Читать книгу Pink Sugar - Anna Masterton Buchan - Страница 9

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‘O most gentle pulpiter!’

AS YOU LIKE IT.

The Manse at Netherton was a striking contrast to the Muirburn Manse. The Brands existed in a spate of advanced shabbiness; the M’Candlishes were grand beyond belief, with rich carpets, brocade curtains, heavily carved and most solid furniture; the very window blinds were trimmed about a yard deep with lace.

The father of the Rev. Norman M’Candlish had not been a poor scholar but a rich Dundee manufacturer, who had always felt it to be a marked condescension on the part of his son to choose to be a minister of the Gospel. It was such a poorly paid job with very little to offer an ambitious young man in the way of advancement.

It would be difficult to say what had turned young Norman’s mind to the church, for, though he had what may be described as a gentlemanly approbation of religion, he was hardly conscious of a ‘call.’ But in many ways he made a very successful minister. He had a fine voice, a good presence, an urbane manner, and a reverence for things as they have always been, and Netherton, which owned an absurdly large manse in an absurdly large garden, and needed some one with a large private income, had never regretted its choice.

Mrs. M’Candlish was a genteel little person with short legs, rather a pretty face, and most tidily done hair. Her behaviour was circumspect to a degree. Never was there such a miracle of discretion as the wife of the minister of Netherton. Scandal died in her presence, slain by the prim set of her mouth as she changed the subject. Even mere good-natured neighbourly interest was dismayed by her high ideal of what constituted conversation, and as a consequence she was not very popular at local tea-parties, where she was apt to prove something of a kill-joy.

She always spoke of her husband as ‘Mr. M’Candlish.’

She had a fortune of her own.

On the day in which I write the M’Candlishes walked in their garden in the cool of the evening. Mr. M’Candlish was genuinely fond of growing flowers, and inordinately proud of his rock garden, which he had largely made himself, and which would soon be at its best. Every day in this May month he spent at least an hour brooding like a Providence over each little clinging plant. The herbaceous borders promised well too, the lawns were shorn to a velvet smoothness, and the owner, wearing a light grey suit, and a very white, very high clerical collar, and smoking an excellent cigar, looked (and felt) the picture of a prosperous and contented country minister.

‘Lovely evening, Aggie,’ he said, complacently surveying his domain.

‘Lovely, Norman! as warm as June.’ Mrs. M’Candlish took a large mouthful of each word, putting, as it were, every word into italics.

Her husband removed his cigar from his mouth, looked at it affectionately, and said, ‘The little place looks well, Aggie.’

‘Indeed, yes. I am glad you insisted on getting those large stone vases. I thought them an extravagance at the time, but they really look very well.’ She folded her hands in front of her. ‘In another fortnight we shall be looking our best, and we must be thinking of sending out invitations for the Garden Party.’

The minister nodded. ‘Ah yes, our annual Garden Party.’

Netherton Manse Garden Party was one of the features of the summer season in the district. When you received your invitation you knew that summer had really come, and that the Manse lupins were now at their best.

‘Order a good day, Aggie,’ the minister jocularly suggested, and then looked suddenly grave as if he felt he had not spoken in the best of taste. ‘We have no control over the weather,’ he finished rather obviously.

‘As a rule we are very fortunate,’ his wife said placidly. ‘June is generally a dry month.... I am just wondering, Norman, if we ought not to have it purveyed this year? From Priorsford, or even from Edinburgh. As you know, up till now we have always prepared everything in the house, with a little outside assistance, but since we got the car we have extended our calling-list wonderfully. We owe hospitality to quite a number of people in Priorsford—all motor people—and I’m sure they would appreciate our little party. But if we have it on a larger scale I would not like to attempt the refreshments. We would need to have several kinds of sandwiches and a variety of small cakes, and even ices. And we would need extra waiting, everything a little more elaborate. The question is whether it would not be better to have it all done from Edinburgh.’

‘I’m sure,’ put in her husband, ‘Priorsford cakes are hard to beat.’

‘Oh yes, Priorsford in some ways is just as good as Edinburgh, and certainly less expensive; but we are all so accustomed to Priorsford cakes that it would be more of a treat to get Edinburgh ones. And M’Vitties puts a little flag on each plate of sandwiches, naming each variety, and that is so chic.’

As Mrs. M’Candlish made this long speech she was stepping sedately towards the house by her husband’s side, while he smoked, and nodded, and looked at the flowers. Now she paused, standing on the smooth turf, and looked at the house, trying as it were to see it through the eyes of the guests to be, especially the new friends in Priorsford.

Surely a house to be proud of! The Manse itself had been freshly harled in the early spring, and looked almost painfully clean; every lace-trimmed blind hung with mathematical precision; the sash-curtains (Mrs. M’Candlish had a weakness for sash-curtains) were crisp and fresh; the conservatory, which at their own expense they had built on to the drawing-room, was glowing with colour.

Mrs. M’Candlish nodded her head gently in approbation.

‘A lovely night,’ said Mr. M’Candlish, and threw away the stump of his cigar. The scent of it hung on the still air as the minister and his wife entered the drawing-room by the conservatory.

Mrs. M’Candlish sat down on a small hard chair. All the other chairs and the large chesterfield had fat down cushions which needed to be plumped up every time they were sat upon, and she did not care to disarrange them. Her husband for the same reason sat on the piano stool.

