Читать книгу Eliza for Common - Anna Masterton Buchan - Страница 6

Table of Contents

“ ...The scrupulous chronicle of small beer.”

The Northern Muse.

Mrs. Laidlaw awoke the next morning a little depressed, wondering why she had done it, regretting the money spent, doubtful if the friends invited had been worth the trouble, and inclined to be pessimistic about the whole scheme of things. But by breakfast-time she had recovered her spirits.

It was a mild morning, grey, misty, still, the sort of day that makes of a country landscape something dream-like and unsubstantial, but in a town is merely damp and disagreeable. The Laidlaws paid little attention to the weather. If it was sodden and damp outside, the house inside was warm and full of life and high spirits.

There was little trace of last night’s feast in the dining-room. The Sheffield-plate candlesticks stood on the sideboard, still with a wisp of smilax trailing. An unwonted profusion of fruit in green majolica dishes showed something unusual had taken place, and Rob and Geordie were pleasantly conscious of various unfinished sweets—trifle, meringues, creams—which would doubtless appear at dinner. They were very happy, those two boys, for Christmas holidays began that afternoon, so lessons would only be a play; life was rosy; Geordie kicked Rob out of sheer good spirits, and Rob responded with a good-natured growl.

All morning Mrs. Laidlaw, helped by Eliza, tidied the house and put the silver carefully away, and as she tied each article into its own particular bag she talked over every detail of the party, prattling away contentedly, hardly noticing whether or not Eliza listened.

“I thought Mrs. Hartree looked well—how her white hair becomes her! I can’t remember ever thinking her good-looking until quite lately; and surely she’s dressing better? I do like a widow to keep to black—a middle-aged one anyway.... I don’t know why it is, but it’s always interesting to have Mrs. Hartree at the house; she seems to make things more worth while somehow. If you’ve made a special effort to have things nice, you’re quite certain she’ll notice and appreciate it, and sometimes, if somebody says something unconsciously funny and you look towards Mrs. Hartree, there’s always understanding in her eyes.

“And she reads,” said Eliza, rolling the best teapot in flannel before putting it in its bag, “and has her own opinions about things; doesn’t merely say with everybody else as most of us do.”

“It’s less trouble,” said her mother, “and so few things are really worth arguing about. But Mrs. Hartree never gives an opinion unless you ask for it. I do dislike the people who are always saying ‘In my opinion ...’ The other day at that Conference I went to with Mrs. Learmond—something about youth—a mere child beside us got up after a paper had been read and began—‘In my opinion ...’ Mrs. Learmond turned to him and said, ‘Sit down, you’re much too young to have an opinion.’—I was terribly abashed, but the boy remained quite calm. Mrs. Learmond certainly has got the courage of her convictions, but she was very complaisant last night—praised the sandwiches and approved of your dress.”

Mrs. Laidlaw was silent for a minute, evidently following some train of thought, then she began again:

“It’s a pity Meta West has got such a terribly long nose and chin. Her dress was so pretty, but with that sort of face clothes are of no avail. You should be thankful, Eliza, that you have got reasonably neat features, not grotesque in any way. In this world it’s a great blessing to be as much as possible like anyone else, in looks and everything else. A genius must feel terribly alone, and even a beautiful woman can never be quite at ease, either hating to be looked at, or resenting not being looked at.—That doesn’t go in there, child; the wooden box.—I must say I liked your new artist friends. Is Neish the name? I wasn’t sure, so I didn’t call them anything.... They were so easy to talk to, and so amused, when we played that game that needed a bit of string, to find we kept a basket full of bits neatly rolled up.”

“Mrs. Neish’s clothes are quite perfect,” Eliza said, “amusing without being too odd.”

“Yes, and I was surprised to see how well sewn together she was. You remember those other artists you brought to the house—their clothes were just run together, hardly stitched, and their hats had no linings ... but they were agreeable, easy creatures to talk to.... Mrs. Neish quite made the evening. I couldn’t help telling her so, when she went away, and thanking her. She seems to have a liking for you, Eliza. She calls you the Blessed Damozel and says you are still leaning out of heaven. I was thankful Mrs. Learmond didn’t hear her, for what she would have thought I know not.”

