Читать книгу The Day of Small Things - Anna Masterton Buchan - Страница 3

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‘Every neighbourhood should

have a Great Lady.’

JANE AUSTEN.

Mrs. Heggie had a cold which, she felt, might easily go into bronchitis if she were not careful, and the day was wet, one of those dripping October days when it is really too close for a fire, but miserably cheerless without one, a day when polished furniture looks smeared, and everything feels sticky to the touch.

Mrs. Heggie stood in the window of the drawing-room in Knebworth, Kirkmeikle, and looked out at fallen leaves on which the steady rain pattered, at the red tiles of the houses clinging to the brae face beneath her, at the grey sea with the grey sky resting on it.

Surely, she thought, it was a very long afternoon; only half-past three now, and it seemed half a day since luncheon.

A pile of books lay on a table and she took up one which had an attractive paper cover, but after reading half a dozen pages without getting an inkling what the story was about she gave it up in despair, and wondering ruefully why every one nowadays was so clever, she lifted a newly launched illustrated magazine for women. After looking through the recipes, she began a story with a promising title, but before she could get interested in it she had lost it, and it was too much trouble to track the rest of it to its hiding-place among advertisements of tinned fruits, the latest electric cleaners, and cures for all ills that flesh is heir to—Epilepsy and its Treatment; My Life was made a Burden with Superfluous Hair; Healthy Legs for All.

Answers to correspondents on the subject of health next caught her eye, and she read several. Some were interesting: the delicate child with the cough (how stupid not to advise the mother to give it cod-liver oil, not emulsion but the old-fashioned pure oil!): the lady of thirty-two whose circulation was so bad that her fingers went dead; and the husband afflicted with nightmares. Odd to write to a paper about one’s ailments! ... This woman sounded rather like herself: inclined to be stout; sixty years of age; acidity; throbbing in the head.... What did they say to the poor body? Advised to seek at once the advice of a qualified medical man.

Mrs. Heggie moved uneasily in her chair. She was not sure that she felt quite well. Certainly she did have some odd sensations at times, especially if she had eaten unwisely. Pork, for instance.... Of course, a little indigestion was nothing: but was it indigestion? ‘A qualified medical man.’ In her case that was Dr. Kilgour. She wished he was not so terribly bracing. He would come in like a blast of east wind, and before she knew where she was, blow her off to a Nursing Home for an operation.

Well——. Mrs. Heggie braced herself up. It was best to face the worst. Almost every one sooner or later had an operation. And wasn’t there a Nursing Home just started in Langtoun? Somebody had spoken of it—yes, Mrs. Stark. She had said in her definite way, ‘My dear, I enjoyed my illness. I simply wouldn’t have dared to be ill in my own house—I can see the faces of my domestics!—but in this Home I was made to feel important; a victor. It’s a doctor’s widow that runs it—a Mrs. Pirrie, and she is both kind and capable; superintends everything herself. The cooking and service leave nothing to be desired. A perfect bed, good home-made food, a fresh rose on your breakfast-tray—what more could you ask? Oh, I assure you, I stayed on much longer than was necessary simply because I was happy.’

It had certainly sounded attractive as described by Mrs. Stark. Convalescence in the Langtoun Home (supposing you were spared to convalescence) might be rather pleasant. Friends coming in with flowers and gossip, nurses always about, nice chats with the doctor’s widow. Certainly much more lively than sitting alone in Knebworth with a cold! ... If only some one would come to call, but she could think of no one who was likely to pay her a visit. Joan was locked into her room writing poetry. Not that Joan was much use as a conversationalist; she scorned to talk of people, and her mother cared to talk of nothing else. It was unfortunate, Mrs. Heggie couldn’t help thinking, that Joan was so circumscribed. It was possible, surely, to care for poetry and art and yet enjoy a comfortable gossip. There was Nicole Rutherfurd. She was cultured enough, and yet who was more delightful to tell things to? Her air of breathless interest was most inspiring, and then she was so willing to laugh! Mrs. Heggie smiled to herself remembering that laugh, and thought what a blessing it was that the Rutherfurds would soon be back at the Harbour House. That very morning, in Mitchell the baker’s, she had seen Agnes Martin, the Rutherfurds’ cook, who had said they were expected directly....

