Читать книгу The Rutherfurd Saga - Anna Buchan - Страница 19

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“. . . as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood . . . I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.”

Jane Austen.

Mrs. Jackson was going to her first dinner-party from Rutherfurd. It had lain like a weight on her since ever she had got the invitation. She had gone to bed every night dreading it, and wakened in the morning weighed down by the thought of it. She was almost thankful that the day had come—to-morrow would be free from the oppression.

She had kept her fears to herself until, at tea-time on the fatal day her son had said carelessly, “By the way, aren’t we going out to dinner to-night?” when she could contain herself no longer.

“Oh, Andy,” she wailed, “you can say it like that as if it was nothing, something that had just come into your head, when the thought of it has been like a nether mill-stone round my neck for a week.”

Andrew was helping himself to jam, and he paused with the spoon in his hand and looked at his mother.

“Nonsense, Mother,” he said, “a dinner-party’s nothing to you. You didn’t mind them in Glasgow, you enjoyed them.”

“Ah, but this is a very different thing. The Glasgow ones were all more or less official, I knew what I was there for, and all that was wanted of me, but this——” Mrs. Jackson threw out a despairing hand,—“I suppose this’ll be to meet our county neighbours, and I’m terrified. I know how frozen these kind of people can be, and the way they look at you.”

Andrew laughed. “A few perfectly harmless people hoping for a decent dinner and not too boring company. . . . You know you liked the people who called. Mrs. Douglas——”

“Oh, if it had been Mrs. Douglas’s dinner I’d have gone like a bird, but I’ve never set eyes on these Langlands. I was in Glasgow the day Lady Langlands called and she was away when I returned it.”

“Well, it’s very civil of them to ask us; it’s just a pity Father had to be in London. Don’t, for goodness sake, worry about it, you silly wee body, nobody’s worth worrying about. What good cakes these are.”

“Yes, oh yes. Mrs. Asprey’s a good baker. . . . Andy, what’ll I put on to-night? I’ve three dresses laid out.”

Andrew considered for a moment. “Well, if you really want my opinion I like the black velvet one with the funny train best.”

Mrs. Jackson’s face fell. “I was afraid you’d say black,” she said resignedly. “And I’ve got a new one I’d like fine to wear, a sort of tomato-red, a lovely shade and awfully fashionable this winter.”

Andrew had a vision of his stout mother swathed in tomato-red, the cynosure of all eyes in Lady Langlands’ drawing-room, and he said gently, “You must keep that one to cheer us up at home, but you know I never think you look so well in anything as in black—and black velvet gives your pearls a chance.”

“Well, that’s true, but all the same I would have liked to show these people that I’ve some smart clothes. I don’t know whether they’re dressers in this part of the world or not. . . . Of course, Mrs. Douglas is awfully smart. Her clothes are London, I could see that, but to my mind Glasgow’s every bit as good. . . . Black, you think, and my pearls?—I believe I’ll go and lie down for an hour before I need begin to dress, and then I’ll mebbe not get so flustered and excited. Whatever will I talk about? Is there anything much in the papers, Andy, except murders and politics? Oh, if only it was eleven o’clock to-night what a happy woman I’d be!”

“Not you, you’ll be quite sorry the party is over. When you hate the thought of a thing beforehand you always enjoy it when it comes, and anything short of the tortures of the Inquisition will seem pleasant to you to-night!”

She picked up her work-bag and a book she had been reading and prepared to go upstairs, when a thought struck her.

“But I’ve never even seen Lady Langlands. Mercy, Andy, how’ll I know which is the hostess?”

“I suppose she’ll hold out her hand, won’t she, O Manufacturer of Mountains out of Molehills?”

Mrs. Jackson sighed. “Oh, I daresay . . . I just hope I’ll be given grace to hold my tongue to-night. I always mean to be perfectly calm and dignified, and before I know what I’m doing I’m just yattering away. Uch, Andy, you needn’t laugh. . . .”