Eliza flushed deep. Her mother’s words reminded her of something she would have liked to forget.

As the guests left the night before, Mary Neish had said in her pretty exaggerated way, clasping Eliza’s unresponsive hands as she said it, “It’s been the most lovely party, and Gerald and I have so enjoyed meeting your mother and father—what angels!” And Eliza, feeling as wooden as a Dutch doll, had replied confusedly, “Not at all.”

Could anything have been more feeble? More absurd? And to Mrs. Neish of all people!

Eliza had first met Mrs. Neish at a party, a sort of musical evening mixed with bridge. Eliza did not play cards, and the master of the house, knowing that, had said in the kind jokesome way which the girl so detested, “The others can play bridge, Eliza and I’ll play a wee house.”

Mary Neish, a new-comer to Glasgow and much interested in everything, noticed the girl with the grey-blue eyes and burnished hair who sat with an oddly detached air, like a spectator at a play, and asked her hostess to introduce her. They got on excellently. Mary Neish was skilled in drawing people out, and Eliza had soon told her all there was to tell of herself and her family; short and simple annals.

“And have you any special work?” Mrs. Neish had asked, and Eliza, looking at her with her straight gaze, said:

“I’ve no real work, but I help in the house, and collect for the Central Fund and Zenana Mission and three or four other things, and I’ve a Sunday-school class and....”

“And where does pleasure come in?”

Eliza had not been brought up to expect pleasure; duty was what her mother had preached to her. She looked puzzled, and then smiled rather charmingly:

“Ministers’ daughters have souls above pleasure,” she said.

Before they parted Mrs. Neish had made her promise to come to tea with her in the studio. “But prepare to be disappointed,” she warned her. “It’s not a bit like a studio in a book; we’re terribly respectable, and disgustingly neat and clean.”

Of course Eliza had adored it; of course she had fallen in love with her new friend, and asked nothing better than to be allowed to worship at her shrine. And now, when the goddess had actually come to Blinkbonny, had deigned to be pleased with the entertainment and to express approval of Eliza’s parents, she had found nothing to say except “Not at all.”

Eliza wrapped up silver with misery in her heart. What did it matter though she had looked well and Jimmie had nodded approvingly at her, when she had proved herself so unfitted for society. There were fifty things she might have said—“How kind of you!”—“I’m so glad!”—“It was so good of you to come”—all of these remarks were harmless and fairly suitable; but—“Not at all.”

“It’s a good thing to mix people at a party,” her mother was saying when Eliza roused herself from her own thoughts to listen. “Mrs. Hartree said that to me when she was going away. I think she meant she liked meeting people like the Neishes.... For my own part I’d rather talk to Mrs. Stit than almost anybody. I suppose because we live more or less the same sort of life. Last night I could hardly tear myself away from her to talk to the other guests. She was telling me about some evangelistic meetings they are having in their church, with wonderful results. I wish we could get a little life into Martyrs’, but it never was a very bright church—I think the name’s against it.”

Mrs. Laidlaw knelt before an open tin box, and, looking at her daughter in a puzzled way, said:

“That hymn, you know—

Bright with many an angel

And all the martyr throng—

“I wonder if that’s not a mistake. If I’d been martyred I doubt if I’d be very bright, even in heaven—but that’s not a right way to speak.... And then your father will not advertise himself or make any attempt to bring the church into prominence. Someone said to me only the other day, ‘If Mr. Laidlaw were only more ambitious, with his gifts he might go far.’ But there it is, I talk and I talk, but all to no purpose; he only laughs and quotes things to me. When I married I thought I might see him Moderator, but that hope is long past. Look at Mr. Stit with not half the brains!—Eliza, what had your father on his feet last night? I quite forgot after the people went away to speak about it.... I laid out black socks for him to put on when he changed, but he didn’t use them. It seemed to me when I looked at his feet in the drawing-room that he had socks with a pattern. Where had he got them?”

Eliza, instead of replying, began to laugh, and presently sank helpless to the floor, while her mother, without knowing in the least what she was laughing at, joined in.

