Читать книгу The Rutherfurd Saga - Anna Buchan - Страница 22

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“Two lads that thought there was no more behind

But such a day to-morrow as to-day,

And to be boy eternal.”

The Winter’s Tale.

Two days after Christmas, breakfast at the Harbour House was a somewhat prolonged meal, for the post, arriving in the middle, brought a letter which needed immediate discussion.

“Mums,” said Nicole, “here’s a letter from Bice saying that Jane and Barnabas have taken scarlet fever. Happily, Arthur has been in the country with Aunt Constance, so he isn’t in quarantine, and he can’t go home, of course, so this is an S.O.S. from Bice asking if she may send him here for the rest of his holidays. She is very worried, poor dear. See what she says.”

“What a sad thing to happen in the holidays,” Lady Jane lamented, taking the letter, while Barbara, coming back from the sideboard with her tea-cup, stood staring gloomily out of the window. Nicole, who was watching her cousin’s face, said:

“Quite so, Babs. We’re for it, I fear. We’ll have to take the child for at least a fortnight, and cart him back to school at the end of it. . . . Personally, I don’t mind; boys are always a delight to me, only I don’t quite see what the poor little chap will do in Kirkmeikle.”

“How old is he?” Barbara asked moodily. “Twelve, isn’t he? If we had been at Rutherfurd it wouldn’t have mattered. He’d have gone out with the keeper, and there would always have been something to amuse him, but a boy cooped up here. . . .”

“At an age, too, when women are a bore and a nuisance.”

“And,” said Barbara, “we haven’t seen him for ages. He’s probably one of those frightfully superior schoolboys who despise more or less everything. I met one at Langlands once and I never felt so shy in my life. I hardly dared address him, and he only just condescended to answer me. . . .”

“Ah! not Bice’s boy—he wouldn’t be like that. Bice herself is such a simple creature. . . . Well, Mums, what do you think?”

Lady Jane laid down the letter and began to butter a bit of toast. “Of course he must come here, poor boy, but I am so sorry for Bice missing his holidays. When I last heard from her she was planning all sorts of treats for Arthur’s Christmas holidays, and Barnabas, who adores his big brother, was going back with him to school. Now, I suppose, he will be weeks late, and spoil his first term . . . we must wire at once. If they put him in charge of the guard of the night train we can meet him in Edinburgh to-morrow morning. Which of you will go?”

“I’d better,” Nicole said, as her cousin remained silent. Barbara might greet him as Miss Murdstone greeted David Copperfield: “Generally speaking, I don’t like boys: How do you do, boy?” “What shall we do with him, I wonder?”

“Arthur will be quite happy,” Lady Jane said serenely.

“Doubtless, but how do you propose to entertain him?”

“Why, he’ll amuse himself, Nikky. The harbour, and the rocks, and golf . . .”

“Well—I hope so, Mums, but I foresee a strenuous time for us all. You see, he’s pretty old—twelve; almost ready for Eton, and he may have large ideas. Besides, remember he’s coming here, you say, disappointed of all manner of treats in the way of plays and pantomimes and parties. However——”

The next night Arthur Dennis was settled in the Harbour House, and as much at home as if he had been born and bred there. Nicole and he had arrived with the four-thirty train, having spent most of the day at the Castle and the Zoo, and after tea Arthur sat answering gravely all the questions put to him, but otherwise contributing nothing to the conversation, and when Lady Jane suggested that he might like to unpack he rose with alacrity and went out, leaving the door open.

“Well?” said Nicole, looking from her mother to her cousin.

“A dear boy,” said Lady Jane.

“He has Bice’s beautiful eyes,” Barbara said, “and what lashes to waste on a boy!”

Nicole poked the fire. “I like his grave way of speaking,” she said, “and that sweet infrequent smile. He nearly went out of the carriage window trying to find out how the Forth Bridge is made. I’ve promised to take him to see it close at hand. He isn’t superior, Babs, and he tells me he’s ‘frightfully bucked’ to be here. Coming up alone in a sleeper had been a great thrill. I think you were right, Mums; he’ll be quite happy. Though speechless at present, he talked a lot on the way. He tells me his chief horror is what he calls ‘civilisation,’ meaning, I find, char-a-bancs that popularise remote places. He says, personally, he can’t get far enough away from people and shops. His idea of bliss is Loch Bervie—forty miles of rough road between you and a railway station. They spent the summer there last year, you remember? and he got a taste for solitude—— Dear me, to judge from the noise our whole staff is helping him to unpack.”

