had all begun in a single spot, knowing nothing, with all to find and dare.
‘This place as well as another, ‘she thought; and then she said,’ But I am part of it too.’
She perceived that the folk who had made history were not necessarily aware of the making, might indeed be quite ignorant of it: folk to whom a little valley and a broken hilltop spelt infinity and who from that width and reasonableness of life had somehow been involved in the monstrous and sublime unreason of purposes beyond their own intention. The walls that shut people from people and generation from generation collapsed about her ears; and all that had ever been done on the earth − all she had read and heard and seen − swung together to a knot of life so blinding that involuntarily she closed her eyes and covered them with her hands. She could not keep still for the excitement and almost ran in her haste to the wood, forgot the supper-hour, and walked hither and thither at random; but noting that north of west the skies were flecked with saffron, and that a June sunset is late, she turned home to resume her part in the making of history.
Geordie was leaning against the door and seemed glad to see his daughter.
‘Yer mither’s feelin’ drumlie kind,’ he told her. ‘She’s had a dwam.’
Martha recalled her thoughts from the All and considered this ingredient in it. Emmeline was not wont to be ill.
They went indoors together.
Emmeline, flushed and querulous, manifested a valiant disinclination for bed. They got her there at last, and at intervals throughout the night she proclaimed stoutly that she was a better Leggatt than the best and ‘that sair made wi’ thirst that she could drink the sea and sook the banks’.
‘She’s raivelled kind,’ said Geordie.
In the morning it was plain that Martha must turn sick-nurse. It was hardly the contribution to history that she desired to make. Her examinations were coming on and Emmeline ill was a handful. She broke every regulation the doctor laid down. Fevered, she hoisted her bulk from the bed and ran with her naked feet upon the floor to alter the angle of the window screens.
‘Sic a sicht ye hae them,’ she grumbled to Martha when the girl expostulated with tears. ‘If ye wunna pit things as I tell ye, fat can I dae bit rise masel’?’
‘Temperature up again,’ said the doctor to Martha. ‘I hoped you would have managed to keep it down.’
‘Fat’n a way could she keep it doon?’ cried Emmeline. ‘Wad ye expect her to haud ma big tae to keep doon ma temperature?’
She was indignant now on Martha’s behalf as she had been against her earlier. Indignation was a fine ploy when one lay idle and condemned. Emmeline was in high good-humour with herself. It was long since she had felt so important as she did lying mountainous beneath the bed-clothes, deriding her medical adviser’s opinions and diagnosing her every symptom for herself with the aid of nothing more artificial than mother-wit; while round her in the heated kitchen the fervours of life went on − the steam of pots, the smell of food, the clatter of dishes, the hubbub of tongues, the intimacies of a sick-room toilet. Martha made a clearance of such articles as she could do without and Emmeline enjoyed a fresh attack of indignation. Demanding news of the whereabouts of something she had missed,
‘There’s a’thing ahin that door but dulse, ‘she cried, being told.’ Easy to tidy up when ye jist bang a’thing in ahin a door. But wow to the day o’ revelations.’
‘But where am I to put things?’ Martha asked. There’s just nowhere. There’s nowhere in this house to put things. You shouldn’t have so many of us − it’s not as if they were ourselves.’ And forgetting under the pressure of life the way of life she had purposed − her jubilant acceptance of every roughness − she allowed a secret desire to break cover.
‘You should put these boys away now, mother. Why should we keep them when we haven’t room for ourselves?’
Emmeline lay astounded. To be sure they had not room. And to be sure the boys were not her own, and stripped her stores like locusts, and brought no counter benefit in cash. The meagre sum she received for Jim and Madge was still forthcoming, but for Willie there had been more promises than pence. But put them away!
Alter an arrangement that had hardened to the solidity of a law! It was, and therefore it was right. − A belief that Emmeline was not singular in holding.
Martha did not push her argument. She dropped it, indeed, hastily, as though she had touched live coal. But the presence of the boys, their claims upon space and time, burned acidly in her consciousness. Jim she could endure, big hulking loon though he was, with Madge’s own stolidity and a genius for unnecessary noise; but Willie, the younger boy, she was coming to dislike very fervently. He was dirty in habit and in attitude of mind. He sniggered. He used accomplishments hard-won at school for nefarious purposes, writing up obscene words on gates and outhouse doors: a procedure quite unredeemed in Martha’s eyes by a certain merry insolence of bearing, not unattractive in itself. Her father’s crassness, Martha could recognise from contact with Willie, was wholesome.
It looked like a month before Emmeline had recovered sufficiently to allow her to resume her classes. Actually the time had been so short that Luke and Dussie had not discovered her absence. But they had so many preoccupations! Luke was writing detective stories. He wrote for dear life, as though he had never had a hobby before and could not conceivably have another.
Dussie collaborated, criticising with a contemptuous common-sense the more outrageous effronteries of his plots.
They had had one accepted.
‘Stout old yarn,’ − Luke was telling Martha all about it, about its cruise among the editors, its ultimate haven − ‘We’ll go down to posterity yet: Sherlock and Missus.’
They were dreadfully − and quite sincerely − sorry to hear that Emmeline had been ill, and eagerly gave Martha the magazine to read that contained their detective story.
Dussie Enters on an Affair of Moment
Dussie had all this while been engaged on an affair of moment: to find someone for Martha to fall in love with. Happy herself, she longed to make her friend as happy, and knew only one way for doing it. But the men to whom she was introduced made little of Martha. She did not repulse them; but she seemed not to know that they were there.
‘I can’t get her to see,’ Dussie said.
‘Why should she see?’ Luke asked. − ‘No, she’s not too innocent. She’s not innocent at all. She’s integral. Herself. And a singularly rare self. It would be criminal to alter it.’
Philosopher though he fancied himself, he had fallen into the plain man’s error over Martha. He had made up his mind about her and was satisfied with that. She was the spirit made visible in flesh; tangible thought. He forgot that she was alive.
‘No man in his senses would want Marty changed,’ he said.
‘A woman in her senses would,’ retorted Dussie.
But Dussie did not get far that summer in the management of Martha’s
