became a more decent member of human society. With the passage of another year or two he was very comfortably convinced once more of his own dignity and importance: with this difference, that he had ceased to trouble very much whether others believed in them or not.
One house to which he did not carry the dambrod was the Ironsides’. Emmeline could not abide him, in his days of grandiloquence. ‘He’s fair clorted wi’ conceit,’ she said impatiently to Geordie. ‘Ye cud tak a rake an’ rake it aff’n him.’ Emmeline’s own conceit, in those early days of marriage, was at too low an ebb to allow her to enjoy the quality in others: hence perhaps her ineradicable grudge against Stoddart. When he rose out of the nadir of his degradation and Geordie brought him in aboot of an evening, she suffered his presence but gave short shrift to the dambrod. Geordie indeed, in the natural complaisance of his soul, sat to study the play: but it exacted too much of a man wearied out and sodden still with the heavy sense of wet fields and claggy soil. Geordie carried back with him to his own fireside, stored up in his own body − his stiff and aching muscles, his numbed brain, his slow and inattentive nerves − the memory of a thousand generations wearing down the long resistances of the earth. A desperate task, to shake oneself quickly free from memory that had worked itself in. Geordie was not altogether sorry when Emmeline’s tongue banished the dambrod from her kitchen.
‘Sic a cairry-on he hauds wi’ himsel an’ yon boardie,’ she said contemptuously. − ‘Wheesht, wheesht, he’s hearin’ ye,’ from Geordie. − ‘I named nae names,’ said Emmeline. ‘Them that has lang noses can tak tae them.’ Stoddart was touchy. The dambrod was effectively dismissed.
The man, however, kept coming, in spite of abuse. He was stingy with his own fuel and liked Emmeline’s lavishness with hers: especially on a night of driving bitter sleet, like the one in question.
So he slouched in the heat and, diving among recollections that had gone sour, miscalled knowledge.
Martha listening did not divine the man.
Our acquaintances have no past for us until we have a past ourselves.
She was merely irritated at his opposition. Rashly, she had precipitated her fight, and the fortune of war was against her. This henchman of darkness, sunken-eyed, slack-mouthed, betrayed her to the enemy. The wastrel forces of ignorance were in power.
For Martha was set upon a purpose not yet divulged. It was understood that she was to be a teacher, after a two years’ course at a Training Centre; but Martha herself was working secretly for more. She had learned as yet to be passionate on behalf of one thing only − knowledge: but for that she could intrigue like any lover. She had made her own plans for going, not to the Training Centre but to the University. So, quite unnecessarily, she was learning Latin. When her bursary was gained, it was time enough to tell.
And now, fool that she was, she had given her position away.
And to let Stoddart Semple, whom she hated, see her cry! She swallowed hot tears and listened, craning for every word, to her mother and Stoddart, disputatious, grumblers both, using Martha’s preposterous ambition to justify their own particular grievance.
‘Fat ails ye at bein’ a teacher?’ demanded Emmeline.
‘Nothing ails me. − I’m going to be a teacher. But I want to go to the University.’
‘An’ how muckle langer’ll that tak ye?’
‘Two years,’ Martha said.
Emmeline’s exasperation had a deeper basis than Martha understood; than Martha indeed was capable of understanding, for she had never breathed a Leggatt atmosphere nor been nurtured in the pietas of Leggatt respectability: except, and that dubiously, at Crannochie; for Aunt Josephine was not a thoroughbred. Her social status did not exist for Martha. She had never thought about it. But Emmeline had dreamed with undiminished ardour for twenty years of being respectable again. She had consented to let Martha be a teacher for no other end than this. And after twenty years you ask an Emmeline to wait another four instead of two to see her dream fulfilled! How could a Martha, hungry for the tartness and savour of knowledge, be expected to understand? Martha saw only a slovenly and inefficient woman, given to uncertainties of temper and meaningless indulgences, and with a cankering aptitude for objection. She had never even known that her mother was beautiful; nor that men have decreed rights to beauty that reason need not approve. Dumbly, fitfully, Emmeline was aware of a trouble within her consciousness. She had been somehow foiled − blame it on any wind you will, not on Emmeline − of the right of loveliness to queen it over the imaginations of men. Ill-trickit rascal, that godling with the bow, at whose caprice she had given her love, and been thrust away in consequence to the middle of this dull ploughed field! Emmeline hankered still after the respect men pay to beauty, though what she dreamed she wanted was the respect they pay to the respectable. She had built herself a formidable conviction of the automatic increase in reputation that would come to the family when Matty was a finished teacher. Add two years to that! − Two and two in this case made an eternity.
Mother and daughter fronted each other, antagonistic, weighing the years in a balance, but with what differing weights!
Stoddart Semple grumbled on. ‘She wants to mak hersel oot somebody,’ he said. All the rasping irritation of his own discomfiture was in the sneer.
‘Some folks are grand at that,’ said Emmeline sharply. But he took her up, not heeding the home-thrust.
‘Deed they are. You cud dae fine to be somebody yersel, Mrs. Ironside, an’ Matty’s nae far ahin ye.’
‘She wunna be’t, then,’ said Emmeline with tart decisiveness, furious that Stoddart should read her secret desires. ‘My lassie wunna ging like Maggie Findlater, terrible goodwillie to yer face an’ despisin’ the hale rick-matick o’ her fowk ahin their backs.’
‘Maggie!’ said Stoddart. ‘Maggie’s nae that ill.’
‘A muckle easy-osy lump,’ snorted Mrs. Ironside.
‘If she’d keep her mou’ shut an’ her feet in she’d be a’ richt. She taks a gweed grip o’ the grun’ yet an’ a grand mou’fu’ o’ her words for a’ her finery.’
‘Yon’s a terrible pit-on.’ Mrs. Ironside’s voice expressed the loftiest contempt that a woman who has married ill can possibly bestow on one who has married gorgeously. ‘An’ a’ the men maun be like her man to be men ava’. “Do you play golf, Mr. Ironside?” she says, most gracious-like. Imagine asking Geordie wi’ his sharny sheen if he played golf!’
Geordie came to the suface again. He had been out of depth, uneasy at every quirk in the conversation that his slow mind could not follow.
‘I dinna haud wi’ that cleverness masel,’ he had said.
Nobody was listening to him. He tried in vain himself to listen to his own thoughts pounding within him. They said nothing intelligible. Now at the relief of a tried and accepted joke he let himself go, laughing immoderately. His eye on his miry boots flung sidelong in the corner − to focus the idea − he pictured their befouled and clumsy strength companioning the natty smartness of the golfers.
Sane man, seeing always in relation such things as he did see.
Martha meanwhile burned in an agony of impatience. What did they mean, chattering of these indifferent occasions while she waited for her doom? If they would only let her back to work. … Wasted time! She stood and