After several attempts Eliza explained. “He didn’t notice there were socks laid out for him and went and looked for some, of course in the wrong drawer. Then he tried the boys’ room, and it was a pair of Geordie’s stockings he was wearing. His foot went well up the leg—they must have been far from comfortable—so the turn-down pattern bit showed. I never saw anything so funny. Don’t say anything about it, Mother; he was so proud of himself for having solved the difficulty without troubling anybody.”

“Was there ever such a man?” Mrs. Laidlaw laughed and shook her head. “He isn’t a day older than Geordie.... I could see Mrs. Hartree was rather amused at Jimmie’s Oxford accent. She is inclined to smile at people—but I just said that I was so thankful to have Jim for an example to Rob and Geordie; though when they’ll begin to profit by it I know not.”

Mrs. Laidlaw’s voice trailed away hopelessly, and Eliza said:

“Glasgow people think every accent queer but their own. I don’t believe they even know they have an accent.”

“Oh yes, they do, but they like it. Glasgow people are like that; everything that is theirs is perfect, and they don’t mind if you laugh at them—they’re only sorry for you not knowing any better. Not that I would ever think of laughing at them.... I thought Ewan Cameron looked well last evening. There is something very likeable about Ewan, though he is such a dreamy fellow, and Jimmie says in Oxford great things are expected of him.—Well, that’s the last of them.” She locked the silver chest and stood up to untie the apron that had protected her dress. “It’s a great thing, Eliza, to do what has to be done at once. It was my mother’s way, and there wasn’t a housewife like her in the country-side.... Are you going out now? I’ve written out a list for the grocer....”

To Eliza the other great event of Jim’s first vacation was the dinner-party Mrs. Neish gave. It was Eliza’s first dinner-party, and one minute she was filled with rapture at the thought of being in the same room as her divinity for a whole evening, the next she was cold with fear that she might not be able to control her forks, and fail utterly in conversation. She bore it as long as she could and then told her trouble to Jim, who laughed aloud.

“What does it matter though you do mix your forks?” he asked.

“And I don’t know how to take a man’s arm. Suppose I put out the wrong hand?”

“In that case the best thing you could do would be to dance a step or two of a reel, for you’d never get into the dining-room.—Don’t be an idiot, ‘Liza. Only very formal people now send you into dinner arm-in-arm, you just saunter in any old way. Besides, artists won’t be sticklers; I expect we’ll sit on the floor and gnaw bones.”

Eliza laughed, a good deal cheered, but presently went back to her moan.

“I don’t know what to talk about to the man beside me.”

“When in doubt recite a verse of poetry,” Jim advised flippantly.

The whole family, including Mary-from-Skye, inspected the couple before they set off for the party.

“I wish I had silver slippers,” Eliza said, standing up very straight and tall in her green dress. “These bronze ones aren’t right.”

“Oh surely,” said her father, “bronze and green in the woods——”

“In the woods perhaps,” Eliza said, “but....”

“Besides,” Mrs. Laidlaw pointed out, “silver slippers make the feet look larger, and yours are by no means small.”

“Small!” echoed Rob. “Elijah’s got hoofs like a cart-horse when she kicks you.”

Mr. Laidlaw could not hear his daughter maligned.

“Nonsense, boy, your sister never kicks you.”

“Perhaps not now,” said Rob, “but it’s not long since she stopped. She’s not much of a lady yet, I can tell you, though she is going to a dinner-party. Ho, Elijah!” but Eliza, covering herself up in a tweed coat and snow-boots for the journey across the city in a tram-car, treated his taunts with the disdain they deserved.

“If I’m not taken to a bedroom, however shall I get out of these things?” she said, eyeing the snow-boots with dislike. “Don’t sit up, Mother, Jimmie has the latch-key.”

“We won’t be late,” Jim promised. “I expect we’ll be glad enough to get away.”

But he was wrong, for Mary Neish was a born hostess, and her guests were never in a hurry to depart.

The first of the lions left Eliza’s path when she found herself conducted to a bedroom with a blazing fire, where two cloaks were already spread out on the bed. They were lovely things of velvet and fur, and there were no other snow-boots about.

Eliza wondered what the demure maid thought as she carefully laid aside the old tweed coat, undid the snow-boots, and pointed out powder and hairpins on the dressing-table.