Exactly at a quarter to eight Mrs. Jackson and her son were being admitted into the hall of Langlands. Mrs. Jackson’s heart, she would have told you, was in her mouth, but she got a crumb of comfort as soon as the door opened and it was this—the Langlands’ butler could not compare either in looks or deportment with Johnson. She felt oddly uplifted by the fact, and was able to leave her cloak, and follow the butler with something like equanimity, though for days the thought of the moment when she would be ushered into a gathering of strangers had almost made her swoon.

There were only about half-a-dozen people in the room when her name was announced, and she stotted forward on her high heels towards the out-stretched hand of a tall lady in a soft grey gown who was hastening to greet her.

“Mrs. Jackson. I’m so glad to meet you at last. I’ve been so unfortunate missing you twice. . . . My husband——”

The next thing Mrs. Jackson knew was that she was sitting on a comfortable high chair talking to her host, at least, Lord Langlands was talking and she was making little gasps of assent. She looked round her. Lady Langlands was talking to Andy, very thin she was, not young, but striking looking, with a small head like a deer.

“Mrs. Jackson, I don’t think you know Mrs. Kilpatrick.” Her host was speaking, and she found herself shaking hands with a young woman with a bright colour and a fashionable head. Her dress was cut very low and finished prematurely, revealing a pair of stalwart legs and somewhat unfortunate ankles, her lips were painted an unconvincing carmine, her voice was shrill and she spoke with an affected lisp, but she was very pleasant, and assured Mrs. Jackson that she would have been to call on her long ago, but her infants had chicken-pox.

“A troublesome thing,” said Mrs. Jackson in her comfortable voice that made one think of warm nurseries and soft little garments and violet powder. “It’s such a long infection. Three weeks, isn’t it? I mind Andy—my son, you know—had been playing with a wee boy who took it, and we kept him in quarantine, as they call it, for a whole three weeks, and the day he should have gone back to school there were the spots!—real provoking. But it’s an easy trouble once you get it. I hope your children are better?”

“Oh, thanks, I think so. Nurse says they’re perfectly all right. I haven’t seen them myself for about a week. Tim and I have been away and only got back to-night.”

“Is that the way of it?” said Mrs. Jackson, and with that dinner was announced.

“We’re a man short,” Lady Langlands said, “but it doesn’t matter, for we’ll walk in just anyhow. Jean, lead the way. . . .”

It was a round table, and Mrs. Jackson found herself between her host and a small horsey-looking man who, she saw by the name-card, was Major Kilpatrick, the husband of her vivacious young friend. Having cast one glance at him she decided that she could do nothing for him in the way of conversation, so she turned her attention to her host. Her first remark was somewhat unfortunate. Looking round the room she said, “My! this is a fine house for a big family.”

“Yes,” Lord Langlands said, without enthusiasm. The nurseries at Langlands were empty. . . . “How do you like Rutherfurd?”

Mrs. Jackson looked him full in the face, gave one of her beaming smiles, and said, “We like it fine. At first, you know, I wasn’t sure about living in the country, always being used with the town, and not caring much for country sports or gardening or visiting cottages, but we’ve settled down wonderfully. Andy, my son over there, has taken to it like anything and tramps about in knickerbockers quite the country gentleman. Mr. Jackson, of course, has to be a great deal in Glasgow—he’s in London to-night, that’s why he’s not here—but he’s quite pleased with Rutherfurd too. Of course, you know the place?”

Lord Langlands laid down his soup spoon. “Walter Rutherfurd was my greatest friend. We were at school together, and Oxford together, and his boy Archie was my namesake.”

“Is that so? You’ll miss them. Ucha! I’m awfully sorry for poor Lady Jane losing her boys and her husband like that. Indeed, I don’t know how she goes on at all, and yet she’s wonderfully bright, too.”

Lord Langlands murmured something, and his companion continued.

“Have you heard how they’re liking Fife? Fancy having to go to a house in a street—I understand it’s not even a good villa in a garden—after Rutherfurd! Mind you, some people are tried in this world.”