Another hour till tea! If only some one would come in, even a collector would be better than nothing.

She went again to the window. The rain still slanted down; a long spray of creeper had been dislodged and hung down in a disreputable way; the chrysanthemums that yesterday had stood up so gallantly were battered and spoiled; the leaves were all over the lawn and——What was that stopping at the gate? The baker’s cart most likely, or a van from Langtoun. Peering through the rain-dimmed pane, Mrs. Heggie was surprised and excited to see that it was a car, out of which was stepping a lady in a blue leather coat. A visitor!

Mrs. Heggie moved as swiftly as her bulk would allow, to the bell.

‘Bella,’ she said breathlessly when the parlour-maid appeared, ‘a motor has stopped. Bring tea in about a quarter of an hour and see that everything is very nice. Hot toast and the best silver.... There’s the bell.’

All expectation, Mrs. Heggie seated herself in a high chair, and presently ‘Mrs. Jameson’ was announced, and following her name came a woman of about five-and-thirty, with alert grey eyes under a becoming blue hat.

‘Oh,’ said her hostess, ‘Mrs. Jameson! And on such a day!’

As an oasis to a traveller in the desert so was this visitor to Mrs. Heggie. A newcomer to the district, the purchaser of Windywalls—here was new country to explore! She beamed and repeated, ‘On such a day!’ as she drew forward a chair.

But the visitor would not be pitied.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘it looks worse than it is, and it’s the best sort of day to find people in. I was sorry to miss you when you called at Windywalls.’

‘Not at all,’ said Mrs. Heggie, wondering how long Mrs. Jameson had been a widow. With her gay colours and cheerful voice she was strikingly unlike anything of the kind. Widows as she knew them were subdued things, black or grey or purple; by their demeanour reminding the world of what they had lost. She herself had never got beyond a little grey or white in her hat, although her James had been gone fully ten years. ... Still, this was a comparatively young woman, times were changing, and it did not do to be narrow-minded.... ‘And how do you think you’re going to like this part of the world? Perhaps you have some connection with it?’

Mrs. Jameson, smiling pleasantly, shook her head.

‘No. I heard by chance of Windywalls, and when I saw it I liked it, and here I am.’

There were a hundred questions on the tip of Mrs. Heggie’s tongue. It was almost more than she could do to bite them back and merely remark, ‘Indeed! Perhaps you play golf?’

‘I play, but I’m not much good. No, I didn’t come for the sake of golf. I came because I like the country, and quiet, and a garden, and a sight of the sea.’

‘Oh,’ said Mrs. Heggie, and added brightly, ‘and pleasant neighbours. With me it’s always more the people than the place.’

The visitor nodded. ‘Neighbours certainly count,’ she admitted, ‘tell me about the people here. I know no one, for I always seem to be out of reach when callers come, and yours is the first call I’ve returned. I’d be grateful if you’d put me wise about the neighbourhood?’

Mrs. Heggie sat forward in her chair, her broad face beaming, all gloomy fears were banished; here was a task that her soul loved.

‘Tell you about the people? Certainly I will, but—I hardly know where to begin.’

‘Mayn’t we begin where we are? What a pretty house this is! Do you live alone?’

‘With my daughter Joan.’ She looked deprecatingly at her visitor as she continued: ‘It seems absurd with me for a mother, but Joan writes poetry. Yes, she’s had one little volume published, and people who know say it’s good, but I’m no judge. The only one I could understand Joan said was poor. Her father, too, was so unlike anything of the kind. He liked what you might call the practical side of life, and I doubt if he knew a line of poetry, but you never really know what a family’s going to take to. There’s my son George out in China—— But I mustn’t wander away. We were to talk of our neighbours.... Haven’t you met any one? Not even the minister?’

