When Mr. Philip Scott came to lunch at Dreams he stayed a long time--so
long that Marget remarked to Mysie in the kitchen, "That man is surely
het at hame that he's sittin' here so long clatterin'."
He had had a good lunch, had been shown the house and what would be the
garden, had walked with Ann a little way along the hill road and duly
admired the view, and had then returned to the living-room, where he
sat talking and listening till tea was brought in, stayed for an hour
after tea, and even then had seemed loath to go away.
"Well," said Mrs. Douglas, when the guest had at last departed, "it's a
blessing there is a moon--and that he knows the hill road well. It
will take him all his time to be at Birkshaw in time for dinner."
"You shouldn't have made yourself so agreeable, Mother. He couldn't
bear to leave your interesting conversation."
"As to that," said Mrs. Douglas, "it does one good to see a man
sometimes and hear a man's talk."
"Mother," laughed Ann, "you dearly love a man, and you have all the
Victorian woman's reliance on a man's opinion. You love doing things
for their benefit; you positively _pander_ to them."
Mrs. Douglas refused to be abashed by this accusation.
"Well, why not? I think men are the lords of creation, and I do like
them to have the best of everything. I like the old-fashioned way of
doing everything for one's men-folk--seeing that their bags are
properly packed and their clothes kept in perfect order. I can't bear
the modern way of letting a man look after himself; it is so nice to
feel that one's men are dependent on one for their comfort."
Ann groaned and, sitting down on the rug pulled the Tatler into her lap.
"Cat, d'you hear that? Lords of creation, indeed! Those are your
sentiments, too, aren't they?"
The Tatler blinked sleepily, and stuck his claws into Ann's arm.
Ann pushed him away and got up. "Ah yes, Mother, I know you of old. I
didn't mind running errands for Father when he came in tired, but I did
resent being told: 'Run and pack Mark's bag.' 'Get Robbie a clean
handkerchief----' That was 'fair ridiculous!''
"Yes, but, on the other hand, the boys were always being told, 'Give it
to Ann; she's the girl.' You were utterly spoiled, and there's one
thing, Ann, I must ask you. When I'm asking a blessing for tea, don't
go on filling cups."
"But I don't," Ann said indignantly, "though what you want with a
blessing for tea, I don't know. Nobody I ever heard of has a blessing
for tea except Miss Barbara, and I generally had taken a large bite out
of a scone before she began, and it lay on my plate and looked at me
reproachfully. Poor Mr. Scott spoke right through your blessing
to-day; he didn't know what you were doing."
Mrs. Douglas sighed deeply. "Ah, well, Ann, I don't suppose I'll be
with you very long to worry you with my old-fashioned ways."
"Oh, Mother, that's not fair. You're hitting below the belt."
"But you may be away first," continued Mrs. Douglas, "and then I shall
be left to regret."
"Well, then," said Ann flippantly, "we'll arrange that neither of us
will regret anything. You and Mr. Scott made great friends, Mother.
He has very nice manners, hasn't he?"
Mrs. Douglas laid down _Hours of Silence_, which she had taken up to
begin her evening's reading, and removed the large spectacles which
made her look like a little owl.
"I liked him, Ann. There is something very likeable about him. He
reminded me just a little of Robbie."
"I wondered if that would strike you," Ann said. "It isn't that there
is any resemblance, but he has some of Robbie's ways.... He was
tremendously interested about your _Life_, Mother, so I gave him what I
had written to look over. Oh, you needn't feel hurt about it. It's
only that he may give me some advice. He writes himself, you know. As
you say, it is nice to talk to a man again--one's own kind of man. Mr.
Sharp is a dear, but it isn't much fun making conversation with him."
There was silence in the room as Mrs. Douglas began to read her evening
portion out of each of her many volumes, and Ann sat watching the
flames leap, and thinking, thinking.
"Mother," she said suddenly, "you said a little while ago that I was
spoiled as a child, but I wasn't. Dear me, I was a regular burden
bearer, and Mark christened me 'The Patient Cuddy'! You see, I was
hampered with always having a small brother to lug about; I could never
harden my heart enough to leave them at home. An only girl in a family
of brothers has really a harassed existence. It would have been
different if Rosamund had lived. She was too tiny to come into our
games, though she meant a great deal to us--much more than we realised."
