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 standing1 in the middle of the room with her hands folded on her black satin apron2; 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 intervals3. 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 bigoted4 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 eyebrows5, 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 fumble6 about and produce something for me while I waited stolidly7, 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 spoke8 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 frantically9 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 raving10, 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 serene11 looking that no one could have believed that she had kept a weary vigil. She was a born nurse, and she possessed12 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 bonnet13. I think I hear her saying, 'Eh, my dear,' with a sort of slow emphasis on the 'my.' She never made mischief14 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 sleepless15 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 buddy16. Miss Peat was a braw wumman. D'ye mind her comin' to a pairty we had in a crimson17 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 velvet18 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 psalm19:
'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 delirious20, 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 propped21 up with pillows, and weigh them, and make them up in little 'pokes22.' 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 scoured23 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 jumble24, 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 auld25 mither bleached26 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 malice27, and I believe that awful accident was the making of Mark. He grew up as strong as a Shetland pony28. He was an extraordinarily29 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 fowls30, 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 retired31 sea-captain, spent most of their time at the harbour. Next it was precious stones, and he accosted32 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 eldest33 brother. He set a standard which we couldn't hope—indeed, we never thought of trying—to attain34 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 spiked35 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.'"
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1
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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4
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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6
fumble
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| vi.笨拙地用手摸、弄、接等，摸索 | |
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7
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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8
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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9
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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10
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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11
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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12
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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13
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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14
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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15
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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16
buddy
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| n.（美口）密友，伙伴 | |
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17
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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18
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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19
psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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20
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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21
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pokes
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| v.伸出( poke的第三人称单数 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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23
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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24
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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25
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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26
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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27
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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28
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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29
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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30
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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31
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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32
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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33
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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34
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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35
spiked
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| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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