‘Not even the minister. Ought I to have made a point of seeing him first? ... I dare say I might have seen callers if I hadn’t been so keen to get things on in the garden before the winter’s upon us. I’m afraid I didn’t encourage the servants to come and look for me.’

Mrs. Jameson leant back in her chair and smiled at her hostess, who opened surprised blue eyes as she asked, ‘But didn’t you want to see callers? I’d have thought you would have been so interested.... Have your nearest neighbours called, the Erskines of Queensbarns? They have? They’ve made a fine place of Queensbarns, and of course they’ve heaps of money to keep it up. There are two girls, and they entertain a lot and go to London and the Riviera and all that. I remember the Erskines as quite plain people in Langtoun—I forget whether it was linoleum or jute—but they not only know how to make money but how to spend it, and nobody worries that Mr. Erskine’s father began at the foot of the ladder—why should they? ... Then the Fentons, Sir Robert and Lady Fenton.... They have called too? They are one of the real old families, there have always been Fentons at Balgowrie. The present people are very pleasant, I believe; quite young and given over to pleasure. If they’re not in London dancing at night-clubs, they’re at Le Touquet or the Lido or one of those places. I constantly see their names in the papers, and pictures of them in The Tatler.... Eh well, they’re young and idle, and Lady Fenton is pretty in the new way.’

Esmé Jameson raised enquiring eyebrows, and Mrs. Heggie explained.

‘No hair to speak of, and long thin legs, and an unlikely complexion—you know. I suppose it’s the way I was brought up, but it fairly frightens me to see people given over entirely to frivolity, never giving a thought to their latter end. Joan says I’m so middle-class. I am, of course. It says in the Bible, Not many great, not many noble, so it looks as if Heaven was to be more or less middle-class, and that’s a little disappointing too.—Oh, here comes tea! Nearer the window, I think, Bella, away from the fire.... We need all the light we can get this dark day, and the fire is almost oppressive, don’t you think so, Mrs. Jameson? ... Now, are you quite comfortable there? I’m so glad to have a visitor; it’s more than I expected—neither sugar nor cream?—for the Bucklers next door are in Edinburgh, and the people in Ravenscraig have influenza in the house, and the Lamberts—the minister’s people—have chicken-pox, and the Harbour House is still shut up, and ...’

Mrs. Jameson held out a protesting hand. ‘Oh, but you’re going much too fast. Do, please, stop and explain as you go along who is who.’

Mrs. Heggie laughed comfortably. ‘To be sure they’re only names to you. Well—now, do help yourself—the Bucklers live in the next house, Lucknow. There are three houses you would notice, on the hill, Lucknow, Knebworth, and Ravenscraig. Mr. Buckler is a retired Indian Civilian, and very nice neighbours they are. They had some money left them not long ago, and are very comfortable. A son and daughter just grown up. They go to Switzerland for winter sports.’

‘That sounds very pleasant.’

‘Quite. On the other side is Ravenscraig. It belongs to a Miss Symington—now Mrs. Samuel Innes. That was a very odd thing.’

Mrs. Heggie stopped and looked thoughtfully into the fire, and Esmé Jameson studying the tightly corseted figure sitting on the edge of a high chair, wondered at the impression of steepness that she gave.

‘Yes, if any one appeared to be intended by Providence for a spinster it was she. An angular eight-and-forty with long skirts, and buttoning boots, without conversation, and as dull as ditch-water, that was Miss Symington.’

‘Sounds pretty hopeless.’

‘Hopeless! If you had seen her—. Till one day she suddenly appeared a changed woman. The stretched-back hair loosened and waved, the ugly clothes replaced by soft pretty things; and not only herself but the whole house transformed. For all the world it was like nothing so much as the fairy-tale where the godmother turns the pumpkin into a coach and the kitchen-maid into a princess!’

‘Dear me,’ said Mrs. Jameson, ‘and who waved the wand?’