Mrs. Douglas laid down her book. "She loved being allowed to play with
you," she said, "and you were good about making games that she could
join in. But, somehow, she was more a companion to her father and me
than your playfellow. For one thing, she shared your father's love of
gardening. The rest of you helped sometimes in the garden, but you
always let it be seen that it was a penance. You hardly knew one
flower from another, and you sped like arrows from a bow whenever you
were released. But Rosamund trotted about happily for hours, utterly
contented to be with her father and the flowers. We used often to say
to each other, your father and I, how different she was to you and the
boys. You were healthy, ordinary children who never thought of saying
pretty things to your parents or anyone else. You found the world so
full of a number of things that your days were passed in a sort of
breathless investigation. Rosamund was a revelation to us. She was
rather dignified and aloof with strangers, but for her own people her
heart was a treasure-house of love. I never knew of so young a child
having such strong yet discerning affections. She wasn't in the least
priggish; indeed, she could be naughty in a peculiarly impish way, and
you children were always teaching her rude expressions, which she used
to Marget, who adored her, but all Marget said was, 'D'ye think I'm
gaun to quarrel wi' you, impident little thing that ye are?' She and
Marget were great friends, and there was nothing she liked better than
to help Marget work, and bake little dough rabbits with currants for
eyes. The big black cat--christened by Mark, 'William Tweezer, Earl of
Scullery'--superintended operations, and Marget would say to him when
he got in the way, 'Awa' oot and play yersel', Weellum, like a man.'
We had a game that the fairy Whuppetie Stourie hid in the nursery
chimney and when little girls were good laid a present on the
hearth-rug. I didn't realise it was all real to her until Jeanie Tod
set the chimney on fire, and Rosamund, with a white face, sobbed,
'Jeanie, you forget I've a friend up there.' I can hear her voice now."
"How you remember, Mother. I wish I could! I can see her still, but I
can't hear her voice. You see, I was only about thirteen when she
died, and children forget so soon. I can remember looking down into
her face and thinking that her eyes were like violets; and I remember a
little white dress trimmed with 'flowering,' and a blue cloak with a
hood. I remember at breakfast-time she used to walk round the table
and ask for tops of eggs. She only got a whole egg on Sundays, and she
never forgot to pray, 'Bless my whole egg next Sabbath day.' She was a
very happy child. I think she enjoyed the little short time she had in
the world, but she was very shy and timid, wasn't she? You remember,
when Mrs. Lang asked her to a tea-party alone, it quite preyed on her
mind? The day of the party she summoned up courage to ring the Langs'
bell, but when the servant came she had no words. Three times she rang
the bell without being able to give a message, and the third time Mrs.
Lang came herself and said, 'Now, Rosamund, you are a naughty child,
and you must not ring the bell again until it is time for the party.'
Poor little Rosamund crept away without ever being able to explain that
all she wanted to ask was that I might go with her! Rather unlike
Robbie, when Mark and I were invited to a party, and he called at the
house to ask if there had been any mistake that he hadn't been invited."
"Dear Robbie," said Mrs. Douglas, then fell silent. In a little she
spoke again:
"Christmas to me, even now, always seems Rosamund's time. It is odd to
think that she was only with us for five short years, and she has been
away more than twenty, and yet the thought of her is always with me.
She lives to me so vividly that it seems only yesterday that it all
happened. As Christmas drew near, you were all excited, but Rosamund
seemed utterly possessed with the spirit of the season. She wanted to
give presents to every one she knew, and couldn't understand why any
limit should be put to the size of our Christmas party. She loved
dolls--unlike you, Ann, who never knew how to hold a doll!--and I
dressed her two great big ones for her fourth Christmas, a wax one
called Muriel, and Black Sam. Old Mrs. Hamilton in the church made her
a wonderful rag-doll, as big as a baby, with arms and legs complete,
only the face had a gruesome lack of profile. I dressed up like Father
Christmas and brought all the presents into the room in a big basket,
and made speeches as I gave them out, and Rosamund was speechless with
delight. She could hardly tell me about it when I came into the room a
few minutes later, and her great regret was that I had happened to be
out of the room; she thought it was such bad luck for me. When she was
dying she said, 'When Father Christmas comes this year, tell him you
have no Rosamund, and ask him to give my presents to Ann.'"
Ann moved quickly in her chair, and busied herself for a little in
putting some papers in order. Then she burst out, "Why did she die,
Mother? What made her ill?"
Mrs. Douglas shook her head. "Ah, my dear! We have these treasures in
earthen vessels. I suppose the time had come for us to give her back.
