On these winter evenings in the Green Glen, when the wind and the rain
beat upon the house, and Ann by the fireside wrote down her mother's
life, Marget made many errands into the drawing-room to offer advice.
"I think"--said Ann one evening--"I think I must have been horribly
neglected as a baby. Everyone was so taken up with Mark they hadn't
time to look at me."
Marget was standing in the middle of the room with her hands folded on
her black satin apron; she would have scorned to wear a white apron
after working hours. She had come in with a list of groceries to be
ordered by post, and stood looking suspiciously at Ann and her writing.
"Ye were never negleckit when I kent ye, an' I cam' to the hoose afore
ye kent yer richt hand frae yer left. You were a wee white-heided
cratur and Maister Robbie wasna shortened."
"Ah, but were you there when Mark fell out of the carriage and was so
frightfully hurt? I've been told by Aunt Agatha that no one had time
to attend to me, and I was just shut up in a room with some toys and
fed at intervals. It's a wonder that the Cruelty to Children people
didn't get you."
"Havers," said Marget.
"That was a terrible time," Mrs. Douglas said. "Mark was four, and
beginning to get stronger. You were a year old, Ann. It was a lovely
day in June, and Mr. Kerr, in the kindness of his heart, sent a
carriage to take us all for a drive."
"I mind fine o' Mr. Kerr," Marget broke in. "He was fair bigoted on
the kirk. I dinna think he ever missed a Sabbath's service or a
Wednesday prayer-meeting."
"I mind of him, too," said Ann. "He had white hair and bushy white
eyebrows, and a fierce expression and an ebony stick with an ivory
handle. He used to give Mark presents at Christmas time, but he
ignored the existence of the rest of us. I remember we went to see him
once, and he presented Mark with a book. Mark took it and said, 'Yes,
and what for Ann?' and Mr. Kerr had to fumble about and produce
something for me while I waited stolidly, quite unabashed by my
brother's unconventional behaviour."
"Mr. Kerr was the best friend the Kirkcaple Church had," Mrs. Douglas
said. "He 'joyed' in its prosperity--how he struggled to get the
members to increase their givings. His great desire was that it should
give more largely than the parish kirk of the district. People may
talk about union and one great Church, but when we are all one I'm
afraid there may be a lack of interest--a falling off in endeavour.
St. Paul knew what he was talking about when he spoke of 'provoking'
one another to love and good works.... At first I couldn't bear Mr.
Kerr. If I let your father forget an intimation, or if a funeral was
forgotten, or someone was neglected, he came to the Manse in a passion.
I fled at the sight of him. But gradually I found that his fierceness
wasn't to be feared, and that it was the sheer interest he took that
made him hate things to go wrong--and one is grateful to people who
take a real interest, however oddly they may show it."
"So Mr. Kerr sent his carriage," Ann prompted.
"Mr. Kerr sent his carriage," said her mother, "and we set out to have
a picnic on the Loan. We were as merry as children. You were on my
knee, Ann, and Agatha sat beside me, your father and Mark opposite. We
were about Thornkirk, and Mark, who was always mad about flowers,
pointing to the dusty roadside, cried, 'A bluebell,' and suddenly made
a spring against the door, which, to our horror, opened, and Mark fell
out.... I don't know what happened next. The first thing I knew I was
in a cottage frantically pulling at a chest of drawers and crying for
something to cover the awful wound. By great good fortune our own
doctor happened to pass in his dogcart just then. All he said was,
'Take him home.' ... He stayed with us most of the night, but he could
give us no hope that the child would live, or, living, have his reason.
For days he lay unconscious, sometimes raving, sometimes pitifully
moaning. Agatha and I knew nothing of nursing, and there were no
trained nurses in those days--at least, not in Kirkcaple. What would
have happened to us all I know not if Mrs. Peat hadn't appeared like a
good angel on the scene. It was wonderful of her to come. A fortnight
before she had got news that her son in India--her idolised only
son--had been killed in some native rising, and she put her own grief
aside and came to us. 'My dear,' she said, 'I've come to take the
nights, if you will let me. You're young, and you need your sleep.'
So every evening she came and sat up--night after night for four long
weeks. I used to go into the night nursery on those summer mornings--I
was so young and strong that, anxious as I was I couldn't help
sleeping--and find Mrs. Peat sitting there with her cap ribbons
unruffled, her hair smooth, so serene looking that no one could have
believed that she had kept a weary vigil. She was a born nurse, and
she possessed a healing touch. I believe she did more than anyone to
pull Mark through; and all the time we were in Kirkcaple she was a
tower of strength to me. Always twice a week she came up early in the
afternoon and stayed till evening, her cap in the neatest little basket
in her hand--for she always took off her bonnet. I think I hear her
saying, 'Eh, my dear,' with a sort of slow emphasis on the 'my.' She
never made mischief in the congregation by boasting how 'far ben' she
was at the Manse. She had a mind far above petty things; she dreamed
dreams and saw visions."
Mrs. Douglas stopped and laughed. "Your father, who admired her very
much, had been telling an old body troubled with sleepless nights how
Mrs. Peat spent her wakeful hours, and she said to me, 'It's an awfu'
job to rowe aboot in this bed a' night; I wisht I had some o' Mrs.
Peat's veesions.'"
"I mind Mistress Peat," said Marget, who had now seated herself; "I
mind her fine. She was a rale fine buddy. Miss Peat was a braw
wumman. D'ye mind her comin' to a pairty we had in a crimson satin
body an' her hair a' crimpit an' pearls aboot as big as bantam's eggs?
Eh, I say!"