Her hostess nodded her head mysteriously.

‘Miss Nicole,’ she said. ‘But of course you don’t know who she is either. It’s a long story,’ she added happily.

‘Tell me.’

And Mrs. Heggie told.

‘Three years ago at this very time we heard that the Harbour House had been taken. You’ve been down to the Harbour? Then you would notice a house standing broadside on?’

‘Oh,’ Esmé Jameson laid down her cup. ‘That house, with the pointed roof and the crow-step gables and the nine windows looking on to the sea? A lamb of a house. I wondered who was lucky enough to live there.’

‘That’s it. Not exactly a house for ordinary people. Most of us would object to being so near the sea, and the fishy smell, and living cheek-by-jowl with the poor folk—villas suit us better. But the Harbour House has always belonged to gentlefolk. Mrs. Swinton, who used to live in it, was connected with all the old Fife families. I didn’t know her. She didn’t call when he built Knebworth and came to live in Kirkmeikle, indeed she called on no one in the place, she was a lonely, proud old woman, and there were few to mourn her when she died.... When I heard the house had been taken by Lady Jane Rutherfurd I expected it would be the same thing, only more so, but we were neighbours in a way, so I risked a snub and called. I got no one in, and I thought probably a card would be left in return and that would be all I would ever know about the Harbour House, but a few days later I was sitting here alone, Joan was out somewhere, and who should arrive but Lady Jane Rutherfurd and her daughter Nicole.’

There was an impressive pause, and Mrs. Jameson felt she was sipping her tea in a sacramental way, then Mrs. Heggie continued: ‘Before that Kirkmeikle had been the dullest little place. I really sometimes wondered if I could stand it: just Miss Symington and the Bucklers, the Lamberts, and Dr. Kilgour and his sister, none of them what you might call given to hospitality. I used sometimes to say to Joan we could hardly have chosen a less sociable place to settle in. She didn’t care; a fountain-pen and an armful of books satisfy her, but I do like a little society.’

‘But round about Kirkmeikle there are people,’ Mrs. Jameson reminded her.

‘Yes, oh yes, but it wouldn’t occur to them to call on us. Not that we’re not perfectly respectable people. My father was a doctor, and my husband was a linen manufacturer who left me very comfortably provided for, but then, you see, I’m middle-class inside me, and that seems to be about the worst thing you can be in these days. Joan flings the word at me when I venture remarks about her friends’ new ways, or the books she reads. I think Joan is what you call Bohemian, or at least would like to be, and my middle-classness stands in the way.’

Mrs. Heggie stopped to sigh, and Esmé Jameson had a vision of a gathering of Bright Young People with, in their midst, sitting steeply, the large figure of her hostess, white frilling framing her rosy face, her child-like blue eyes looking out on life surprised and puzzled.

‘It’s like this,’ Mrs. Heggie went on, ‘if you’re to stand out in a district and make people aware of you, it’s not enough to be comfortably off and willing to entertain. You’ve either got to be spectacularly rich, or else out-of-the-way clever and amusing. People like the Fentons, for instance, have no use for me. I can imagine them saying, “Mrs. Heggie, who is she? Lives in a villa in Kirkmeikle? Oh”—and that’s enough of me.... Oh, you needn’t think I mind. I quite understand their attitude, but it made it all the more wonderful when Lady Jane came and made a friend of me. Yes, that’s what she did, and not only of me but of almost every one in the place. She drew us all together, she and Miss Nicole, and ...’

‘But, but ...’ Mrs. Jameson was obviously puzzled. ‘Why is Lady Jane here at all? The Rutherfurds are Border people, and ...’

‘Oh, I know—’ this was Mrs. Heggie’s story and she could brook no interference, ‘but Rutherfurd had to be sold—Glasgow people called Jackson bought it—and Lady Jane and her daughter and niece took the Harbour House. Of course in a way it was a terrible comedown, and no one could have blamed them if they had kept theirselves to theirselves, and simply never looked at any of us; indeed it was no more than we expected.’

