Читать книгу Blencarrow - Isabel Mackay - Страница 3

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Euan Cameron, aged twelve, sat upon the fence and bent a darkling eye upon his father at the woodpile. The woodpile was in the Camerons’ back yard, and the Camerons’ back yard was in Blencarrow, and Blencarrow was a small, but exceedingly important, town somewhere around. So now you know exactly where Euan sat.

It was fully fifteen minutes by the sun since the motionless figure of Andrew Cameron had selected a stick and fixed it skilfully on end ready for the swift, smiting blows which meant kindling for to-morrow. For fifteen precious moments no blows had fallen. Nor was there sign of any. The stick waited, unsmitten, while the smiter, rapt and regardless, leaned upon his axe.

Euan swung his feet vigorously through the gap in the paling, bringing his iron toecaps together with a smart clap at every swing. At intervals he rattled a loose picket. More than this he dared not do.

In his pocket lay a stone, smooth and oval, which he fingered tentatively. Supposing he were to throw that stone, or rather to flick it gently, in the general direction of the woodpile? A small little stone like that couldn’t hurt anybody, but, if properly aimed, it might startle some one into a renewed interest in worldly things. The question was, would the fact of having David and Goliath for to-morrow’s Sunday-School lesson be considered sufficient reason for flicking stones? It might. With his father, it almost certainly would. But there was his mother to consider. Euan’s mother, unfortunately, had a way of discounting the very best reasons. The better they were, the more she discounted them. One’s talents had practically no scope.

Euan drew the stone from his pocket. It was a good stone. Not too heavy; no edges. His father would probably never know what had aroused him. And, unless his mother should happen to be looking out of the window—

‘Euan!’

The voice from the kitchen doorway was temperate, even friendly, but Euan slid down from the fence rail with a guilty start.

‘Come your ways in,’ went on the voice in the guarded tone which one uses to protect a sleeper. ‘Wipe your feet! How often have I told you not to be disturbing your father at his inventing?’

‘I was not disturbing my father,’ said Euan virtuously. ‘I said no word to my father. I was sitting on the fence.’

‘I saw you,’ said Mrs. Cameron significantly. ‘Take your feet off the rung of that chair! Can you no see that it’s just been scrubbit?’

Euan arose with alacrity. It is all right to sit for hours on a damp log, but a damp chair is a different matter. His sense of injury deepened. Why had his mother called him in if there were no chairs dry enough to sit upon? Even the table was still damp, for it was Saturday afternoon and Mrs. Cameron had been redding up the kitchen. The pine floor had been scrubbed until its whiteness dazzled, the long table shone, the walnut sideboard fairly winked in sombre brightness. It was the turn of the chairs now and they were marshalled, like soldiers, on either side of a square of oilcloth upon which one of their number stood steaming and dripping from its vigorous bath.

‘Sit you on the corner stool,’ directed Mrs. Cameron, ‘and keep your feet from the clean floor until it’s dried. It’s no use at all to look so innocent, for I know well that you clapped your toes and diddled the fence picket to disturb your father at his thinking.’

‘Is it disturbing my father to sit ready to carry in the kindling?’ asked Euan innocently. How fortunate that one’s thoughts are one’s own. Keen as his mother was, she couldn’t possibly know about the stone in his pocket.

‘Kindling, indeed?’ said Mrs. Cameron, wiping a chair, ‘and why kindling before supper?’ Her tone was not warm. It seemed as if she just couldn’t give a fellow credit for disinterested virtue.

‘I was wanting to go to the singing school after supper,’ said Euan.

‘Ah!’ It was a note of complete understanding. Strange how grown-ups always understand in the wrong places. ‘It’s a daftlike notion,’ declared Mrs. Cameron. ‘What would you be doing at the singing school? A big clumsy lad like you?’

‘Singing,’ said the badgered Euan.

Janet Cameron laughed. When she laughed, she became instantly ten years younger, for, in the process of becoming matronly and staid as befitted an elder’s wife, Janet had forgotten to look to her laugh which, left to itself, had persisted in remaining young and frivolous. She was a small woman with dark, birdlike eyes and a mouth which she schooled to primness. Euan often wondered how old she was and many times had tried in vain to find out.

