CHAPTER VIII
"I don't know," said Mrs. Douglas, "when I first realised what was expected of me as a minister's wife. I suppose I just grew to it. At first I visited the people and tried to take an interest in them, because I felt it to be my duty, and then I found that it had ceased to be merely duty, and that one couldn't live among people and not go shares with them. It was the long anxiety about Mark that really drew us together and made us friends in a way that years of prosperity would never have done. There was hardly a soul in the congregation who didn't try to do us some little kindness in those dark days. Fife people are suspicious of strangers and rather aloof in their manner, but once you are their friend you are a friend for life. Ours was a working-class congregation (with a sprinkling of well-to-do people to help us along)—miners, and workers in the linoleum factories—decent, thrifty folk. Trade was dull all the time we were in Kirkcaple, and wages were low—ridiculously low when you think of the present-day standard, and it was a hard struggle for the mothers with big young families. Of course, food was cheap—half a loaf and a biscuit for twopence—and 'penny haddies,' and eggs at ninepence a dozen—and people hadn't the exalted ideas they have now."
"Well," said Ann, who was busy filling her fountain-pen, "I seem to remember rather luxurious living about the Mid Street, and the Nether Street, and the Watery Wynd. Don't you remember I made friends with some girls playing 'the pal-lals' in the street, and fetched them home with me, and when upbraided for so doing by Ellie Robbie in the nursery, I said, 'But they're gentry; they get kippers to their tea.' My 'bare-footed gentry' became a family jest."
Mrs. Douglas laughed, "I remember. To save your face we let them stay to tea, but you were told 'Never again.'"
"It was a way I had," said Ann. "I was full of hospitable instincts, and liked to invite people; but as I had seldom the moral courage to confess what I had done, the results were disastrous. Once I invited eight genteel young friends who, thinking it was a pukka invitation, arrived washed and brushed and dressed for a party, only to find us tearing about the garden in our old Saturday clothes. Ellie Robbie was justly incensed, as she hadn't even a sugar-biscuit to give an air of festivity to the nursery tea, and you were out. In private she addressed me as 'ye little dirt'; but she didn't give me away in public. And the dreadful thing was that I repudiated my guests, and looked as if I wondered what they were doing there."
"Poor Ellie Robbie!" Mrs. Douglas said. "She was an anxious pilgrim, and you children worried her horribly. She came when she was sixteen to be nursemaid to Mark, and she stayed on till we left Kirkcaple, when she married the joiner. Do you remember her much?"
"I remember one evening in the Den. We were getting fern-roots, and Ellie Robbie and Marget were both with us, and Marget said to Ellie, 'My, how neat your dress kicks out at the back when you walk!' Isn't memory an extraordinary thing? I've forgotten most of the things I ought to have remembered, but I can recall every detail of that scene—the earthy smell of the fern-roots, the trowel sticking out of Mark's pocket, the sunlight falling through the trees, the pleased smirk on Ellie Robbie's face. I suppose I would be about five. At that time I was completely lost about my age. When people asked me how old I was, I kept on saying, 'Five past,' but to myself I said, 'I must be far more, but no one has ever told me.' ... What was Ellie Robbie's real name?"
"Ellen Robinson. Her father's name was Jack, and he was supposed by you children to be the original of the saying, 'Before you can say Jack Robinson.' Marget and Ellie got on very well together, although they were as the poles asunder—Ellie so small and neat and gentle, Marget rather like a benevolent elephant. She is a much better-looking old woman than she was a young one."
"Did Marget come when Maggie Ann married?"
"Yes. No—there was one between—Katie Herd. She stayed a month and was doing very well, but she suddenly announced that she was going home. When we asked her why, she replied with great candour, 'I dinna like it verra weel,' and off she went. Marget was a success from the first. We knew it was all right as soon as she began to talk of 'oor bairns.' When the work was over she liked to go to the nursery, and you children welcomed her with enthusiasm, and at once called on her to say her poem. Then she would stand up and shuffle her feet, and say: