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Updated: June 2, 2025
And this day when Rose Lashcairn cried because the beasts were crying with hunger and there was no food for them, Marcella thought of Jeannie Deans and Coeur de Lion and Sir Galahad. Buckling on her armour in the shape of an old coat made of the family plaid, and a Tam o' Shanter, she went out to do battle for the helpless creatures who were hungry, and stop her mother's tears.
She had to be content, as Wullie had said, to go on to the end knowing nothing, while things trod along her life. "It's a damned sort of death, Marcella, for a Lashcairn. Lying in bed getting stiffer and heavier and in the end drowned. We like to go out fighting, Marcella, killing and being killed.
She turned round, shook herself together and began to march back to the ship, her father's eyes shining through hers for a while. "Marcella Lashcairn," she said solemnly, "you're going to stop asking yourself rude questions for ever and ever, Amen! You haven't time to waste on introspection. You love him. That's a good thing, anyway.
He looked irresistibly as if he had been lay-reading. "I was hoping that I might have had the pleasure of your company during my journeyings to-day, Miss Lashcairn," he began after a little cough. "But I was er afraid to intrude." "I stayed on board with Jimmy," she explained. "Did you have a good time?" "One cannot have a good time in the tomb of past splendours," he said slowly.
There was a long silence. Then, with a suddenness that disconcerted the doctor, she asked him what Wullie had meant by saying that the Lashcairn women took the man they needed, and went on strange roads. He filled and lit his pipe before he answered her. "If I told you you wouldn't understand. You'll come to it in time. When you do, remember what I said to you.
Aunt Janet sat, a dourly silent ghost, while Marcella read to Andrew, listening sickly to the beasts clamouring for their scanty meals. And one night, when he had been out alone along Ben Grief and seen his lands and his old grey house, Lashcairn the Landless, as they called him, went back to his barrel. For three days he lived behind the green baize door.
I am in muddles myself, but I am most sorry for you. And my name is Marcella Lashcairn of Lashnagar." She put it in an envelope, addressed it to him, tapped on his door and pushed it under. She went on deck that afternoon in a state of bubbling excitement. There were not many people about.
He had never held a religion the Lashcairn religion had been a jumble of superstition, ancestor-worship and paganism on which a Puritan woman marrying a Lashcairn in the middle seventeenth century had grafted her dour faith. It had flourished something hard and dictatorial about it found good soil on the Lashcairn stock.
She thought of those stifled cries in the night at the old farm, cries that she had thought meant that ghosts were walking; she heard with terrible distinctness the voice of the Edinburgh specialist as he said, "In my opinion the injury was caused by a blow a blow, Mr. Lashcairn." Then, quite suddenly she laughed. It was quite amusing to think of Louis's making anyone ill by a blow.
Before Rose Lashcairn was ill she had taken great pleasure in dressing her little girl; soft things, woven of silk and wool, came from London for her, soft shoes and stockings and frocks of fine texture and beautiful colour that seemed strange and exotic on Lashnagar. But these were worn out and never replaced except for her mother's funeral she never wore shoes, summer or winter.
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