It was rather like a show drawing-room in a furniture shop. One almost expected to see the price-ticket attached to each article. The fireplace glittered with the latest thing in steel fittings. The whitest and furriest of rugs lay here and there on the thick pile carpet. The wall-paper was pale blue, and looked like watered silk. Large majestic vases stood about. One or two books, obviously wedding presents, lay on polished tables. Mrs. M’Candlish did not care for many books lying about—nothing, she thought, gave a room such a littered look; so such volumes as the house contained were confined strictly to the study, where smoking was also allowed. The drawing-room was seldom used, except to impress visitors. At intervals the minister and his wife gave a dinner-party, and then the company sat solemnly sunk in the large chairs, admiring the wonderful polish and perfection of the room.

The study, or, as Mrs. M’Candlish preferred to call it, the library, was not so grand as the rest of the house. It was restfully shabby; indeed, it was almost the only room in the house that had a used look. There were comfortable, worn chairs, and a large, plain writing-table, and books. Not so many books when all was said. Mr. M’Candlish was not a great reader, he had no passion for books, and one book-case held all his belongings. There were many volumes of sermons by popular clergymen, and ‘Aids to Preachers’; several shelves were filled by well-bound editions of standard authors, but the minister evidently distrusted his own taste in modern literature, for whether in biography or poetry or fiction it was but poorly represented.

This evening when Mr. and Mrs. M’Candlish had sat for a few minutes surveying the room that was the crowning glory of their house, Mrs. M’Candlish rose to pick a dead leaf from a plant. Her husband rose too, and presently they found themselves, as if propelled by invisible hands, walking towards the study.

There Mrs. M’Candlish settled herself into her own particular chair, crossed her feet, and said, ‘Well, now, Norman, we must decide who all are to be invited.’

Her husband lit his pipe, and prepared to consider the question.

‘All the usual people, I suppose—the Carruthers, and the Hays, and Mrs. Strang, and the Brands, and....’

‘Yes, of course, dear, but this year we will go further afield. Our friends in Priorsford, the new people at King’s Houses, and, of course, Colonel Home of Phantasy. It’s the first time he has been in residence since we came to Netherton—and Miss Gilmour at Little Phantasy. By the way, she hasn’t returned our call, and I never see her in church——’

There was a pause, and Mrs. M’Candlish was evidently thinking something rather scathing about Miss Gilmour’s manners; but her better nature prevailed, and all she said was, ‘She has lived so much abroad——’

Mr. M’Candlish turned his large, kind, meaningless face on his wife and said, ‘Quite so.’

Mrs. M’Candlish calculated in silence for a few minutes, and then announced, ‘I think, Norman, we must invite at least fifty. There will be tennis and clock-golf for the young people, and the older people enjoy talking and seeing the kitchen-garden. I’ve been wondering—do you think, Norman, it would be wise to engage the Priorsford Band? They might play in the shrubbery (music among the trees would have a nice effect), but I don’t want to do it if you think it would be ostentatious or in any way unbecoming to our position. We must remember that we are clergy people and keep ourselves in check.’

Mr. M’Candlish nodded gravely.

‘It’s quite true, Aggie. Personally, I think a band would be a very cheery addition to the party, but one can’t be too careful. To rouse envy would be a bad thing. When one thinks of the poor fellows who enter the ministry with no private means, and when they get a living have their manses to furnish. What a struggle it must be for them all the time. I don’t know how they manage at all. It makes one almost ashamed to be so comfortable—a car and all——That reminds me, we must send some peaches whenever they are ripe to the Brands.’

Mrs. M’Candlish sighed.

‘I just wish Miss Brand was a more appreciative person. She really has the most ungracious manners—but, poor thing, what can you expect? Always so poor, and her youth gone, and never any decent clothes. I am sure that would sour any woman—the clothes, I mean. Anyway, there will be no peaches ready for quite a time.’ (This last thought appeared to give the good lady satisfaction, as if she thought Miss Brand’s manners might possibly have improved by the time the gift was made.) ‘By the way, Norman, some one told me that the Little Phantasy people are going to Muirburn Church. They have been seen coming out two different Sundays.’

Mr. M’Candlish knocked his pipe against the mantelpiece and got up.

‘It’s a good thing they go to some church, my dear. There is nothing I deplore so much as the lax ways young people are so apt to fall into as regards church attendance.... Well, I’ll just have time to see old Laidlaw before the dressing-bell goes. I hear he is ailing. Au revoir, my dear.’

His wife, left alone, sat still for a little thinking about the garden party that was to be. She wanted it to be a really successful affair, and decided finally that it must be purveyed by M’Vitties’; the little flags on the sandwiches carried the day. And she would ask particularly for some of their delicious little citron cakes. M’Vitties’ strawberry ices were always a treat. She did hope it would be a fine warm day. Would it really be ostentatious to engage the band from Priorsford? Surely not if they played in the shrubbery. Besides, what possible difference could it make to any one whether or not the M’Candlishes (known to be people of means) had a band at their garden party? Besides, the members of the band had been put into new uniform (she had helped at the bazaar that raised money for them), and looked very smart. Of course, if they were to remain in the shrubbery their appearance did not much matter. Still, they would emerge for tea, after the guests had finished and were engaged elsewhere. Anyway, she was determined that all the expenses of the party would be borne by herself. Norman had bought the car—such a handsome one, the very best make—and the chauffeur was a big extra expense, though he did do odd jobs as well as look after the car.... How good Norman was, and how contrary of any one to prefer Mr. Brand—an estimable young man, doubtless, but so abrupt. Uncouth, was that the word? And his sister rather worse. Hardly a word of thanks when they tried to show them kindness, and Lady Carruthers said she found the same thing.

Mrs. M’Candlish looked at her watch—a quarter to seven. There would just be time to finish a story she was reading in The People’s Friend. She took the paper from a satin-lined work-basket (she did not care to leave it lying about in case any one thought the Friend, as she called it familiarly to herself, frivolous reading for a minister’s wife), and in a second she was absorbed.