The Ballad and the Source (27 page)

“Yes,
rather!”

“All her own. Most stimulating.
‘
Miss Mackenzie,' she said to me,
‘
those children are the most
undernourished
trio I have ever encountered.' For a moment I was quite taken aback. I have always been most particular—a plain wholesome diet and plenty of it, that was my watchworrd. Second, even
thirrd
helpings never grudged. Penny wise, pound foolish, I would say to Robert when he questioned the grocer's bill, or it might be the dairyman's. I will
not
stint their growing frames. Sugarr, butterr, milk may be up a few pence, but doctorr's bills are a thing unknown. Cherry had her little upsets, but doctorr's bills were a thing unknown. He would bow to my judgment. So between you and me I
was
just a
wee
bit taken aback. Just for the moment. Till I took her meaning.”

“She didn't mean they hadn't enough to eat?”

“Oh, dearr no, that was the last thing she meant. She explained to me that she was speaking in a spiritual sense. It was just her unusual way of putting things—I wasn't quite quick enough. To tell you the truth, I rather fancy my wits have got a wee thought rusty lately. A deal of worry makes a body slow.
‘
Well, Mrs.
Jardine,
that is quite a new point of view,' I said. I am a Believer myself. I have been punctilious about their prayers, and I neglect no opportunity to sow the seed. God is Love, I tell them. And so forth. … They asked me such awkwarrd questions at the time, particularly Maisie. What could I say but that these were things beyond our understanding?
…
that we must trust.
…”

Auntie Mack was getting agitated. She took out a large black-edged handkerchief and blew her nose.

“At
what
time did they ask questions?”

“Oh
…”
she gasped. She flapped a faint protesting hand.

“When their mother went away?”

“Yes, yes, yes. Oh, the things children think of! I was not accustomed to children. Perhaps anotherr would have given a wiser lead. I did my best. They have been unnaturally deprived—no need to tell me that. It stands to reason I could not make up to them.
…”

We walked on. She put away her handkerchief and strode with equine dignity, a wounded figure.

“I'm sure Mrs. Jardine didn't mean to blame you for anything,” I said. “She told me how awfully kind you'd been to them.”

“Oh, good gracious me no, nothing was furrther from her thoughts than blame! She made that pairrfectly clear. We had a nice long cosy chat. It was a morrtal treat to pour out a bit to such a dear understanding pairrson. And so good!—so really good. That is what I would so have wished him to know.”

“Mr. Thomson?”

“Yes. Pooor dearr suffering creaturre.”

“Didn't he think she was good?”

“Oh dearr, dearr, dearr, I don't say he didn't. But—well, he had not seen fit to make the opporrtunities for pairrsonal contact with the matairrnal side. He was a wee thought set in his ideas, you might say: you couldn't shake him. Nobody knows but me what that man had to put up with. And so proud! A sympathetic worrd was what he would
not
stand. It was sealed lips, sealed lips to his last
morrtal
breath.”

“I wonder if Mrs. Jardine quite realises what a lot he had to put up with. Did you tell her?”

“Dear, oh dear!” she gasped again, as if really children nowadays, and how was it I—she—both of us seemed to keep on overstepping the mark and offering one another these fatal opportunities, when set a guard upon thy tongue had always been her watchword, and there were so many sad, difficult things best kept from children?

“Naturally,” she continued in mild reproof, “I did not toss about and make play with the family affairs—his side of them
or
hers. It would have been an impairrtinence in me.” She paused, brooding; then, irresistibly, she was led to add: “But I felt it no less than my duty to say it to her, and I did.
‘
Oh, Mrs. Jarrdine,' I said,
‘
no one knows but myself what that man went through!' In justice to the deparrted, I felt obliged to say it.”

“And what did she say?”

“Oh, she saw the forrce of it.” Auntie Mack waved an evasive hand. “She quite saw it. She did not wish to dwell. Naturally she did not, to a stranger. Not that
I
can consider
her
in that light. I make so bold as to say she has become a
friend.
From the fairrst handshake I felt it: heerre is a friend, I said to myself. Robert is at peace now, we must not repine; but I do grieve, I cannot otherrwise, that it was not granted to him to become acquainted with her—and with the Majorr too. It might have meant the worrld to him. He cut himself off so. Oh, he was a lonely fellow!”