Mrs. Heggie held out her hand for the visitor’s cup, filled it, indicated the cake, and proceeded.

‘It isn’t, you know, as if the Rutherfurds weren’t the real thing. Lady Jane’s father was the Earl of Elleston and her mother was a duke’s daughter; her husband’s people were in Rutherfurd long before Flodden—or was it Bannockburn? I’m awfully unsure about dates—yet Lady Jane sits and talks to me as if I were her kin.’

‘Quite,’ said Mrs. Jameson, remembering with an inward spasm of laughter the lines:

‘There never was a king like Solomon

Not since the world began;

Yet Solomon talked to a butterfly

As a man would talk to a man ...’

‘And this Miss Nicole,’ she said, ‘is she young and beautiful?’

‘Seven-and-twenty,’ said Mrs. Heggie promptly; ‘she told me so herself. I think she is lovely. I’ve seen better features, more regular anyway, but there’s such a sparkle about her, such a—I don’t know the right word to describe her, but she seems to light up a room: that sort of person.’

‘I see. And the niece, is she also very attractive?’

‘Oh, she’s quite nice. She doesn’t live any longer at the Harbour House. She married young Mr. Jackson and reigns at Rutherfurd in Lady Jane’s place.’

There was a note of resentment in the speaker’s voice that made Mrs. Jameson say:

‘That was surely bad management. It would have been much more suitable if Miss Nicole had gone back to Rutherfurd.’

Mrs. Heggie nodded. ‘So we all thought, but Providence has His own ways of managing, and it was Barbara Burt that was the chosen one.... But I’m told she makes an excellent wife, and now there’s an heir, so I dare say it’s all for the best.’

In spite of her acquiescence in the ruling of Providence Mrs. Heggie looked profoundly dissatisfied, and presently she said:

‘I’m very sure if Andrew Jackson had only seen Miss Nicole first he would never have looked at her cousin, but he and Miss Burt were as good as engaged before he ever set eyes on her. Anyway, I don’t believe Miss Nicole would have taken him.... There was a young man living in Kirkmeikle when the Rutherfurds came—Simon Beckett; you may have heard of him? He died in the Everest Expedition. Well, of course I don’t know and I would never think of asking, but he was never away from the Harbour House that first winter. I didn’t see the Rutherfurds after the news came of his death, they were just going away for some months. When they came back Miss Nicole was as gay as ever, but I just sometimes wonder ...’

The door opened and she turned her head.

‘Oh, Joan! Mrs. Jameson, this is my daughter.’ Then, brightly, ‘Wasn’t it good of Mrs. Jameson, Joan, to come out this stormy day to cheer us up?’

Joan shook hands gravely, not committing herself to any opinion about the visitor’s goodness. She was a sallow-faced creature with a rather unkempt-looking shingled head. It was difficult to understand why such a fresh-faced mother should have produced such a dingy daughter. Taking the cup of tea handed to her, she sat down and began to eat bread and butter, while her mother tried with her eyes to remind her that there was such a thing as social obligations.

‘Joan,’ she said at last, ‘you know that Mrs. Jameson has taken Windywalls? I’ve been telling her all about her new neighbours.’

‘You would enjoy doing that,’ said Joan dryly.

‘I certainly have enjoyed hearing,’ Mrs. Jameson broke in. ‘It seems to me that I’ve been guided to a really interesting neighbourhood.’

‘Interesting?’ Joan’s voice expressed amazement.

‘Well—isn’t the lady who suddenly transformed both herself and her house rather unusual? And the inhabitants of the Harbour House?’

‘Oh, the Rutherfurds! You’ll be tired of hearing of the Rutherfurds before long. But it’s not their fault that the world is full of snobs.’

Mrs. Heggie protested. ‘It’s not snobbishness, Joan, that makes every one like Lady Jane and her daughter.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Joan took another bit of bread and butter.