The next morning Nicole set out with the guest to climb among the rocks and watch the sea-birds, for Arthur, it turned out, was deeply interested in birds.

On their way home they met Simon Beckett striding along as if celebrating some victory over words. They stopped to talk and Arthur was introduced—“Arthur Dennis. Driven from home in the holidays by scarlet fever.”

“Rough luck!” said Simon. “What school are you at? No? That’s my old prep. Is Snooks still there? By Jove . . .”

Nicole stood watching the two eager speakers, well pleased to be forgotten, realising that here was a solution of the entertainment problem. If only Mr. Beckett in his spare time would take some notice of Arthur, what a help it would be!

They strolled home together and Simon was easily persuaded to join them at luncheon. Nicole managed to whisper to Arthur that this was the Everest Beckett, and his eyes were large in adoration. Later, when Simon invited him to go to the golf course with him and have tea at his rooms, he went, almost dazed with happiness.

“And, Arthur,” Nicole said to him, as Simon Beckett was taking leave of her mother, “if there’s another boy to tea, Alastair Symington, be kind to him, won’t you? I know how good you are to Barnabas, and this poor little chap has no father or mother. Of course, he’s much too young for you, only about six, but Mr. Beckett makes quite a companion of him.”

There followed for Arthur a fortnight of complete bliss. There are worse fates than to be an only boy in a household of women, each of them at his beck and call. Mrs. Martin cooked only what she knew he liked, and Christina cared not how muddy his boots were, or how many snowy towels he wiped half-washed hands on. Beenie tidied up after him without a word: a smile of approval from the young sultan was all they asked. Nicole was his very good friend, ready always for fun; Barbara patiently stitched sails for the boats he made; “Cousin Jane” was the one he liked best to sit with him after he was in bed and tell him stories of Rutherfurd, and Ronnie and Archie.

Almost at once Arthur developed a strong affection for young Alastair, “The Sprat” he called him, and was never so happy as when he had him trotting at his heels. At the same time he was a frank and fearless commentator, and did not hide his disapproval of certain traits in the Sprat’s character.

One day Simon Beckett suggested that he would take the two boys to St. Andrews, show them the places of interest, and give them luncheon at an hotel, and asked Barbara and Nicole to be of the party. Barbara happened to be engaged, but Nicole was delighted to accept the invitation.

Simon had meant to go by car, but the boys were both keen on a train journey, so they set off, crowding into a carriage that already contained an elderly stout man and his equally stout wife. Nicole and Simon sat facing each other in the middle and the boys were given the corner seats.

As there were strangers present Arthur never uttered a word, but looked out at the dreary winter fields with an impassive face. Alastair, alas! seemed unaware of how the best people behave when travelling. First he removed his hat, then he drew from his pocket a mouth-organ and, sitting hunched up in his seat, began to play on it earnestly.

Arthur stood it for a minute or two, then he leant forward and said, “Stop that, can’t you!” But Alastair, like the deaf adder, stopped his ears instead and went on playing, his usually pale face quite pink with exertion, his hair standing up in what Gentle Annie called “a cow’s lick.”

“Pan in an overcoat!” whispered Nicole to Simon. “Did you ever see such a freakish little face?”

Again Arthur leant forward and admonished his friend:

“Don’t behave like a beastly tripper.”

Alastair stopped playing, but still holding the mouth-organ to his mouth with both hands, said simply, “I am a tripper,” and started again. With a snort of wrath Arthur turned away and devoted his whole attention to the landscape.

Later, at luncheon in the large and splendid hotel, he resumed the subject. “Sprat, why d’you like playing a mouth-organ when you’re among people you don’t know?” he asked when they were both attacking plates of roast-beef, Alastair very carefully, for he had only lately been promoted from a fork and spoon to a knife and fork. “Why do you?”

Alastair held his knife and fork upright, which he had been told not to do, as he considered the question.

“Because it makes me happy,” he said at last.

“But—don’t you mind people seeing you play the fool?”

Alastair shook his head:

“Then,” said Arthur, “I believe you’re Labour.”

“Yes,” said Alastair.

“What is Labour, Sprat?” Nicole asked him.

