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‘There’s nothing so queer in this world as folk.’

AN OLD WIFE’S TALE.

Mr. Crawford arrived the next day in time for luncheon.

Easie in the kitchen, resting after her labours in cooking and dishing an excellent meal, asked Miss Wotherspoon if the guest had seemed to enjoy it.

‘ ’Deed did he,’ was the reply she got.

‘Weel, we’re getting on,’ said Easie. ‘The Laird yesterday, and Mr. Crawford the day! It’s hertsome, and Miss Kirsty’s a braw lass.’

Miss Wotherspoon drew down her long upper lip as she laid a dish of custard on the table.

‘Some folks’ minds are aye running on the one subject,’ she observed acidly.

Easie was unabashed.

‘This yin lost his wife no lang syne,’ she said cheerfully.

Miss Wotherspoon sniffed. ‘Ye wadna think it to look at him. He’s as brisk as a bee. Now the Laird might have lost half a dozen by the look of him.’

‘Oh ay, he’s a soor-lookin’ cratur,’ said Easie. ‘But a body canna be aye mournin’. We’ve got to bear our troubles and keep a bright face.’

‘Ay, and it’s weel kent that to some folk losing a husband is no worse than a dinnle on the elbow,’ Miss Wotherspoon observed drily.

Miss Wotherspoon was consistently provocative, but Easie refused to fight. Now she only gave a fat good-natured laugh and said:

‘Weel, c’wa’ and get yer denner. Nellie’s been waitin’ on us for the last ten minutes——’

Miss Fanny was delighted with Mr. Crawford. He was exactly the kind of man she liked. He picked up her ball of wool and sat down beside her, and in a few minutes she was telling him all about Harelaw—the comfort of it, the central heating, the way the windows fitted, the never-failing supply of hot water. Of Janet the cook she told him, and her sudden call; of Mary the housemaid and her neuritis; of the unexpected worldly-mindedness of Agnes the parlour-maid; of the disappointing lapse from sanity of James Smith the groom-gardener. It was long since Miss Fanny had found such a good listener.

‘What a doctor he would have made,’ she thought regretfully, ‘or what a minister!’

There was certainly something very engaging about Alan Crawford. He had such a kind, interested way of talking to every one. He deserved to be popular, for he had the gift of being able to say nice things that were also true; he had the knack of finding some attractive trait in unattractive people and bringing it into notice. And he was exceedingly good to look at.

It was astonishing how quickly he made himself at home at Little Phantasy. He was hardly in the house when he was walking about exclaiming over this treasure and that. He noticed at once all the things Kirsty was most proud of, and complimented her upon her taste. Never was there a more appreciative guest.

In half an hour Kirsty and her aunt felt as if they had known him all their lives. Before luncheon was over he was chaffing Miss Fanny about the number of her shawls, and that timid spinster was bridling like a Victorian maid.

When Miss Fanny settled herself by the fire to rest, Kirsty took her guest to explore the gardens. If he had been delighted with the house, his enthusiasm about the surroundings was ecstasy.

‘Tell me the names of the hills,’ he said, ‘so that I can say them over to myself when I’m at the other end of the world. That noble fellow is Cardon, didn’t you say?’

So Kirsty, nothing loth, named over the heights that guarded Priorsford—Cademuir, Hundleshope, the Black Meldon.

‘And those are our own Muirburn hills—Ratchell, so bare and rubbed-looking, and Treherna leaning against it, and Hill o’ Men, and big, hump-backed, solemn Cardon. There’s a rhyme an old woman said to me about the hills. I wonder if I can remember it? It’s something like this:

“Bonnington lakes and Crookston cakes

Cademuir and the Wrae;

Hungry, hungry Hundleshope,

An’ scawed Bell’s Brae.”

And there’s another about the farms round here:

“Glenkirk an’ Glencotho,

The Mains o’ Kilbucho,

Blendewing an’ the Raw,

Mitchell-hill an’ the Shaw,

There’s a hole abune Thriepland wud haud them a’.” ’

Kirsty said her rhymes with triumph, and Alan Crawford was delighted.

‘Jolly they sound, these place-names. Pictish some of them. They remain while the generations crawl about a little and are gone. I say, this is a jolly stream—what d’you call it? The Hope Water. That’s jolly too. Won’t Specky be out of his mind with delight when he sees it? He’ll want to fish all day, Miss Gilmour. You never saw such a patient little chap. He never gives up, no matter how little success he meets with.’

‘I want to ask,’ said Kirsty, ‘why you call him Specky. Surely that isn’t his christened name?’

‘No.’ Mr. Crawford laughed. ‘His christened name is John Montgomery, but when he was quite small he developed astigmatism in one eye and they made him wear spectacles, and he called himself Specky. He won’t have to wear them when he grows up, that’s one blessing, but they’ve ruined his looks as a child—and he’s a good-looking little chap.’

It appeared that Kirsty need have had no apprehension about Mr. Crawford not allowing his children to come to Little Phantasy. From the first he seemed to take it for granted that the thing was settled.