‘It’s just that we can’t help it,’ her mother went on. ‘There’s something in Lady Jane’s sweet, sad face and her gentle ways.... I’m sure Mrs. Jameson will feel the same.’

‘I’m sure I shall—if I ever get to know them. Did you say they are away just now?’

‘Expected home any day,’ Mrs. Heggie said with great satisfaction. ‘And time too; they’ve been away three months.’

‘Kirkmeikle,’ said Joan, ‘will live again.’

‘No, but really,’ Esmé Jameson was leaning forward in her chair, ‘do they make so much difference to the place, these Rutherfurds?’

Joan nodded. ‘Absurd as it sounds, they do. And not only to my mother and the other villa-dwellers, but to the shop people and the cottagers.’

‘I told you,’ Mrs. Heggie broke in, ‘I told you that before they came we were a dull, detached little community, and the Rutherfurds seemed to link us all together in some strange way. They showed us to each other in a new light so that we all became better friends. And they do things, take on responsibilities that no one else would dream of—You know, Joan, little Alastair Symington—. The nephew, Mrs. Jameson, of Miss Symington who transformed herself and her house and married at forty-eight. I don’t believe she ever cared for the child, she couldn’t have, when she was willing to give him up. When she was going to be married and it was obvious that she felt him in the way, what d’you suppose happened? Lady Jane took the boy, adopted him legally, I suppose, but I never ask questions. You see, she lost both her sons in the War, so her heart is soft to wee boys. Alastair was a white-faced, suppressed little fellow, always dressed in too large overcoats, and now you would hardly know him for the same boy. And they adore him, Lady Jane and Miss Nicole.’

Mrs. Jameson laughed. ‘I don’t blame them. There is something terribly appealing about a little boy in a too large overcoat.... Well, I must go. I’ve greatly enjoyed my first call. Will you please come soon to Windywalls and let me show you all I’ve been doing. You will tell me if you think it’s improved—or spoiled?’

‘But I’ve never been inside the house at Windywalls,’ said Mrs. Heggie. ‘The Drysdales didn’t call on us when we built this house. And, indeed, I don’t think I’d have summoned up courage to call on you, if it hadn’t been that knowing the Rutherfurds sort of gave me self-confidence—Yes, Joan, it’s quite true, you needn’t laugh.’

‘Then,’ said Esmé Jameson, ‘I’m already one of the people who have reason to be grateful to the Rutherfurds. But do let’s fix a day now for you to come so that I shan’t miss you. It’s particularly pleasant to me to have a place to ask people to; I’ve been out in Kenya, and wandering about looking for some place to settle for years.... But if I don’t go now you’ll never ask me back.’

‘Indeed,’ Mrs. Heggie assured her, ‘I’ve been more than glad of your company. I don’t know how it is, but I seem to need people. Sitting here alone this afternoon with the rain falling I’d begun to feel quite ill; I actually had thought myself into a pain and saw myself taken off to a Nursing Home! And you just put me right.... Now, when you come into Kirkmeikle there’s always a welcome here. Lunch at 1.15, tea at 4.30. You’ll remember that?’

She patted her visitor’s hand, remembering that she was a widow and young and alone. ‘Good-bye, and may you find happiness in your new home. Better button up your coat before you leave the room. I’d come out to see you off but I’ve got a touch of cold on my chest.’

Joan came in from speeding the parting guest, and stood with her back to the fire watching the servant removing the tea-things.

‘You’ve had a happy afternoon, Mother,’ she said.

‘Oh well, Joan,’ Mrs. Heggie’s tone was rather apologetic, ‘it’s a pleasure to me to talk, you know that, and I like that Mrs. Jameson, she’s a good listener and an interesting woman, don’t you think?’

‘She’s certainly no fool,’ said Joan.

‘I wonder what her husband was and how long she’s been a widow. She seems to have no family. English, do you think? I make a point of never asking questions, but——’

Joan looked at her mother, and her face was lightened by her infrequent and rather surprisingly pleasant smile.

‘But—you’ll find out everything in time, won’t you, Mother?’