"I remember the pearls," said Ann. "I suppose they were paste, but I
thought the Queen of Sheba couldn't have been much more impressive than
Miss Peat. She had a velvet coat trimmed with some sort of feather
trimming, and a muff to match--beautiful soft grey feathers. I used to
lean against her and stroke it and think it was like a dove's breast.
I overheard someone say that it was marvellous to think that the Peats
had no servants and that Miss Peat could clean pots and cook, and then
emerge like Solomon in all his glory. After that, when we sang the
psalm:
'Though ye have lain among the pots
Like doves ye shall appear...'
I thought of Miss Peat in her velvet coat and her soft feathers....
Was she good to you, too, when Mark was so ill?'
"I should think she was--but everyone was good. At the time I took it
all as a matter of course, but afterwards I realised it. For days Mark
lay delirious, and I was distraught with the thought that his brain
might be injured; you see, the wheel passed over the side of his head.
When he became conscious at last, the doctor told me to ask him some
questions. I could think of nothing, and then I remembered that Mark
had had a special fondness for Crichton, our butcher. Trembling, I
asked, 'Darling, what is the butcher called?' and in a flash he
answered 'Mr. Cwichton.' I wept with relief. But it seemed as if the
poor little chap was never to be given a chance to get well. Three
times the wound healed and three times it had to be opened again. No
wonder our thoughts were all for him, and that you were neglected, Ann,
poor child! And you were so good, so little trouble, it almost seemed
as if you understood. Mark had a great big wooden box filled with
every kind of dry sweetie, and he would sit propped up with pillows,
and weigh them, and make them up in little 'pokes.' Sometimes he would
ask for you, and you were brought in, so delighted to play on the bed
and crawl about, but very soon he tired of you (especially if you
touched his sweeties!), and ordered you away. He could not be allowed
to cry, and we had to devise things to keep him amused. Opening lucky
bags was a great diversion. They cost a ha'penny each, and he made
away with dozens in a day. The great difficulty was getting him to
eat. At Etterick he was accustomed to going to the milk-house and
getting new milk from the pail into his 'tinny,' and when he was ill he
wouldn't touch milk, because he said it wasn't 'Etterick milk.' So
your father scoured Kirkcaple until he found a 'tinny,' and a pail as
nearly as possible like the milk-pails at Etterick, and we took them to
the nursery, and said, 'Now, then, Mark, is _this_ real Etterick milk?'
and the poor little man held out his thin hands for the 'tinny' and
drank greedily.... He lay for six months, and when he got up he had to
be taught how to walk! And even after we got him up and out he was the
most pathetic little figure, with a bandaged head far too big for his
shadow of a body. But I was so proud of having got him so far on the
way to recovery that I didn't realise how he looked to outsiders, until
a very cruel thing was said to me the very first time I had him out. A
man we knew slightly stopped to ask for him, and said, 'It seems almost
a pity he pulled through. I'm afraid he will never be anything but an
object.' I don't think he meant to hurt me; perhaps it was just sheer
stupidity, but ... It was a man called Temple who said it. You never
knew him, Ann."
"Temple," said Marget. "Dauvit Temple the manufacturer? Eh, the
impident fella'. Him to ca' onybody, let alone Mr. Mark, an objec'.
Objec' himsel'. It wad hae been tellin' him if he hed fa'en on his
heid an' gien his brains a bit jumble, but I doot if the puir sowl had
ony to jumble; he hed a heid like a hen. He was fit for naething but
ridin' in a high dogcart an' tryin' to forget that his dacent auld
mither bleached her claes on the Panny Braes an' his faither worked in
the pit. But ye needna fash yersel' aboot him and his sayin's noo,
Mem. He's gone to his reward--such as it is."
"Indeed, Marget, it's a poor thing to bear malice, and I believe that
awful accident was the making of Mark. He grew up as strong as a
Shetland pony. He was an extraordinarily clever little boy. We were
told not to try and teach him till he was seven, but he taught himself
to read from the posters. He asked endless questions of everyone he
met, and so acquired information. There was nothing he wasn't
interested in, and every week brought a fresh craze. At one time it
was fowls, and he spent hours with Mrs. Frew, a specialist on the
subject, and came home with coloured pictures of prize cocks which he
insisted on pinning round the nursery walls. For a long time it was
ships, and he and Mr. Peat, who was a retired sea-captain, spent most
of their time at the harbour. Next it was precious stones, and he
accosted every lady (whether known to him or not), and asked her about
the stones she was wearing."
"Yes," said Ann, "he was a wonderful contrast to Robbie and me. We
never asked for information on any subject, for we wanted none. We
were ignorant and unashamed, and we used to look with such bored eyes
at Mark and wonder how he could be bothered. It was really disgusting
for the rest of us to have such a clever eldest brother. He set a
standard which we couldn't hope--indeed, we never thought of trying--to
attain to. What a boy he was for falling on his head! He had been
warned that if he cut open the wound in his head again it would never
heal, so when he fell from a tree, or a cart, or a pony, or whatever he
was on at the moment, we stood afar off and shouted, 'Is it your wound,
Mark?' prepared on hearing it was to run as far as our legs would carry
us. That is a child's great idea when trouble comes--to run away from
it. Once Mark--do you remember?--climbed the white lilac tree in my
garden on a Sunday afternoon and, slipping, fell on a spiked branch and
hung there. Instead of going for help I ran and hid among the
gooseberry bushes, and he wasn't rescued until you came home from
church."
"That was too bad of you," her mother said, "for Mark had always a
great responsibility for you. One day when there was a bad
thunderstorm I found him dragging you by the hand to the nursery--such
a fat, sulky little thing you looked.
"'I'm going to pray for Ann,' he told me. 'She won't pray for
herself.'"