‘Will you be in the forties, Mother?’ he would say insinuatingly.

‘I might,’ she would answer cautiously, ‘And then again I might not.’

‘Would it be in the fifties that you are, Mother?’

She would appear to consider this, but would end by saying thoughtfully, ‘I wonder.’

‘But,’ craftily, ‘if you were in the sixties your hair would be white like the hair of Mrs. MacAllister.’

Janet would pat her smooth black hair, sparsely flecked with grey, with a prideful hand.

‘Well, maybe I’m not just exactly in the sixties,’ she would admit. But further than this she would not go. In his own mind, Euan thought that maybe she didn’t know herself how old she was, and felt sensitive about it, or perhaps she wasn’t always the same age. It seemed like that. When she laughed about the singing school, for instance, she didn’t seem old at all.

‘You—singing!’ repeated Janet. An observant listener might have received an exhaustive comment upon Euan’s musical standing in the two words.

Euan grew darkly red, but held his ground.

‘I was thinking I would like it,’ said he firmly. After all he was well within his rights. There was no good reason why he should not want to go to singing school—except the one reason why he did want to go. And his mother didn’t know about that.

Janet began on the last chair. Her moment of amusement over, she was quite elderly again.

‘You’re too young for the singing school,’ she said, adding, ‘Aren’t you?’ as a rare concession.

‘There’s younger than me,’ said Euan.

‘You would shuffle your feet.’

‘I would remember not to shuffle my feet.’

‘Your boots would interrupt the singing.’

‘I could wear my Sunday boots.’

‘Oh—could you?’ said Janet, surprised into a weakness.

Euan took heart. He knew his mother’s ways. If you could take her by surprise with some unheard-of proposition, the very boldness of it might carry your point. This introduction of the Sunday boots had been an inspiration, no less. The thing to do now was to waive the point as if it were of small importance.

‘If I could only get in the kindling—’ he began. His eyes wandered anxiously through the open door to the unsplit wood. ‘If Father—oh, Mother, look! Father’s coming out!’

The statue by the woodpile had indeed stirred. As if in a dream, it raised and lifted the axe and, with a jerk of final awakening, steadied the block of wood with a firm foot. The long-delayed blows began to fall with swift precision.

Euan’s sigh of relief was distinctly audible. There was still time for the chores before supper, and that without his having prejudiced his case by any overt action. He could now permit himself to show interest in minor things.

‘Do you know what it is that my father will be inventing this time?’ he asked politely.

Mrs. Cameron shook her head. ‘I’m not fashing him with questions,’ said she, ‘but whiles I’ve thought it’s maybe a plough.’

A plough? Euan looked disappointed. Being of a practical mind he could never understand why his father’s inventions were never even remotely related to his business.

‘But my father makes wagons, not ploughs,’ he offered diffidently.

‘He could make ploughs,’ said Mrs. Cameron loyally.

‘Oh,’ said Euan.

‘It’s not what he makes or what he doesn’t make,’ said Janet, stung by some faint trace of criticism in the ‘Oh.’ ‘It’s the mind and brain of him that must always be seeing a new thing. It’s creating things he is, like when the Lord made Adam from the dust of the earth.’

‘Oh,’ said Euan again. But this time there was a tinge of awe which satisfied Janet.

‘Your father’s a great man, Euan,’ said she condescendingly. ‘Go you, now, and get in the kindling or there’ll be no singing school this night.’

This was equivalent to the withdrawal of active opposition and Euan set cheerfully about his task. But as he gathered and stacked the kindling and the freshly split wood, he cast curious glances at his father who had so lately been engaged, as it were, in creating a plough from the dust of the earth. It must be wonderful to do such Godlike things. But why a plough? Why not a wagon? Andrew Cameron made wagons. His wagon shop stood just across the street, opposite his house. It had stood there always. It would stand there forever. Euan’s first adventure into the mysterious land of print had been by way of the weather-worn sign

THE CAMERON WAGON

‘Never wears out’

It had been difficult, even then, to decipher the ‘Never wears out,’ because, whatever the Cameron wagon might be, the paint which advertised it was not eternal. But even Euan understood that a repainting of the sign would have meant to Andrew Cameron not progress, but defeat. Was the Cameron wagon so little known that its sign should need fresh paint?

