Читать книгу The Rutherfurd Saga - Anna Buchan - Страница 21

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“Go humbly; humble are the skies,

And low and large and fierce the Star;

So very near the manger lies

That we may travel far.”

G. K. Chesterton.

When Alastair had almost finished dressing on Christmas morning, Gentle Annie suddenly dumped a parcel on the dressing-table, announcing, “That’s ma present.”

Alastair looked shyly at it, making no effort to discover its contents.

“Open’t. Here! See!” Annie quickly whipped off the paper and disclosed, on a stand, a round glass globe containing a miniature cottage, which, when shaken, became surrounded with whirling snow-flakes.

“It’s a snow-storm,” she declared triumphantly. “It cost one shilling and sixpence.”

“Oh, Annie, how could you afford it?” Alastair asked anxiously.

“Aw, weel, I wanted a strong ane this time. The last I got was a shilling, an’ I brocht it back from Langtoun in aside ma new hat, for I thocht that would be a safe place, but when I won hame I fand it had broken, and a’ the water and white stuff—I think it’s juist bakin’ soda—was ower ma hat.”

Alastair shook the globe and produced a most realistic snow-scene.

“Is the snow really only baking soda?” he asked rather sadly.

“Ay, but it does fine. We’ll pit it on the mantelpiece for an ornamint, an’ juist shake it whiles, an’ then it’ll no get broken in a hurry. . . . By! but ye’re weel off gettin’ a’ thae things in yer stockin’. . . . Dinna brush yer hair till yer jersey’s on. D’ye no see ye pit it a’ wrang again?—Noo, rin awa’ doon to yer breakfast, like a guid laddie, and be sure and say ‘a Merry Christmas’ to yer auntie.”

But Alastair, very pink in the face, was thrusting something into Annie’s hand.

“It’s my present, a purse. I bought it at Jimmie Nisbet’s when I was out with Mr. Beckett. D-d’you like it?”

“By! it’s a braw ane,” said Annie. She saw that it was really a tobacco pouch, but Alastair had bought it for a purse and she wouldn’t enlighten him. “I’ll keep ma chance-money in’t, and aye carry it when I’m dressed.”

Alastair, blushing with pleasure to hear that his present was valued, and carrying the contents of his stocking, ran downstairs. He was well content with the beginning of his day, and ready to enjoy anything that might turn up.

“Good morning, Aunt Janet,” he said; “a Merry Christmas,” his eyes all the time fixed on his place at the breakfast-table. There were parcels there!

“Good morning, Alastair. A Happy Christmas. I hope you’re a grateful boy to-day. Just think of all the poor children who will get no presents. . . . No, sup your porridge, and eat your bread and butter before you touch a parcel.”

Miss Symington had never much to say to her nephew except in the way of reproof, and breakfast was eaten more or less in silence. When they had finished the bell was rung for prayers, and the servants came in and sat on chairs near the door, while their mistress read a chapter and a prayer, and Alastair said the text which Annie had to teach him every morning. At first she had opened the Bible and chosen a verse at random, and Alastair had come down and repeated, “All the Levites in the Holy City were two hundred, fourscore and four,” or something equally relevant, until Miss Symington gave her a text-book which she was working steadily through.

“Your text, Alastair,” his aunt said on this Christmas morning, and Alastair’s flute-like voice repeated gravely, “Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when ye shall say, I have no pleasure in them.”

To Alastair there was no sense in the words, but he liked the sound of them, the rhythm . . . Remember now thy Creator. . . . “May I open my parcels now?”

Miss Symington had not much to open. The postman would bring her some cards and booklets, doubtless. Mrs. Lambert had sent her a tray cloth, her own work, and Mrs. Heggie—with a thought, perhaps, of Alastair—a box of candied fruit. And there was Miss Rutherfurd’s box. It stood on the sideboard, a seductive-looking parcel wrapped in white paper and tied with carnation silk ribbon. What could it be! Surely not chocolates. . . . Slowly she untied the ribbon, undid the paper, took off the lid of the box and lifted out the fragile gilt bowl. She sniffed. Bath salts—geranium. That was the scent Miss Rutherfurd always used. Well, really! Miss Symington sat back in her chair and looked at the frivolous, pretty thing. No one had ever thought of giving her such a present before. A thought came vaguely to her that the gift was like the giver, the glow of it, the brightness, the fragrance.

While Alastair played, absorbed, she gathered up the box with the bowl, and the ribbon, and carried them up to her room.

The window was wide open to the frosty air, the bed stripped, and airing. She looked round for a place to put her present. The dressing-table was covered with the silver brushes and mirror her parents had given her on her twenty-first birthday. There was a large pin-cushion too, and two silver-topped bottles that would not unscrew. It looked crowded, and she remembered Nicole’s dressing-table when she had once been taken into her room to see something, a table, old and beautiful in itself, covered with plate-glass, with nothing on it but a standing mirror and a bowl of flowers. Everything else, Nicole had explained, lived in the drawers of the table: it was tidier so, she thought.