“I
am
glad she wrote to him before he died, aren't you?” I said, much affected.

“Ah, I see you are quite her little confidant,” exclaimed Auntie Mack, rolling a dubious eye at me. “Yes, yes. It was a consolation. Well, poorr fellow, he is in a better place. I for one will not repine.”

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “Maisie'll stop repining soon.”

“Maybe,” she said, vague. “Maybe.”

We emerged from beneath the limes and started across the lawn at an angle again. Jess was still with Malcolm underneath the tree. They were now standing face to face on the swing. Over and over again he crouched low, then drove forward, straightened himself, urging his freight to giddier heights. It looked somehow a joyless, business-like performance. Silently he laboured; and her response seemed utterly silent. I wondered if she felt sick and did not like to tell him so. She would feel that on his last day she must be a sacrifice.

“We will keep our distance from the terrace,” observed Auntie Mack. “I would not wish their colloquy to be disturbed. We are approaching a milestone in Maisie's life. All depends upon the approach. One worrd with your mother over the tea-table, and I knew I could depend on herr for that. She is motherrly tact itself.”

I threw a furtive glance at the french windows, imagining I knew not what portentous confabulation: maternal wings, a couple of pairs of them, spread ominously over Maisie; maternal voices, earnest, benevolent, tolling each its alternate dirge-note in her ears:
This school?
That school?
SOME
school.
WHICH
school?
Inexorable chime and counter-chime.

“D'you know what I think Maisie will do as soon as ever she's grown up?” I said. “She'll go off and look for Ian—for her mother.”

Had I remarked that Maisie planned to go off and run an opium den, the effect upon Auntie Mack could not have been more electrifying. She stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes winced, then focused suddenly, as if shocked back to attention from years of dream and
wanderlust.
For the first time she took me in with a full and dwelling look.

“What makes you think that?” she said, in quite a sharp realistic way.

“Oh, it seems like the sort of thing she would do,” I said, rather unnerved.

“Does she speak to you of her mother?”

“Oh yes. At least she did once. She told me about—you know, about the postcards coming, and then stopping.”

“Ah, she told you that.”

“And a few other things.”

“Pooorr Maisie,” said Auntie Mack softly. “She suffered. Oh dearr, dearr, dearr, how she did carry on! It was the same identical carry-on then. She
would not
have it. Oh, she was for taking the next train to fetch her back and I don't know what. I had to watch herr. At her age!—seven or so. Oh, I did have a time! It seemed wisest not to dwell. Least said soonest mended is what I told myself. She seemed to give up after a while. I would answerr as I judged best—I would never refuse her an answerr—but oh, I was thankful when she stopped! And thankful when those postcarrds stopped. They were nothing but cruelty in the cirrcumstances—yet I asked myself: of two cruelties which is the greater?—withhold? or not withhold?
…
I may have made the wrong decision. I may have. … Then they stopped. Well, maybe they tided them over a wee bit, I thought. Now, Time is the great healer. A child's sorrows are brief. She looked bonny enough with it, and ate well all through. But, as I told Mrs.
Jardine,
Maisie's is not a nature to alterr. Faithful unto death, that's young Maisie, but it has its awkwarrd side. If she's got that fixed in her mind still
…”

Seeing that Auntie Mack was off again, I made bold to say:

“Wouldn't she be able to find her?”

“Better she should not. Better far. Far better.”

I could only have said, “Oh”; and I did not say it. There was that in her voice which brought to mind low hissing conversations through the night nursery door.
“So she said
:
‘
I'd sooner see her dead at my feet, she said he said”;
and similar pregnant passages. Crime and passion were, I knew, in question. I said, after a pause:

“Were you living in the house before—before she went away?”