In the same way, was the Cameron wagon so faulty that it needed reinventing? Here was the answer to Euan’s question if he could have understood it. The Cameron wagon was a good wagon. Andrew had laboured earnestly to make it so. Its continued prosperity proved its worth. But, as far as Andrew was concerned, it was a finished thing. And for a finished thing the questing mind of the inventor had little use. Andrew’s thought loved only the uncharted ways. Nor was he ever able to direct its wanderings. In him the urge of creation was too pure to take easily the stamp of commerce. Had there been more alloy there might have been more utility. But when this was pointed out to Andrew, he shook his head.

‘Who am I,’ said he, ‘that I should bargain with the Lord for the bit ideas which are the unconsidered gifts of his bounty? Forby, man,’ with a sudden twinkle, ‘it would be of no use whateffer.’

Fortunately for his married peace, he had found in Janet a wife who understood his reasoning and allowed it to curb her expectations without diminishing her pride. To her, the husband she had chosen was a man set apart, a ‘man of gifts.’ The value she placed upon them was not weighed with gold. Let the stream of useful and comely wagons turned out by the Cameron Wagon Shop supply the comforts and necessities of existence—beyond these, wealth had little to offer a woman of Janet’s mind. She had in full measure the sturdy independence of the Scot, who in his heart believes that his worth lies in himself and not in his possessions. Being bothered by no inferiority complex, she did not need the aids of wealth or ostentation to satisfy an inward lack. Not that Janet disdained money. Far from it. But it was to her a means, never an end, and not seldom did she find it interesting to see how many ends she could attain without it.

There was, for instance, the matter of social position. In Blencarrow, a small town in a big, new country, social position was exactly as important as it is anywhere else. But the conditions governing it were different. There were few lines of inheritance or tradition to border or bound. Yet, as men are not anywhere born either free or equal, borders and bounds there were—distinctions and differences settled, without conscious effort or knowledge, by the community itself. Wealth had its place in these distinctions and as time went on would claim it more and more, but to be of the real elect in Blencarrow it was not necessary to be wealthy nor were all the wealthy of the elect. Birth, too, had its full weight, but good birth, in Blencarrow, meant honourable and God-fearing ancestors, rather than mere antiquity in the matter of family trees. Not that Blencarrow was without its scions of old families, but, save for a certain romantic interest which lingered about their names, they had come to be very much like their neighbours, ranking in general according to their own or their father’s position of importance in the community. Society, as such, had been built-up, as the town grew, through a process of natural selection. It was composed of all kinds, but, roughly speaking, of only two grades. You were either ‘respected’ or you were not.

Needless to say, Janet and Andrew Cameron were highly respected. Ian Cameron, father of Andrew, had been a pioneer of whose courage, honesty, and good works the whole world (of Blencarrow) was aware. To the day of his death, Ian Cameron had spoken only the Gaelic in his own house, though he had made shift with English outside. Andrew, his son, could both speak and understand his father’s tongue, and, though he rarely used it, his ordinary speech was often flavoured with its idioms. Both men had been church elders and close friends of the minister—in itself a title to distinction. Neither had known a college education, but both had been educated men, if solid reading and original thought have anything to do with education. As for Janet Cameron, née Clark, had she not been a daughter of Elspeth Clark, the savour of whose strict and beautiful life was well remembered on the countryside? Certainly she herself was always conscious of that social value and security which rendered pretension absurd.

In spite of, or perhaps because of, all this, Janet did her own housework, including an amount of washing and scrubbing which would terrify the housewife of to-day. Not only could no one else do it to satisfy her, but Janet would have been thoroughly ashamed of any spare time save that which her own quickness and industry provided. True, Mrs. Graham Irving, her next-door neighbour, kept a maid, but Minna Irving, poor thing, had always been delicate besides having been softened by a too-indulgent mother. Janet had only pity for people who were forced to depend on hired help. Was it not well known that, when the Irvings entertained the Ladies’ Aid, one of the ladies always tactfully volunteered to ‘run in and help’—thus saving the society and its hostess mutual embarrassment?

