, Dinah?” suggested Nannie, with dry humour.
“No,” said Dinah, gravely.
“Or haird them?” pursued Nannie, pressing home her advantage.
“No,” said Dinah. “I heard nothing.”
“No,” agreed Nannie. “You wouldn’t, because it’s all nonsense!”
“Maybe Mistress Savage felt something,” suggested Mr. Anderson, in his quiet voice.
Dinah hesitated. She was unwilling to speak of her experience, but they were looking at her and waiting.
“Yes,” she said at last. “I felt something—Polly felt it, too. In fact, we were both terrified.”
“Terrified!” exclaimed Nannie, incredulously.
“Quite suddenly, and for no reason at all,” nodded Dinah. “The boys didn’t seem to feel anything, but Polly was shaking all over and my hair literally stood on end. The hair at the back of my neck,” said Dinah, putting up her hand.
Nannie rose without a word and left the room.
“She isn’t—annoyed, is she?” asked Dinah, glancing at Mr. Anderson.
“She’ll be away to have a look at the wee girl,” replied Mr. Anderson with a smile.
24
Dan came on Saturday as he had promised. The children were having tea on the sand with Flo, so Dan and Dinah were able to chat comfortably in the drawing-room.
“You’re looking marvellous,” Dan declared. “I do wish you needn’t go home at the end of the month.”
Dinah smiled. “Nannie suggested we should stay on until we can find a house in Edinburgh. She’ll keep us all the winter if necessary.”
“Gosh! Of course that’s the answer to our difficulties! No need to drag the children back to Nettleham. It’s by far the best plan. Will your tenants stay on?”
“They may buy Oakfield, but it isn’t actually decided. I should have to go south and fix things up, but I could leave the children here. Nannie and I have been talking about it.”
“And talking to good purpose,” declared Dan. “I wish I were as far forward; I can’t hear of a suitable house anywhere.”
It was impossible to make definite arrangements until Dan had found a house, but it amused them to discuss their plans. Dan was tremendously excited (it was years since he had had a settled home) and his excitement was infectious.
“Nannie must give us the old sofa,” said Dan. “We’ll buy her another, of course, but we must have the old sofa in our drawing-room.”
“It’s a very big sofa,” said Dinah, looking at it doubtfully. “I mean, unless it’s a big room—”
“You must get a house with a big room,” said Dan, firmly. “We must, honestly; I’ve set my heart upon having the old sofa. I can see us sitting in it, one in each corner, in front of a roaring fire . . .”
Dinah smiled. She wondered how many years it was since she had seen a roaring fire, but she let it pass without comment. Dan would realise all too soon that life nowadays was austere and comfortless.
Dan’s week had been pretty strenuous. He had worked all day at the shipping office and had studied books and papers when he got back to his rooms at night. “Books about paper,” said Dan. “I must know all about it before I can be of any use to Malcolm.”
“Is it interesting?” Dinah wanted to know.
“Tremendously interesting,” declared Dan; and forthwith he began to discourse upon the subject with fluency and enthusiasm. Dinah heard about the various ingredients which go to the making of paper—rags and hemp and esparto-fibre and sulphate wood-pulp—she heard about sand-tables and calendars and smoothing rolls, and a host of other devices. She was told how to prepare rosin-sizing with carbonate of soda and alum; rosin-sizing was the stuff that made paper ink-proof. It was all far too technical for Dinah’s comprehension, but at least it taught her that paper-making was a difficult and complicated business. Having dealt faithfully with the making of paper, Dan proceeded to throw out a few facts about its history and informed Dinah that the first English paper-mill was at Stevenage, in Hertford, and that its owner, John Tate, was Lord Mayor of London in 1476. Scotland had no paper-mill until two hundred years later. Water-marks were fascinating, declared Dan. There were books and books about water-marks, and he intended to read them all. At first water-marks had been made by means of a twisted piece of wire which was fixed to the mould in which the paper was manufactured, but nowadays the process was different . . . And Dan went on to compare the merits of wire-gauze and photo-mechanical processes, touching lightly upon gutta-percha and stencils placed between two sheets of half-finished paper.
“There’s quite a lot in it,” said Dan at last. “I mean I’ve only just given you a few of the most interesting facts, but you can see how thrilling it is.”
“Yes,” agreed Dinah, who was slightly exhausted by her vain endeavor to follow the exposition. “Yes, I can see there’s a tremendous lot in it.”
“A tremendous lot,” nodded Dan.
“And what about Miss Cray?” asked Dinah, who had been thinking about Miss Cray off and on all week and had almost arrived at the stage of expecting to have her as a sister-in-law.