Kirsty found him quite surprisingly expansive. He told her much about the children, more about himself, and a good deal about his wife, whom he called ‘my poor girl.’ Kirsty was not at all sure that had she died and left a husband she would have liked him to allude to her as ‘my poor girl.’

‘Anyway,’ she thought, ‘it’s better than the fat man I sat next to at meals on the Caledonia, who talked of “my late wife.” But I’m sure the best thing is not to talk at all, just think.’

They decided together where would be the best spot to erect a swing, and what hours the children should spend over lessons, and Kirsty said she was sure Mr. Crawford would like to see the rooms prepared for them.

They went first to the Stable, complete now with two little white beds with gay counterpanes.

‘This is where the boys will sleep,’ Kirsty said. ‘You see they look out on Ratchell Hill.’

‘Bill will want to climb that,’ said Bill’s father. ‘He always wants to see over the other side.’ He walked over to the window and stood for a minute. ‘They’ll fall asleep to the sound of the Hope Water.—I haven’t tried to thank you, Miss Gilmour. There is nothing I can say; your kindness is beyond words. Only—if you knew what it means to me to think of them here....’

‘Dear sir,’ said Kirsty, ‘it is I who ought to say thank you. If you knew what it means to me, the thought of having children in the house! All I ask is that you will spare them to me as long as you can.... Now I’ll show you Barbara’s room. You see they are all quite near each other, and near the governess.... Oh, I do hope they will be happy.’

‘They are lucky little beggars. I shall envy them many a time.... Would it be too much to ask you to write to me sometimes and give me news of them? Miss Carter always sends me bulletins about their health and behaviour, and Barbara writes quite a decent letter, but I would like to hear your account of them. You will? I say, that is good of you. I wonder what you will make of old Bill? Barbara and Specky are naturally quite gentle and amenable to reason, but Bill can be a holy terror when he likes.’

‘Poor Bad Bill,’ said Kirsty.

Two days later Kirsty began a letter to Blanche Cunningham:

‘... I have waited to write till I could collect some news, for I know that you would consider details about my gardening (my daily occupation) merely dull. Now I can tell you about Aunt Fanny, give my first impressions of my landlord, and describe to you the visit of your brother-in-law, Mr. Alan Crawford.

‘First, Aunt Fanny. Blanche, she’s a dear. If I could have had my pick of a world of elderly aunts I am sure I would have chosen her. She might be described as a perfect specimen in the Aunt World. (I am remembering how when we were once buying rugs the man said as he fondly stroked a choice one, “I assure you, madam, in the Rug World we consider this an almost perfect piece.” What a delicious place a Rug World must be, so soft and warm and cosy!) But to continue, Aunt Fanny is the sort of person that makes a room look comfortable. Only a few people have the gift. I don’t in the least know how it is done, but I have known people who could sit in a railway waiting-room or an hotel drawing-room, and by the mere fact of their presence make the place look home-like: haven’t you? It has something to do with being elderly and rather fat and fond of knitting. I thought the drawing-room at Little Phantasy nearly perfect (you know how you laughed at my pride in it!), but you can’t imagine what a difference it is to go into it now and find a pretty, pink-cheeked old lady in a striped grey silk dress and layers of white shawls—if she wears so many in spring, in winter she will be more like some round woolly animal than an aunt—sitting in the big armchair with the “lugs,” a small table beside her with a collection of tortoiseshell spectacles, for she continually loses them, a bottle of smelling-salts in case she feels faint (she is perfectly healthy), and a pile of small religious books which she reads diligently. She also keeps a pile of story-books beside her. She is very particular about her fiction, and in these days it is difficult to supply her with the sort of book she likes. To begin with, it must be “nice,” that is to say, it mustn’t discuss any unsavoury subject; it must of course end well, for Aunt Fanny is easily depressed; but it must also begin well, for she cannot endure those modern books which launch the reader into unknown seas, without chart or compass. She likes the sort of book that begins: “The Surbiton family sat together in the drawing-room of The Laurels one stormy December night. Mrs. Surbiton, a stout, sweet-faced woman of about sixty summers, chatted pleasantly with her husband, a well-preserved man of seventy. Janetta, the eldest daughter, sat at the piano ...” and so on and so on.

‘Then she knows where she is, and can keep a firm grip of the characters until they are all married or dead.

‘She likes me to read the books that she is reading, so that we can compare notes. At present we have left this restless age, and have taken a long step backwards into The Wide Wide World. It was in a box of childish belongings of my own that I have always clung to. I had forgotten how exciting it is. D’you remember when Miss Fortune dyed all Ellen’s white stockings a dirty grey? And oh! the delicious priggishness of Mr. John!

‘I do enjoy these evenings. There is something so restful about the way Aunt Fanny’s conversation flows on, and you would laugh to see us discuss together glasses of hot water and Priorsford sponge-cakes at nine-thirty of the clock!