It is clear, then, that Janet’s only opportunity for showing the Christian virtue of humility was in relation to her husband, and this she did with a thoroughness which left nothing to be desired. In the eyes of Blencarrow, Janet was, in her way, quite as ‘respected’ as Andrew. But it never occurred to her to think so. A comparison of herself with him would have seemed lèse majesté. To think of her husband as equal with herself would have been a deep humiliation; to think of him as less would have been insupportable.

Probably the only person unaware of this attitude of hers was Andrew himself. He was, as nearly as may be, without self-consciousness. Praise of any sort, once he had understood that it was directed toward him, would have disturbed and shamed him. Disapproval would have affected him not at all. He was what he was by inward compulsion—a man with roots.

Meanwhile, this brief survey of the Camerons’ state in life has given Euan time to stack his wood and has permitted Janet to wipe her chairs and set them on the flat stones beside the kitchen door where the westering sun might dry them quickly. Delightful chairs they were, once the property of Janet’s grandmother, hand-made, with comfortable hollows, worn by much scrubbing on their firm, hard seats. Chairs of character and history, once dark-stained, but now rubbed to a pleasant, faded brown, running into soft cream where the brush had done its worst. Chairs of fancy as well as fact, capable, as Euan knew, of being all sorts of other things—coaches, pirate barques, horses in pair or tandem, prancing and curvetting at the urge of whip and rein; pulpits, too; excellent pulpits never tipping under the most fervid discourses and quite unharmed, save for a trifle of dirt, by the preacher’s boots.

Janet set the last chair down with a gentle thud and surveyed the result of her labour with a contented eye. There is something singularly soul-satisfying in a freshly scrubbed kitchen. It shows for the work. It shines, it twinkles. Supper in it is a delight. To spread her sweet-smelling cloth upon that spotless table and to place upon it the cold meat and cheese, the home-made preserve and freshly baked scone, gave Janet a pleasant thrill. Had she spoken, she would probably have said that Saturday was a trying day and housework an endless task, but her eye would have convinced you of her deep satisfaction. Could any one in Blencarrow bake scone such as hers?

Euan answered the summons to supper promptly. Being mindful of favours to come, he wiped his boots without being told, not only on the soles but on the sides, prying out the caked mud on the underside of the heel. Decorously, he hung up his cap upon the nail provided and retired into the back bedroom to wash his hands with the sound of many waters. A faint smile flickered across Janet’s primly schooled lips as she heard him, but if his father noticed anything unusual he gave no sign. Neither did he seem pleasantly conscious of his son’s model deportment during grace. Euan began to fear that his extreme goodness was in danger of being wasted.

‘I could eat another piece of meat, but I don’t think I’d better,’ said Euan in martyred tones, determined to focus attention.

Again Janet repressed a smile, and again Andrew paid no attention, save to place a suitable second portion of meat upon the martyr’s plate.

‘I hear,’ said Andrew gravely, looking across at his wife, ‘that the price of eggs has gone up. They are now fifteen cents the dozen.’

‘A shameful price,’ said Janet with conviction. Then, struck with the unusualness of her husband’s knowledge, ‘Who told you, Andrew? And how came you to remember it?’

Andrew’s eyes, deep and blue, had a solemn twinkle. ‘The matter,’ he said, ‘was brought to my attention by a committee of the Ladies’ Aid, waiting on me as an elder with respect to the matter of increasing the minister’s stipend.’

‘Do you tell me so?’ There was a pause as the enormity of the implication became plain to Janet. Then her dark eyes snapped. ‘That’ll be Betsy Macfarland!’ she declared, not without relish. ‘ ’Tis just the daftlike thing you might expect—Euan that’s your fourth scone!—That’s what happens when a body like Betsy is put on committees. Now she’ll be saying that she moved Andrew Cameron with the price of eggs.’

