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."