Jim smiled encouragingly as a neat parlour-maid showed them into a room that seemed full of soft lights and laughter, and as Eliza stood for a second taking breath, as it were, before she plunged, the hostess came quickly forward and presently she found herself seated by the fire while a very tall man with a long thin face said things that needed little or no response, about January in Glasgow and the value of a bright fire.

Once able to take in her surroundings she found that the company, besides herself and Jimmy, consisted of the man who was talking to her, two youngish women and another man, eight in all. Not at all a formidable gathering, she thought, noting with relief that the women were not particularly smart, and the men of a comfortable middle age, so she plucked up courage and smiled shyly up at her tall companion, who seemed now to be speaking about his personal appearance.

“I find,” he was saying, “that if I wear an attenuated tie in a sailor knot people invariably tell me how ill I look, but if I wear a bulgy one tied in a bow I am congratulated on my healthy appearance.”

Mary Neish caught the words and turned, laughing, and cried, “I know. Such a small thing makes all the difference. Did I dream it or did someone say dinner was served? Let’s go down and see. Marjorie, lead on; you know the way.”

It was a round table and at first the conversation was general. To Eliza it sounded alarmingly brilliant, and it amazed her that Jimmie seemed absolutely at home in it.

In a pause her neighbour, the thin man, whose name she found was Temple (he seemed to be connected with the University), turned to her and said, “Do you see the winter through in Glasgow, Miss Laidlaw? Endure hardness, if one may so put it?”

“Yes,” said Eliza, wondering innocently what else she could do, “we only go away for July and August.”

“Ah, it’s a pity to go away in July. Then Glasgow is really pleasant: most people out of it and the air so clear with works closed down that you can see the hills. Try going away in January instead.”

Eliza shook her head. “We can’t. You see, the church people are away in July and very much at home in January. My father is a minister.”

“I see—Scots Church?”

“Oh yes,” surprised at the question.

“Then you may claim to be really Glasgow, not just incomers as the rest of us are?”

“I’ve been in Glasgow since I was six, but we belong to the Borders.”

“I wondered. You haven’t a Glasgow voice.”

Eliza looked pleased. “I’ll tell father that the next time he accuses me of having a Glasgow accent.... Do you like living here?”

“I like it exceedingly.” Mr. Temple handed Eliza a dish of salted almonds and took one himself. “But we move to Oxford in the spring. In many ways I regret leaving, and my wife is very down about it.”

“Oh, but to go to Oxford!” Eliza gave a long sigh. “Jimmie’s at Oxford—my brother, you know—at Balliol. Some day I’m going to see him there, but I seem to know it all already—Magdalen Tower and the High, and the Broad, and the river through the green meadows.” She had forgotten to try to talk; her eyes were shining, her face alight with interest. Mr. Temple smiled back, well pleased that the child had forgotten her shyness.

“I’m glad you feel like that about Oxford. There’s no place like it to me—even in winter when it’s a misty, moisty hole, as nobody can deny. Yes, you must see Oxford. In May, please, if possible, when she puts her best foot forward. Do you know England well?”

“I’ve never been out of Scotland.”

“But that’s splendid. What a lot you have before you!”

“Yes,” said Eliza. “Stratford-on-Avon.”

Mr. Temple looked surprised. “Stratford-on-Avon! Why, I wonder?”

“Why? Because it was Shakespeare’s own place. Oh, I know it is modernised and spoiled, but there must be something left.... Anyway, I’ve got to see it....”

After dinner about a dozen people came in to drink coffee, and make good music and talk, but by this time Eliza was so at home in the surroundings that she met them without quailing, and when Mary Neish suggested that she and her brother should do the sketch she had heard them do at Blinkbonny, she rose to her feet obediently, and before she quite knew what she was doing, she and Jim had been arranged at a small table and were acting the comedy of the girl from the country sent in to her first dinner-party with a bored man-about-town.

They did it very well; the audience was enthusiastic, and Eliza for the first time tasted the heady wine of success. All the way home in the tram-car she sat wrapped in a warm and happy dream.... Twice Mrs. Neish had brought people to her who had wished to be introduced. To be introduced to her—Eliza! This was, undoubtedly, living....