‘She is funny—Aunt Fanny, I mean. On the principle that what the eyes do not see the heart does not grieve over she refuses to hear of, or think of, or read of anything sad or terrible. A picture of starving children she passes over with, “Yes, dear, but we’ll hope it isn’t true.” And when I tell her something in the papers that has shocked me she says, “Try not to think about it.” It is certainly one way of getting comfortably through the world. I’m afraid I worry her a good deal. It is odd that I, who have always been considered by myself (and by you) the dowdiest and dullest of Victorians, am now regarded as quite dashingly Georgian. She positively shrinks into her shawls at my indelicate remarks.

‘Well, this has been a red-letter week in our lives—our landlord has been to call!

‘He isn’t as old as I thought he was—a little over forty, perhaps, rather handsome in a gaunt way, with fierce blue eyes. He is the very angriest man I ever came across. There is hardly one thing happening on the face of this globe that doesn’t simply infuriate him. I think he is one of those people who care almost too passionately for their country, and who are bound to suffer when they see things ambling placidly to the dogs. He has been a soldier all his life, and has been pretty nearly all over the place, and the British Empire stands to him before everything. For all the world he is like Blackwood’s Magazine walking about on two feet: alas, no, only on one foot; he was terribly wounded in the War. I think most of his friends are gone, and he rather wonders why he remains behind; for him “nothing is left remarkable beneath the visiting moon.” I know you object to me finding people “touching,” but I did feel heart-sorry for Colonel Home.

‘(Talking of my habit of finding pathos in things, I came across a sentence in one of Alice Meynell’s essays which you will enjoy. She objects strongly to some “fugitive writer” saying that he found pathos in Christopher Sly, and finishes “And Lepidus, who loves to wonder, can have no better subject for his admiration than the pathos of the time. It is bred now of your mud by the operation of your sun. ’Tis a strange serpent, and the tears of it are wet.”!!)

‘If you had been here when my landlord called you would have realised the utter absurdity of your prophecy. The idea of this angry soldier falling in love with me is ludicrous in the extreme. He only called because his stern sense of duty sent him, and when he thought he had stayed long enough he went with the alacrity with which one escapes from the dentist’s chair. He scared Aunt Fanny almost into fits; he is what Easie calls “a soor-lookin’ customer,” but he has a sudden and rather delightful smile. So much for Colonel Home....

‘Your brother-in-law has just left us. He wired that he was in Edinburgh and would like to come out, and of course we were delighted to see him.

‘You didn’t prepare us for such good looks. Aunt Fanny, who, like all spinster ladies, loves a man, has been remarking at intervals on the beautiful way his head is set on his shoulders.

‘He is certainly, as you said, very likeable, and so extraordinarily easy to know. We couldn’t have had a more appreciative visitor, and he seemed to like the thought of the children being at Little Phantasy. He is perhaps a little bit too facile, but he won the hearts of Aunt Fanny, Easie Orphoot, Nellie, and even that grim virgin, Miss Wotherspoon, at the first time of asking, so to speak. It is a blessing, for Aunt Fanny and Miss Wotherspoon are none too pleased at the thought of the children coming; but now when the poor things are tiresome and naughty (as they are bound to be sometimes) I hope they will remember what a delightful father they have and forgive them. It is absurd that such a boyish person should be the father of quite big children. He seemed so fond of them, and spoke so feelingly about them, that I couldn’t help wondering how he could go away and leave them for eight months. But men are queer.

‘My dear, everything is ready for the children. The little beds look so expectant, and there is a big box of toys and picture-books for them to dive into if they are inclined to be lonesome at first. They come on Tuesday, by the ten train from Euston. I shall write you after they arrive.

‘I was very glad to get your letter from Port Said, but sorry you found the passengers such a boring lot. Consider, though, that it is hardly the moment for high spirits, the voyage out to India in the hot weather. I daresay by this time you have made many friends.—You will be nearly there by now, and I shall wait anxiously for news of Tim. If you find him better you won’t mind the “abuse” you so confidently expected—as if Tim ever did anything but lie at your feet!

‘Miss Wotherspoon continues to have headaches when anything happens to put her out. Nothing puts out Easie. I find the kitchen has a fatal fascination for me with that woman in it. Her jests sometimes almost border on the Rabelaisian; but with two such ladies in the house as Aunt Fanny and Miss Wotherspoon I feel I can stand a somewhat broad humour. Nellie still pants and puffs like a shunting train over her work. I came in muddy the other day, and she rushed for a brush and volunteered to tidy me up. I felt exactly like a horse as I stood patiently while Nellie “shushed” under her breath as she brushed, directing me at intervals to “Stand still, will ye!”

‘I may as well confess I haven’t begun to live for others yet; indeed there seems little opportunity for such a thing in Muirburn. I’ve made friends with some of the people in the village; they are tolerant of me, but not excessively welcoming.

‘But oh, Blanche, such catkins by the Hope Water, and curly young bracken on the hillsides!—Yours,

Kirsty.’