“Yes,” said Auntie Mack, speaking with simplicity. “I came at Robert's request when Cherry was a wee babe in arms. There weren't many pennies to spare in that household, you know, and my dearr father had just passed on. I had no home ties remaining of my own. Robert offered me a home: on the understanding, of course, that I should take part of the burden of domestic responsibilities off his shoulderrs. Oh, he was bowed down with them!” She broke off, heaved a huge sigh. “Oh dearr, dearr, dearr, they were all at sixes and sevens. He was harrd put to it to know which way to turrn.”

“I suppose she was too?” I suggested. She looked blank; so I added:
“Her
—their mother. Hard put to it.”

“Oh, yes. She would be too. Of courrse.” She was vague. “But there it was. She was not quite able to pull her weight. It all fell on him.”

“Wasn't she very well?”

“Her health was delicate. Cherry was a mistake. Quite a mistake. There was a lot of lying on the sofa, and so forrth. She needed—oh, constant looking afterr.”

“Who looked after her?”

“Her husband,” said Auntie Mack, solemn and emphatic. “He looked after her.”

“He does seem to have had a lot to put up with.”

“A marrtyrr that man was!” The words burst forth. “A positive marrtyrr. I would
beg
him to relax, to … to make otherr arrangements—”
She broke off, catching her breath in a gasp of horror. The eye I could see rolled frantically, accusing herself. “He would not,” she added, reticent.

“I suppose he loved her very much?”

“In all my borrn days,” she declared, emotion claiming her again, “I neverr saw a more beautiful creaturre. Oh, it was nothing but a tragedy! A tragedy, that's what it was.”

“Did she love Malcolm and Maisie very much? And Cherry?”

“Well … She was not the motherr type, if you take my meaning. She loved them, of courrse, afterr her own fashion. It would not be everybody's fashion. They would get on her nairrves, you know, on her bad days. She would get to be—not quite in control of her nairrves. It would be best to keep them away. But in between times—oh, they'd be clustering round her, you know, just as it might be you and yourr sisterrs round yourr own motherr's knee.”

“And my baby brother.”

“Oh, you have a wee brotherr? Fancy! What a joy! What a joyous day
that
was forr yourr parents, I'll be bound! Three little girrls and last the boy. The son and heirr! Just to round off the family. At least—unless—” She caught her breath.

“They wanted me to be a boy,” I said. “And even more when it came to Sylvia.”

“Ah well, they will see it as all for the best now. And his sisterrs will train him up in the way he should go.” A sort of jocose whinny developed in her voice. “Oh, I dare swearr they will! There'll be nothing for the wee man but to walk the straight and narrow path.”

We wheeled round and started back across the lawn in silence. I was occupied in wondering how to re-direct the conversation when she stopped, laid a hand upon her diaphragm and mildly groaned.

“Oh dearr, dearr, dearr, this flatulence! I cannot seem to master it. My stomach is positively taut. It strikes me now it would be the melon at the midday meal.
Always
fatal. I should have refrained. Oh, I do ask myself, how will my digestion stand up to the climate at Bude? All that strong airr off the sea, you know—it is bound to be liverish. We must hope forr the best. Oh, the sea!—it is the love of my life. Picture it! To pairrch upon the cliff top at sunset, and just let the wind stream through my hairr
…”

Rapt, she gazed forward into dreamland, beholding illimitable horizons: a battered figurehead, sand-and-salt-streaked, stained with time and the world's inclement weathers. I gazed at the uncoordinated fantasies of her coiffure and strove to picture it.

“I expect your hair's lovely and long when it's down,” I said.

“Below my knees, dearr. But oh, I am quite out of conceit with it: it has altogetherr lost its sheen. It was my fatherr's pride.
‘
Flora,' he would say to me,
‘
others may beat you to the winning post forr forrm and featurre, but for a woman's crowning glory you can knock spots off them all.' You must excuse me now, dearr. I must positively go in and sip a glass of hot waterr and bicarrb. Why not run and join the others for a jolly swing? Up like a birrd—into the tree-tops!”

“I'll just walk with you as far as the house,” I said politely.