It began so simply. She was a very healthy child and rarely ailed
anything, but one day she got her feet wet playing in the snow, and
that brought on a slight chill. It seemed to be nothing, and passed,
but after that we noticed her droop a little. I didn't get the doctor
at once, for I had so often got him on false pretences, and I knew he
thought me an absurdly anxious mother, and when he came I was quite
apologetic, expecting to be told I had been fussing again. But he
didn't make light of it. He said it was slight gastric fever, and she
must go to bed. That was in February. She seemed to get over it
quickly, and was soon up and playing as busily as ever, but we noticed
that she got tired. We had never heard the child own to being tired
before, and it chilled our hearts to see her go and sit down quietly in
her little chair. Then we found that her temperature had begun to rise
in the afternoon. In the morning it was subnormal, but as the day
advanced it crept up. We got one specialist after another, but no one
seemed able to stop the horrible creeping fever. It was a very hard
winter; the snow lay on the ground well into March, and I used to sit
with Rosamund on my knee at the window while you children built
snow-men to amuse her. There were some little wild kittens that had
been turned out of their home in a stable, and Rosamund worried about
them, so you built a little house for them of orange boxes in the
shrubbery and made it very cosy with a bit of old carpet. She could
watch them creep in and get warm. On your walks you always went to the
streets so that you might glue your faces to shop windows and decide
what your scraped-together pennies would buy for Rosamund."
"I know," said Ann. "One day, to my joy, I found in a small grocer's
shop tiny pots of jam and marmalade that cost one penny each, and
Rosamund loved them for her dolls' tea-parties. If we could find
anything to interest or amuse her, we were so proud. At first she was
able to have us play quietly with her, then she began not to be able to
walk about, and Mark carried her round the garden to look at the
snowdrops and crocuses. We never owned to ourselves or each other that
she wouldn't recover. We said, 'Rosamund will be all right when the
spring comes,' but the spring came---- Mother, it must have been
terrible for you to see the spring flowers come and your little
Rose-of-the-world fade."
Mrs. Douglas covered her eyes for a minute with a hand that shook, but
when she spoke her voice was steady.
"It was the most beautiful spring and summer that I think I ever
remember, and we all went away to Etterick in April. It seemed that
the sun and the fresh winds and the quiet of the hills must heal, and
at first she did seem to improve. But it was only for a little. The
dreaded fever returned, and every Monday, when your father came back
from preaching in Glasgow, he knew her to be losing. She liked being
out all the time, and our days were spent by the burnside or on the
hills. We had an old pony and a low basket carriage which she found
comfortable, and we sometimes drove by the banks of the Tweed until we
came to some place which she liked specially, when we would lift her
out into a nest of cushions and she could sit and listen to the voice
of the Tweed as it slipped past. And we had lunch with us, and the
boys fished, and you read aloud fairy-tales, and we were almost happy
in spite of the cloud that covered us.... She had her 'well days' and
her 'ill days,' but she never complained; indeed, I think her patience
was almost the hardest thing to bear. One day she said to me, 'I'm
talking to Whuppetie, Mother. I talk to God when I'm ill and to
Whuppetie when I'm well.' The year before, her great joy had been to
go to the water meadow, where the banks of the ditch were blue with
forget-me-nots. I had always avoided the place in her illness, and she
had never asked to be taken; but one day, when we were driving past, we
heard the little Crichton girls say to their mother, 'Come after us
when you're ready, Mummy; we're going down to the water meadow to get
forget-me-nots.' Rosamund turned and looked at me, and there was such
utter sadness in her eyes that my heart seemed as if it must break....
One very lovely day in June we had been out till quite late, for she
wanted to see the sunset. It was so wonderful in its rose and gold and
amethyst that Rosamund, looking with wistful eyes into the glory, said
that she thought she could see the twelve gates, every gate a pearl.
The beauty seemed to comfort her, but she said to me: 'Mother, if you
could only go with me! If there are twelve gates, how shall I know
which one to watch for you at?' ... Mark carried her up to bed that
night, and you all sat about on the floor for a little, talking and
laughing, and she smiled at you happily while she sipped her milk. It
was a very hot night, and a corn-crake was calling in a hayfield near
the window. Rosamund slept a little, and woke about three. I sponged
her face and hands to cool her, and put lavender water on her pillows;
the windows were wide open, but she seemed to be breathless. Her
father heard us moving, and came in from the dressing-room, and
Rosamund held out her hands to him. The dawn was beginning to break,
and he said, 'The night has passed, darling; it is morning.' She
nodded. 'There's that corn-crake corn-craking yet,' she said, and then
she gave a little cry. I caught her in my arms, and her head fell on
my breast like a dead bird's...."