“Miss Cray!” exclaimed Dan, in amazement. “What about her?”
“I thought she was nice.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’d like her, Di!”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“No,” said Dan. “No—honestly—I thought at first she was rather nice so I wasn’t sorry when old Cray asked me to go in to drinks. As a matter of fact I thought I might get her to come to the flicks with me or something.”
“Couldn’t she come?”
“I didn’t ask her.”
“Why not?”
“She had bare feet and holes in her shoes—oogh—frightful!” said Dan, shuddering at the recollection.
“But, Dan, I often wear sandals—everybody does!”
“Oh, I don’t mind sandals,” said Dan. “These were ordinary brown-leather shoes with holes cut in them and naked big toes sticking out—toes with crimson nails! You’ve no idea how horrible they were! It made me uncomfortable to look at them and yet I couldn’t help looking at them. I could hardly speak to the girl. Honestly, Di, there was something quite—quite indecent about them,” said Dan, earnestly.
Dinah could find nothing to say—or rather, there was so much to say that she could not choose her words—so she said nothing.
“Well, that’s that!” said Dan cheerfully. “Now you know what I’ve been doing. Now it’s your turn, Di. What mischief have you been up to?”
Dinah began to tell him. She began rather half-heartedly, for her week’s activities seemed somewhat tame in retrospect and she was afraid Dan’s head was too full of paper for him to be interested in them, but it was not so. Dan was interested in everything she had to tell. He was interested in all that Mrs. Monk had said about Lady Armstrong; he laughed heartily at Dinah’s rendering of Nannie’s conversation with Chairley Broon; he heard about the children’s tea-party at the Monks’ and about Pat Yoker’s spirited defence of Santa Claus. Finally, somewhat to Dinah’s surprise, he listened carefully to the story of the adventure in the Ladies’ Glen and was not in the least incredulous.
“You always hated the place,” said Dan, thoughtfully. “I can’t remember that we ever talked about it—which is odd, because we talked about everything, didn’t we?”
“Everything,” nodded Dinah.
“You hated the place,” he repeated. “You avoided it like poison. I just accepted the fact that we never went there. Children are queer, aren’t they? I don’t think I ever felt anything funny in the glen—I wonder if I would, now.”
“You can try if you like,” said Dinah. “As long as you don’t ask me to go with you—”
Dan smiled and shook his head. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said.
“Has your hair ever stood on end?” Dinah wanted to know.
“Only once,” replied Dan. “It was in Burma. I was out shooting and suddenly I came across a half-ruined temple in the middle of a thick wood and—well—I mean the hair at the back of my neck—”
“I know!”
“I ran for my life,” admitted Dan with a rueful smile.
There was no need to say any more for they understood one another. Dan asked whether the children had been for any expeditions.
“You mean by themselves?” asked Dinah in surprise.
“Why not?” asked Dan. “We used to go all over the place by ourselves when we were their age.”
“But we were different,” objected Dinah. “We were much more independent. The children haven’t had the same chance of going about and doing things by themselves. They’re babies compared with us at the same age.”
“In some ways they are—and in other ways they aren’t,” agreed Dan, thoughtfully.
So far Dinah had not mentioned her evening sails with Malcolm. She was leaving that until the end for she wanted to discuss it thoroughly. She had decided to take Dan’s advice in the matter and if he thought she shouldn’t go she would find some excuse for next Tuesday. She took a deep breath and began to explain, but she didn’t get far with her explanations.
“Malcolm took you!” cried Dan in surprise. “Gosh, how decent of him!”
This reaction was so different from what Dinah had expected that she scarcely knew how to go on. It showed—to say the least of it—a distinct lack of understanding on the part of her fellow-Dee.
“He’s like that,” continued Dan. “I expect he thought you were feeling a bit lonely. He’s tremendously thoughtful and kind.”
“I think he likes taking me,” said Dinah, trying to express her point of view.
“Oh, of course,” agreed Dan. “He likes doing kind things. He’s that sort of person.”
She tried again. “Do you think I ought to go?”
“Of course you ought to go. I mean if Malcolm is decent enough to ask you it would be ungrateful not to go. Nannie doesn’t mind looking after the children, does she?”
Dinah sighed. She decided it was hopeless. For the first time in her life Dan had failed her.
The Dees had arranged to go to the “movies” that night, so they had their supper early and started off. Dan had seen the picture before—it was Arsenic and Old Lace—but Dinah had not been to a picture house for years so it was new to her. They arrived in good time and found seats in the middle of a row; Malcolm and Miss Grover were sitting quite near and Mr. and Mrs. Monk were in front of them with Tapioca.