“It’s what Annie is. There was an Election in Kirkmeikle once, and I wore a red ribbon to show I was Labour.”

“And I suppose,” Arthur said bitterly, “that you like char-a-bancs full of trippers throwing empty ginger-beer bottles about?”

Alastair lifted his head, his eyes the eyes of one beholding a vision.

“How lovely!” he said.

Nicole and Simon laughed, and Nicole said: “Never mind, Sprat, I like char-a-bancs and trippers and ginger-beer bottles too!”

“I bet Mr. Beckett doesn’t,” Arthur declared.

Alastair looked wistfully at his friend, who said, “Have some ginger-beer now, both of you,” and the boys were nothing loath.

“Now we must explore,” Nicole said, when the excellent meal was over.

“Shall we buy a guide-book?” Simon asked. “Or how shall we manage?”

“Just let’s wander down South Street. I was here once as a child and I remember we went along South Street to the Tower and the dungeons.”

“I want to see the dungeons,” said Arthur, “don’t you, Sprat?”

“Yes,” Alastair said firmly. Then—“What are they?”

“Queen Mary’s house is somewhere here,” Nicole said, as they walked along the old street. “I’ve forgotten my history-books but I remember The Queen’s Quair. It says that in St. Andrews the Queen lodged in a plain house where simplicity was the rule, and that the ladies wore short kirtles, and gossiped with fish-wives on the shore, rode out with hawks over the dunes, and walked the sands of the bay when the tide was down. And Darnley came here, that ‘long lad.’ St. Andrews will always in a way belong to Queen Mary. I wonder if the story will ever lose its magic?”

“Never,” said Simon, “so long as there are men and women to listen.”

Alastair was holding Simon’s hand. “Tell me the story,” he begged.

Simon looked down at the small face. “I’m afraid, my Bat, it wouldn’t interest you. Mary was Queen of Scotland, but she had been brought up in France and had learned to love sunshine, and gaiety, and courtly manners—everything we haven’t much of. Then she came to Scotland and found grey skies, and thought the people rough and unmannerly. And all round her were enemies, and though she had some loyal friends they couldn’t keep her from making nets for her own feet, and the enemies put her in prison and in the end they killed her.”

“What a rotten shame!” said Arthur.

“But why did they kill the Queen if she was good?” Alastair asked. “She was good, wasn’t she?”

“Perhaps not always,” Nicole said, “but she never had a chance.” She turned to Simon. “I’m always being rebuked for my tiresome habit of quoting things so now I hardly dare to, but do you know the lines Marion Angus wrote?” and she repeated—

“Consider the way she had to go,

Think of the hungry snare!

The nets she herself had woven,

Aware or unaware,

Of the dancing feet grown still,

The blinded eyes—

Queens should be cold and wise,

And she loved little things,

Parrots

And red-legged partridges

And the golden fishes of the Duc de Guise

And the pigeon with the blue ruff

She had from Monsieur d’Elbœuf.”

“Poor little soul,” said Simon. “Queens should be cold and wise. Imagine her here in this grey place, surrounded by men who wished her ill, she who loved little things!”

When they reached the ruins of the cathedral, “Who knocked it down?” Alastair asked.

“Perhaps Arthur can tell us,” Nicole suggested, but that worthy shook his head. “Don’t know,” he said, “but anyway it wasn’t me,” a reply which struck Alastair as the height of wit.

“Now, listen,” Nicole said. “John Knox had it destroyed. ‘Pull down the nests,’ he said, ‘and the rooks will fly away.’ ”

“The old blighter,” said Arthur. “What about the poor rooks? They’d have to build other nests.”

“By rooks he meant priests,” Nicole explained, “or anyway, papists. Oh, he was a root-and-branch man this same John Knox. Old Betsy says, ‘Mary was a besom, but auld John Knox was a guid man, and he made a graund job o’ oor Reformation.’ ”

“John Knox is a friend of Aunt Janet’s,” Alastair announced. “We’ve a picture of him in a long white beard. . . . Are these all tombstones, like we have in Kirkmeikle?”

“Yes,” said Nicole, reading one here and there. “I’ve all my countrymen’s passion for a graveyard. I can wander contentedly for hours and read epitaphs. Just look at this one.” She spelt out the name, and made out that the man who lay here had once occupied the Chair of Logic in St. Andrews University. . . . “And his family extends to both sides of the stone. I make fifteen: how many do you make? Ensigns and cornets—most of them seem to have gone to India. Well, I do call that a good day’s work—three wives, fifteen children, and a long useful life teaching logic. . . . And now it’s going to rain so we’d better see the dungeons at once.”