Janet then tried the bowl on the mantelpiece, but decided at once that it couldn’t stand there. It was an ugly painted wood mantelpiece, with a china ornament at each end and a photograph of the Scott Monument in the middle, and the Venetian bowl looked forlornly out of its element, as a nymph might have looked at an Educational Board meeting.

There was a fine old walnut chest of drawers opposite the window. It had a yellowish embroidered cover on it which Janet whisked off, leaving it bare. That was better. The wood was beautiful, and the bowl stood proudly regarding its own reflection in the polished depths.

Janet was surprised at her own feeling of pleasure and satisfaction in her new possession. After all, there was, she thought, something rather nice about having pretty things about one. But, the worst of it was that one pretty thing was apt to make everything else look uglier. That wall-paper! It had been chosen for its lasting qualities, but she acknowledged to herself that it was far from beautiful. Suppose the walls were made cream? It would make a difference . . . Perhaps when spring-cleaning time came round she might have it done, though it did seem ridiculous to fuss about one’s own room. A guest-room was a different matter. . . . She lifted the lid of the bowl and the light sweet scent stole out. What had Alastair said, “Soft and warm and nice-smelling.” She supposed many people considered it worth while to do everything in their power to make themselves and their surroundings attractive, but in this fleeting world was it not a waste of time? So soon we would all be done with it. A few more years shall roll. . . . She wondered if Nicole and her mother, among their pretty things, ever thought of another world, and of the importance of working while it was day. The shadow of the night that was coming had always lain dark across Janet’s day of life.

The sound of voices disturbed her train of thought. Looking out of the window she saw her neighbour, Mr. Beckett, standing on the gravel holding a large box, while his dog, James, leapt on him, and Alastair ran about giving excited yelps. Janet felt almost ashamed of herself for noticing how good the young man was to look at standing there in his light tweed jacket and knickerbockers. He was bare-headed, and the winter sun turned his fair hair to gold.

“Ask your aunt if you may come in with me next door. My room’s the best place to fix it up in,” she heard him say, and went quickly downstairs to the front door.

“It’s a train,” Alastair shouted, roused completely out of his habitual gravity, “a train for me! May I go with Mr. Beckett and see how it works?”

Janet met the eyes of the tall young man, who smiled boyishly as if he were as keen on the game as his small companion, and she found herself telling him, with quite a warm inflection in her usually so colourless voice, how good he was to trouble about her nephew, and she hoped Alastair was as grateful as he ought to be.

Alastair, in no mood to study inflections in his aunt’s voice, tugged at his friend’s arm, saying, “Come on, then, oh, do come on,” but Simon felt compelled to suggest that perhaps Miss Symington would accompany them to see the train work.

Alastair’s face was anxious until he heard his aunt decline, graciously, the invitation. She added that Annie would call for him at eleven o’clock to take him to the Harbour House, and, about twelve, he was going to the Lambert’s.

“My word, Bat, you’re having a day,” Simon told him.

“I’m afraid he will be spoiled among so many kind people,” Janet said primly.

“Come on, oh, do come on,” Alastair insisted, jigging up and down impatiently, feeling that all this talk was quite beside the mark; so Simon, with a smile to Miss Symington, allowed himself to be led away.

* * * * *

Evening had fallen on another Christmas Day. Everywhere tired children were being put to bed, some cross, some dissatisfied, all, more or less, suffering from over-eating. It is doubtful whether the long-looked-for day ever does come up to expectations, but no matter how disillusioned they go to bed, in the morning they are already beginning again to look forward to that bright day which lies at the end of the long year ahead.

The Rutherfurds, having long since put away childish things and having no expectations of extra happiness but rather the reverse, had been surprised to find themselves thoroughly enjoying their first Christmas in Kirkmeikle. Alastair and the postman had taken up the morning, after luncheon they had, all three, walked round the links, and finished up at the Lambert’s garden-enclosed house, which was full of all happy cheerful things, toys and children’s voices, music and firelight. Mr. Lambert had told a wonderful story of pirates in Kirkmeikle, with Alastair as hero, and they had played games and sung carols.

Now dinner was over, and they were sitting round the fire in the long drawing-room, drinking their coffee, Lady Jane in her own low chair, Nicole beside her on a wooden stool with a red damask cushion, Barbara on the sofa, and Simon Beckett comfortable in a capacious arm-chair.

Barbara wore a dress the colour of Parma violets, Nicole was in white, with a spray of scarlet berries tucked into the white fur which trimmed it.

They had been talking animatedly, but now a silence had fallen. So quiet was the room that outside the tide could be heard rippling over the sand. A boy passed whistling some popular song, a gay tune with an undertone of sadness.

After a minute, “Well,” said Lady Jane, “what are we going to do to amuse our guest?”

“Let’s play at something,” Nicole suggested.

“But what?” asked Barbara.

“Oh, anything,” Nicole said lazily. “Just let’s make up a game! Suppose we each tell what strikes us as the funniest thing we know.”

“The best joke, do you mean?” Simon asked.

“The best joke, or story, or episode in a play, or something that happened to yourself. The thing that has remained in your memory as being really funny.”

“Far too difficult,” Barbara declared. “I laugh and forget.”