‘No’—Andrew’s blue twinkle deepened—‘the rise in the stipend was decided on before we knew about the price of eggs. But it might be well if the same were known. Mr. McKenzie is a man humble before God, but with a proper pride elsewhere. And the matter of his wage is one of justice, not generosity.’

‘I’ll see that they hear that,’ said Janet after a considering pause. She was, you see, in a difficult position. As past president of the Ladies’ Aid she might be expected to have feelings where any faux pas of that organization was concerned. On the other hand, Andrew Cameron was an elder and she was Andrew Cameron’s wife. Her duty was clear. ‘The woman’s a fule,’ she added as a sop to outraged propriety.

Euan sighed audibly. He had finished his second meat and almost finished his fourth scone and his feet ached with their unaccustomed effort of keeping still. He felt that he was bound to do something untoward in the next few minutes, but, just as he had almost given up hope, his father turned to him suddenly and with full attention.

‘Well, Euan?’ he said.

Euan opened his mouth, but closed it upon his last bite of scone. Now that his chance had come, he was not quick to take it. Why, he wondered, was it so hard to speak up to his father? It was not that he was afraid of him. Their relations were of the friendliest nature. No tyranny on Andrew’s part had ever endangered them. The boy knew instinctively that his father did not refuse anything for the sake of refusing, although no reasons were ever given. One might state one’s case with every assurance of fair dealing. But—and here came the rub—one had to be careful how one stated the case. Fair dealing was necessary here also—the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And that, as every boy knows, is sometimes embarrassing. There are ways of telling things without telling everything. Being a boy of fair resource, Euan could use these comfortable ways as well as another, but there was something in his father’s look, perfectly kind as it always was, which made glib speech falter. It was not that the look was penetrating or that it broke down reserves by force. It took nothing which was not offered. It only expected. And to deny that expectation was beyond the power of his son. Besides, it wouldn’t have helped, really. He always seemed to know, anyway. Euan, of course, did not formulate this, but he felt it, and he felt that in this lay one of the chief differences between his parents. His mother with her quick eyes and nimble brain was ‘knowing,’ but his father knew.

It is rude to speak with one’s mouth full, and Euan, finishing his bite of scone, determined to present the bare bones of his request and let it go at that.

‘I was thinking I would like to go to the singing school, Father.’

‘Surely. Why not?’ Andrew’s assent was instant and cordial.

‘The child can’t sing a note,’ said Janet.

‘The wood’s all in,’ said Euan.

‘And the singing teacher won’t want to be bothered with children that can’t sing,’ finished Janet. She knew that Euan was going, but the making of due objections is a proper thing.

‘I was twelve yesterday,’ reminded Euan. He, too, knew that he was going, but it is well to keep up one’s end of an argument.

‘You may go, but you’ll be back and in your bed by ten,’ said his father. ‘Is there a fee, Janet?’

Mrs. Cameron thought there was no fee unless private lessons were included. ‘Maybe he’ll be wanting those next,’ said she by way of having the last word.

Euan said ‘Thank you,’ and clapped his toecaps together with a sound of triumphing cymbals. It had been absurdly easy after all. His father had asked no questions. He had not said ‘Why?’ Perhaps things were more and more like that as one grew older. Perhaps next year, or the year after, or when he was twenty, he would just go on and do things without ever explaining, or even asking his father! Perhaps in those days he could just go and put on his Sunday boots without asking his mother! Perhaps—

He became abruptly aware that his father was looking at him. His mother had left the room on some errand to the pantry—oh, botheration! He raised his own eyes slowly.

‘Well, Euan?’ Surely the blue expectancy of his father’s gaze had a far-away twinkle in it? To his utter discomfiture Euan felt a wave of colour invade his face. His feet shuffled.

Andrew’s hand was in his pocket, and when he drew it out it held a coin.

‘Seeing there is no fee,’ said he, smiling, ‘maybe you’d like to spend this on a bag of sweeties for the lassie.’

Lassie! How could he possibly have guessed?