At that moment Lord Langlands’ attention was claimed, and Mrs. Jackson turning her head met the glance of Major Kilpatrick and had, perforce, to make some remark.

She smiled shyly and said, “Isn’t it wonderful weather for the time of year?”

“Oh, not bad, not bad. . . . D’you hunt, Mrs.—eh—Jackson?”

“Me?” Mrs. Jackson began to laugh. Was this jerky little man trying to be funny? “I never was on a horse in my life. You see, I’ve always lived in Glasgow, in Pollokshields. D’you know Pollokshields? It’s an awfully nice suburb.”

“Oh, I’ve been to Glasgow,” said Major Kilpatrick. “At the Motor Show, you know, and catching trains and that sort of thing. Bit grimy, isn’t it? What!”

Mrs. Jackson at once rose in arms. “Not a bit grimier than any other big town. Bless me, its smokiness is just a sign of its prosperity.” She gave a sigh. “It’s a fine place, Glasgow. I’m proud, I can tell you, to belong to it.”

“Quite right. By Jove, yes. Stick up for the place you belong to, that’s what I always say. But this part of the world’s not bad either, you know, and Rutherfurd’s far the nicest place round about. What times I used to have there with Ronnie and Archie. It was dashed hard luck that they had to sell it.” Major Kilpatrick ate a few mouthfuls rapidly, and continued: “Not that it’s not jolly nice having you there, you know, Mrs. Jackson, but the Rutherfurds—well, the Rutherfurds, we all know them, don’t you see?”

“That’s what I said myself,” his companion assured him. “The first time I went to look at the place they were so kind and pleasant to me, and I just said, ‘What a down-come from Lady Jane Rutherfurd to Mrs. Jackson.’ ”

Major Kilpatrick laughed uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t say that. Oh, by Jove, no, I wouldn’t say that. . . . By the way, does your son hunt?”

“He never has, but he’s going to learn. You see, since ever he came home from the War he’s been pretty close kept at it, learning the business, but now that we’ve bought a place, Mr. Jackson wants Andy to be more or less a country gentleman, if you know what I mean? Father’s not what you’d call an old man—sixty-four; that’s nothing, when you see pictures of people quite spry at a hundred—and he’s quite able to look after the business himself—in fact, he prefers it. He has a wonderful business head, Father has, as sharp as a needle. I think, mebbe, Andy’s more like me, inclined to be dreamy-like. And he likes the country; he’s as fond of that old house as if his ancestors had lived in it for hundreds of years.”

“Is he though? By Jove.”

“Yes. I sometimes think it would comfort Lady Jane to know that the one who’ll come after us likes the place so well.”

Major Kilpatrick agreed, and in the pause that followed addressed a remark to the lady on his other side.

Mrs. Jackson sat crumbling her toast and watching her fellow-guests. Andy was talking to Mrs. Douglas and laughing at something she had said. His mother decided that he was much the best looking man at the table. Lord Langlands had a big nose, and stooped, and was rather like some great bird; Major Kilpatrick was an ugly little man with a comical face; Colonel Douglas was red-faced and bald; but Andy looked really well in his white tie and waistcoat, not handsome exactly, but solid and kind and dependable. He glanced her way and she nodded and smiled to show that all was well with her. . . . She liked Lady Langlands, she decided; she had a grave, almost a sad face, and a gentle manner. Mrs. Douglas seemed quite an old friend and Mrs. Jackson felt a proprietary pride in her very smart appearance—how well she put on her clothes. Mrs. Kilpatrick of the carmine lips she mentally shook her head over, and thought what a silly couple she and her husband were. The only other woman present she did not think she liked the look of—Miss Lockhart, she thought her name was. She nibbled a salted almond and considered her. She was well dressed and had beautiful pearls, but Mrs. Jackson did not care for the arrogant look in her face. This lady, she thought, was probably given to keeping people in their places.