After the dungeons had been gloated over, the rain drove them into a cinema for an hour before tea. It was the first time Alastair had ever been in one, and Arthur instructed him. “They’re not real people, you know, they’re only pictures.”

But even in the cinema Arthur was tried by his friend’s too spontaneous behaviour, for not only did he laugh long and loud at the funny parts, but he insisted on addressing the actors who were “featured” on the screen. “I don’t like the look of you,” he told the villain. Against the driver who did not stop the train as quickly as seemed necessary when the hero and his horse lay helpless on the line his rage knew no bounds. Standing on his feet, with his hands clenched, he muttered against him. Towards the heroine he felt nothing but disgust. When in the “close-up” she was shown with large tears in her eyes, he could hardly bear it, and when the hero clasped her in a close and prolonged embrace, he nudged Arthur crossly to know what they were doing. “Kissing,” hissed Arthur shamefacedly, adding, “The silly asses!”

One wonders what Miss Symington thought of her nephew’s adventures when he related them on his return—a medley of mouth-organs, beer in hotels, bottle-dungeons and John Knox, Queen Mary being killed by wicked people, ladies kissing men, and trains that wouldn’t stop though a poor horse was going to be run over.

Alastair had yet another new experience during these Christmas holidays.

“Nikky,” Arthur said to his cousin one night, “the Sprat’s fearfully keen to go to something called a ‘Swaree.’ He says you get a ‘poke’ and ‘a service of fruit,’ and he wants me to go with him.”

Nicole laughed. “But, Arthur, have you any idea what a church soirée is like? True you get tea and a poke, but after that there are speeches and all sorts of dull things. I know what has fired the Sprat’s imagination—the service of fruit, but I’m afraid he’d find it very disappointing.”

“I don’t think so. Anyway, it’d be fine to come home late. The Sprat’s never been out at night.”

“When is it? To-morrow? Well, I’ll see what Miss Symington says.”

The next morning Nicole went to the Manse to ask for particulars, and found Mrs. Lambert in the study with clean towels over her arm. “I’ve got stuck here,” she explained, “when I should be getting the spare room ready for Mr. Bain of Kirkleven; he’s coming for the Sunday School Social to-night. You see, John has to take the chair, and I’m trying to give him some useful hints.”

“I wish you’d let it alone just now,” said Mr. Lambert. “Dear me, girl, can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Yes, but this is your job just as much as the other—— Please don’t go, Miss Rutherfurd. Take that chair by the fire and help me to convince my husband that a chairman must be both bright and tactful.”

“T-terrible!” said Mr. Lambert.

“Terrible indeed,” agreed Nicole, “but necessary. I’ve taken the chair myself sometimes, and I know how one has to smile and smile and be an idiot——”

“And whatever you do, John,” his wife continued, “be sure and praise Mr. Lawson, or we won’t see the right side of his face for weeks.” She turned to Nicole and explained: “Mr. Lawson is the superintendent of the Sunday School, a decent man, but dreadfully easily slighted. And talk about the teachers, John, and say something encouraging about their work. And when some one is singing, don’t just say coldly, ‘Miss So-and-so will sing,’ as if she had forced her way in; say something about how fortunate we are to have Miss So-and-so with us to-night—you know the sort of thing.”

“Yes, yes, girl, I’ll remember about Lawson and the teachers, only do stop now. . . . Miss Rutherfurd, I wonder who invented Social Meetings; he did an ill turn to ministers.”

“Not to all ministers,” his wife reminded him. “Mr. Bain simply lives for them. He’s the best soirée speaker in these parts, Miss Rutherfurd, and we’re very lucky to get him to-night.”

“Please tell me,” said Nicole, “may any one go to-night?”

“Adults ninepence,” Mr. Lambert responded gloomily.

“Oh! Does that cover a poke and a service of fruit? Because both Alastair and Arthur are keen to taste of those delights, and I’m going now to beg Miss Symington to let Alastair go with us.”

“Do come. It would be so cheering to see you there,” Mrs. Lambert said, but her husband only smiled sardonically.