“And I,” said her aunt, “have such a primitive sense of humour that it’s the most obvious joke that makes me laugh: to see somebody fall over a pail of water convulses me. But I never can remember good stories, can you, Mr. Beckett?”

“I seldom remember them at the right moment,” Simon confessed.

“I’m glad of that,” Barbara said, getting out her work. “I do think those people are a bore who are constantly saying, ‘That reminds me of a story. . . .’ ”

“I think you’re all very stupid,” Nicole said.

“But I do remember one thing, Miss Nicole,” Simon said, “one of A. A. M.’s Punch articles on how to dispose of safety-razor blades. The man had been in the habit of dropping worn-out blades on the floor, and his wife protested that the housemaid cut her fingers and dropped blood on the blue carpet. ‘Then,’ said the husband, ‘we’ll either have to get a red carpet or a blue-blooded housemaid. . . .’ I always think of that when it comes to discarding a razor-blade, and laugh! What is your funniest thing?”

“I was trying to think,” Nicole said, hugging her knees, “but everything has gone out of my mind. There’s one story that always cheers me about Braxfield, the hanging judge; I think it was Braxfield, but it doesn’t matter anyway. He was crossing a burn in spate, and by some mischance his wig fell off. His servant fished it out and handed it to him, but the judge refused it, petulantly remarking that it wasn’t his. ‘A weel,’ said his servant, ‘there’s nae wale o’ wigs in this burn.’ Don’t you think that’s a good story?”

“Very,” said Simon, collecting the coffee cups and putting them on a table. “What does ‘wale’ mean?”

Nicole dropped her head in her hands. “To think that I’ve been trying to tell a Scot’s story to a Sassenach! ‘Wale’ means choice. It’s the cold sense of the answer that makes the story seem so good to me. I thought you looked a little blank. Like the Englishmen dining at some inn and waited on by a new recruit of a waiter. They were waiting for the sweets, when he rushed in and said: ‘The pudden’s scail’t. It was curds, and it played jap ower the dish and syne skited doon the stairs.’ The poor dears realised that they were to get no pudding, but they never fathomed why.”

“I don’t suppose,” Lady Jane said to her guest, “that you understood a word of that? I know it was Greek to me when I came first to Scotland. . . . I wish you’d tell me about your writing. How, exactly, do you proceed?”

“Oh, well,” Simon said, lighting a cigarette, “my job would be the merest child’s play to some people. I haven’t to invent anything, only to put down facts. . . . I thought it would be the easiest thing to write a simple account, but I’m beginning to think that simplicity is the most difficult thing you can try for. You’d laugh at the struggle I have sometimes!”

“But,” said Nicole, “it must be great fun when things do go right. Don’t tell me you haven’t successful moments when you say to yourself, ‘Well, that’s jolly good, anyway.’ ”

Simon shook his head. “Those moments hardly ever occur. Now and again when I get past a nasty snag I seize my hat, and walk five miles over the head of it! No wonder my work doesn’t make rapid progress.”

“How long does it take to write a book?” Barbara asked. “I mean, of course, an ordinary-sized book, not a Decline and Fall.”

Simon laughed. “I daresay an expert could do it in a few weeks, but it’s taken me months to write the first rough draft—doing nothing else either, except golf a bit and motor a bit, and walk a good deal. But what I’m thankful for every day of my life is that my lecturing is over. However I stood up and jabbered to all those people I don’t know.”

“It is dreadful,” said Lady Jane. “Mine have only been small things like opening bazaars and flowershows, but I made myself quite ill dreading the day. But when once I was on my feet and realised that my audience was not made up of ravening wolves waiting to devour me, but of friendly people who wished me well, then I was quite all right.”

“Women are less self-conscious than men,” Simon said. “I felt such a fool!”

“I wish I’d been there to see you,” Nicole told him unfeelingly. “But, you know, one should always make a point of doing things one simply hates doing, it’s such a lovely feeling afterwards. Besides, it’s nice to look back on heart-diseasy moments; long uneventful days are jolly at the time, but it’s the heart-diseasy moments that really count, as you know, much better than I do. What a nice old age you’ll have!”

“I like that from you, Nikky,” her cousin said. “What kind of old age you’ll have I don’t know, for at present you live like an old lady, visiting in the day, and in the evening reading dull books by the fire. . . . Well, aren’t we going to do anything?”

“Won’t you sing, please?” Simon suggested.

“Oh, do, Babs. Sing what you sang this afternoon—‘On Christmas night when it was cold.’ D’you know it, Mr. Beckett? Such an old carol.”

Barbara went to the piano and struck a few chords softly. Lady Jane, as if drawn by the music, moved close to her.

“For his love that bought us all dear,

Listen lordings, that be here

And I will tell you in fere

Whereof came the flower delice . . .

On Christmas night, when it was cold,

Our Lady lay among beasts bold. . . .”

Barbara sang the words as if she loved them.

Nicole, in her white frock and her scarlet berries, sat looking into the fire; her lips were parted and her eyes bright as if she were seeing pictures in the flames, lovely pictures.

Simon sat forward with his hands clasped between his knees watching Nicole’s face as she dreamed——

“Whereof came the flower delice . . .” sang Barbara.