“I was saying, Mrs. Jackson”—her host was addressing her—“that there is a great deal to be said for seeing the winter through in Scotland. Only we who have endured hardships can properly appreciate the first snowdrop, and those who have flown to Egypt or the Riviera haven’t the same right to watch the daffodils. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh yes. Yes, indeed,” she said, rather confusedly, turning from watching Miss Lockhart’s attractive though rather wicked mouth as she talked to Colonel Douglas, to the solemn countenance of her host. “I love the spring days after the dark and cold, and the sight of the crocuses always reminds me that the spring-cleaning’s coming on. I wonder if you’ve noticed an advertisement—it’s awful clever—a picture of a great bunch of delphiniums and a bottle of furniture polish? It fair makes you smell a newly-cleaned room.”

Lord Langlands looked slightly surprised. “Eh—quite so,” he said. “Are you going south after Christmas?”

“Oh, mercy, no. We’re just newly settled into Rutherfurd. Such a flitting as we had! I’m sure we’ll not want to stir a foot from home for ages. I’m not fond of continental travel myself. The language, you know, and the queer food. I’m terrified they give me snails. . . .”

When Mrs. Jackson returned to the drawing-room with the other ladies she glanced surreptitiously round for a clock. Dinner had lasted so long, surely it must be after nine, and the car was ordered for ten o’clock. Only another hour to get through!

“Is that chair comfortable? Do let me give you another cushion,” and Lady Langlands tucked in a cushion behind Mrs. Jackson, while Jean Douglas seated herself in a low chair beside her and began to talk.

“I want to tell you how nice you look. There is nothing so becoming as black velvet and pearls. . . . And how’s Rutherfurd? I had a letter from Nicole the other day; she always asks about you.”

“Yon’s a nice girl,” Mrs. Jackson said earnestly. “I wonder—d’you think it would be all right for me to ask her to visit us some time? I wouldn’t dare ask the cousin, but Miss Nicole was so kind and helpful, she made me realise what it must be like to have a daughter. I’d love to have her if she’d come.”

“Then I’d ask her if I were you.” Jean laughed a little. “As you say, Miss Burt is a different matter—though, remember, there’s a lot of good in Barbara, but she lacks something that Nicole has, that touch that makes the whole world kin. We all liked her, but no one exactly loved her, whereas Nicole has had all her life a surfeit of love—if such a thing is possible. It made it hard for poor Babs.”

“Ucha. Well, I thought we might be giving a dance later, and Miss Nicole said she’d help me any time I needed her. But, of course, it might be trying for her coming back, too.”

“Oh, if she refused you would understand why, but—— What did you say, Tilly? No, this isn’t my month to visit the Nursing Home.”

The talk drifted away from Mrs. Jackson into a maze of Christian names, and events of which she knew nothing. They knew each other so well all these people! She felt a little lonely sitting there, wearing a fixed smile, and listening to Tilly Kilpatrick lisping out gossip about meets and dances, and the whereabouts of this one and that, and her thoughts wandered, and presently she nodded. Lady Langlands’ voice saying her name made her sit very straight, and look incredibly wide awake.

“We are hoping, Mrs. Jackson, that you will take Lady Jane’s place in our Nursing Association. Perhaps you will go with me one day and see over our little hospital? It is part of our War Memorial, and we’re very proud of it.”

Mrs. Jackson nodded amiably. “I’m sure I’ll be very glad. I’ll do anything but speak in public—that I can’t do, but I’ll sit on Committees, and subscribe money and all that sort of thing. . . .”

“That’s the kind of member we want,” said Jean Douglas, while Mrs. Kilpatrick said, “Oh, Jean!” and giggled.

* * * * *

Driving home with her son Mrs. Jackson was a happy woman. The ordeal was over, and a wonderful plan was in her head. Nicole would come to Rutherfurd, Andy would love her at sight. Already she heard the sound of wedding bells. To have a daughter to entertain for her . . . to hear Nicole’s laughter in the house—— A rosy and golden haze seemed the future as she peered into it.