Miss Symington gave the desired permission. Alastair might go with Arthur and Nicole, and Annie, who would also be at the Social, would take him home. The show began at seven o’clock, so Lady Jane said instead of dinner there would be supper at nine o’clock. Nicole tried to persuade Barbara to join the party but she refused; Simon Beckett, however, accepted an invitation given by Arthur, and the four started in great spirits.

The soirée was held in the church, which seemed odd to Simon’s English eyes, but Nicole told him that in her opinion it could not hurt even a sacred building to see a lot of happy children have tea, even though they did explode their “pokes,” when empty, with a loud bang.

The “poke” in question consisted of a cookie, a scone, a perkin, and an iced cake from which the icing had peeled and distributed itself over the other contents.

In the choir-seat a table was spread with a white cloth covered with more choice viands than were provided for the multitude, and at it sat Mr. Lambert, the superintendent of the Sunday School, and Mr. Bain who had come to speak. Mr. Lambert wore a strained expression.

When Nicole volunteered to help with the tea, Mrs. Lambert, very busy with tea-kettles, pointed her to the choir-seat which was doing duty as a platform. “If you’d take them that tea-pot. There’s cream and sugar on the table; they don’t get ordinary ready-mixed soirée tea.”

Nicole nodded. “I see—‘How beautiful they are, the lordly ones!’ ”

She mounted the platform and was introduced to the two men she did not know, and gave them tea, and received in turn many fair speeches from the jokesome Mr. Bain. Simon, meanwhile, helped Mrs. Lambert with the heavy kettles.

“Boys all right?” Nicole asked as she passed him.

“They seem so, and the way the Bat’s wolfing the contents of that bag is a poor compliment to the tea Miss Jamieson gave him a short time ago.”

“Ah, but think how good, how different things taste when eaten out of a poke, in a hot steamy atmosphere, along with fifty other children. . . . I think everybody’s about finished eating now. I wonder what happens next?”

A hymn was given out, an old-fashioned hymn, which the children knew and sang with gusto, “When Mothers of Salem,” then Mr. Lambert rose to his feet. He smiled nervously and said he was glad to see such a good turn-out of children, and also of parents. Then followed a few sentences in which Nicole recognised an attempt to follow his wife’s advice to try to be bright. It was galvanised mirth and she was thankful when he ceased the effort, and gave a very short, very sincere address to the children. He finished and sat down, and his eyes wandered to where his wife sat. She was obviously dissatisfied. What message was she trying to send him? Ah! the superintendent—the teachers: he got to his feet again: the situation was saved.

A stalwart young woman sang “The Holy City,” then came the feature of the evening. Mr. Bain, advancing to the front of the choir-seat, and rubbing his hands as if in anticipation of his own treat, began. It was soirée-speaking in its finest flower. Everything in heaven and earth seemed to remind the speaker of a funny story and his audience rocked with laughter.

“Look,” whispered Nicole to Simon, “do just look at Arthur and the Bat.”

Arthur was sitting looking absolutely blank, evidently thoroughly bored with Mr. Bain’s efforts. Alastair, on the other hand, seemed to sympathise with the theory that “every chap likes a hand,” for he was applauding vociferously, his face radiant.

“Arthur,” said Simon, “evidently believes with Dr. Johnson that the merriment of parsons is mighty offensive.”

The meeting was over before nine o’clock, so they carried Alastair and Gentle Annie back to the Harbour House for a drink of lemonade, a beveridge which Alastair’s soul loved.

Arthur, who was in great spirits about staying up late and having supper with Simon Beckett, nudged Alastair and asked, “Did you like it, Bat-Sprat? Was it fine?”

And Alastair lifted his face from the lemonade glass and said: “Fine. . . . This lemonade’s so nice and prickly.”

“You get treats here, Arthur,” Barbara said. “A ‘swaree’ is far before a pantomime.”

“Rather like a pantomime, Cousin Barbara. The chap who kept on being funny wouldn’t have made a bad clown. Silly kind of clergyman, though.”

“But tell me,” said Lady Jane, “what is a service of fruit? I’ve been so anxious to know.”

“It was an orange,” Alastair said gravely, producing from his pocket a somewhat shrivelled specimen of that fruit.

“Have mine, Sprat,” said Arthur; “mine’s a goodlier one.”

“An orange!” said Lady Jane. “And I expected at the very least bells and pomegranates!”