Читать книгу Priorsford (Historical Novel) - O. Douglas - Страница 5

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'You know how one sits on a fresh day in May or October and wishes one could have a fire in the parlour, but cannot because it is not the season of the year? Miss Mitford is as if you lighted the fire and it blazed up bravely, and you sank down in the sofa and toasted yourself snugly and said, "Ah, that is just what I was longing for." That is what it is like when she comes into a room.'

Miss Barrett's Elopement.

Miss Janet Hutton's parlour--she liked the word--was as pleasant a room as you could wish to see. It looked out to a small bright garden, the burn at the foot dividing it from wide fields, which mounted on one side to the hills, and sloped on the other to the river. It was a most un-fussy room, with its plain old furniture and bare spaces of floor. There were many books in it, the newest as well as the oldest, flowers, and--except in the few hot days of a Scots summer--always in the grate a fire that sparkled.

One afternoon, late in September, Miss Hutton was in her parlour with her friend Mirren Strang. They were looking out at the flaunting autumn flowers that still made the garden gay, and Janet Hutton said:

'They're holding their own, but a night's frost will finish them. We get more frost in Priorsford than you get in Muirburn.'

Mrs. Strang nodded. 'Hopewaterfoot is sheltered. I believe I'll have my chrysanthemums for another month.' Her eyes wandered to the quiet fields and the blue hills beyond. 'Your room, Janet,' she said, 'is like yourself, it has a pleasant out-look. I always think you look at life with such serene eyes.'

'Do I? Well, you see, it can't hurt me now.'

Mirren stared. 'My dear, that's a rash statement for any mortal to make.'

'I know, but don't you think the real hurting is seeing those we love hurt? Since my mother died I've nobody of my own, no people so close that I must suffer if they suffer: I mean, no one to agonise over. Surely I can bear what is sent to myself without making a fuss.'

Mirren shrugged her shoulders. 'I call that disgustingly stoical. When my time comes I promise you I'll make fuss enough for half a dozen. . . . You and I are alike, Janet, in being almost alone in the world. It has its advantages of course, but sometimes . . .'

Miss Hutton looked down at the sock she was knitting. 'Robbie would have been over thirty,' she said. 'Married, probably.'

'There might have been children. It would have been funny--and nice--to see Robbie's children.' Mirren's voice sank, then brisked up as she added: 'But more than likely I wouldn't have got on with the wife . . . Janet, how many tea-parties d'you suppose are given in Priorsford in one afternoon? As I came along to you to-day I met numbers of women that I know vaguely, all obviously going out to tea: clean gloves, tidy hat, you know.'

'I know. I was invited to two myself: Mrs. Jowett's and the Miss Duncans'.'

'What I've made you miss! I know Mrs. Jowett's parties. The good soul is too full of the milk of human kindness to be a very entertaining companion. . . . The Miss Duncans I don't know. Don't they live near the old golf-course?'

'Yes, on the top of the hill. The view is marvellous, and they have their dining-room upstairs, which is such a nice thing to have. I shall never forget last Christmas-time when I went to tea there. It had been snowing all day and had cleared to glittering frost. When we went into the dining-room I just stood and gasped. There were silver candle-sticks on the polished round table and bright red berries: the blinds were up and the moon was rising over the white hills. The fire-light and candle-light, the red of the berries, the sparkle of the silver, the gold of the moon. . . ! They've promised to ask me again the first snowfall we have.'

Janet sat back in her wide wooden chair with arms and smiled at her recollections, and her friend watching her thought what a wholesome, heartsome creature she looked, with her greying hair, her firm rosy cheeks, and wide humorous mouth.

'Dear Janet, with the brindled locks! I love the way your hair is quite black in some places and white in others: it's so attractive, with the rose of your cheeks and the blue of your eyes. I don't remember what you were like in your youth, but I don't think you could ever have been as good looking as you are now.'

Miss Hutton took Mirren's compliments with great calm.

'You couldn't remember me in my youth for I'm almost ten years older than you are. Yes, I'm sixty: and a very nice age I find it.'

'Do you? I'm fifty and I think it's horrible. Half a century sounds so terrific, and birthdays occur with such alarming frequency. Kirsty Home's small girl, Fanny, since she was two and could toddle, has always appeared at Hopewaterfoot on my birthday morning in March with the first daffodils (generally kept on the nursery mantelpiece for days to bring them out), and really, you know, it seems as if the child were constantly there! I'm fairly appalled at the shortness of life. You are young, and before you know where you are your youth is gone. That's why I don't think we should ever be angry at youthful follies and impertinences: even while the young things are scoffing at age it is upon them. . . . I suppose I should be rather ashamed to confess it, but, fifty and all as I am, I've still got a great zest for life. I enjoy everything--getting up in the morning and having my cold bath: going down to eat a good breakfast: my letters: work (though I malign it): motoring about our adorable Tweeddale: my friends: my books: my holidays: the seasons as they come: bird song: the sunsets. . . . It's a great life I tell you, Janet, given decent health, and even with poor health there are compensations. I wish I could get Rebecca Brand to enjoy things: she will never own to being happy. Isn't it odd?'

Miss Hutton carefully picked up a dropped stitch, then said:

'As to odd--living with an enthusiastic eager creature like you might make a person as naturally contrary as Rebecca become all the more apathetic. How is Rebecca?'

'Oh,' said Mirren, 'as well as ever woman was. I think she's glad to be back with me, at least she's glad to be near the Manse and her brother. She gets on well with her sister-in-law, and the baby is a great delight. She must have been miserable in that place in Edinburgh, for Rebecca was never intended by Providence to be a companion to an old lady. To begin with she never sees anything to do, and when she sits down to sew or read she doesn't at all like to be disturbed. I can imagine the impotent wrath of the old lady waiting for cushions and hot-water bottles that never came!'

'But is she any real use to you?'

'Well, I wouldn't call her useful, exactly, but I like having her. She isn't stupid, and there is something so utterly honest and decent about her that I can't help respecting her. And she makes the place seem more like home. I'm always glad to go back to her. And you know, Janet, it isn't every one who is supportable as a companion. If I got one of the really helpful and agreeable kind I'd probably weary of her and curse her.'

Janet smiled: she knew her friend. Presently she said: 'I'm glad you've got Rebecca. I never liked your living alone. I am alone, but, being a ruminative, cow-like creature, I don't mind, and, besides, in Priorsford I'm in the middle of a busy brisk little community. Hopewaterfoot is removed from the haunts of men. . . . By the way, have you heard the latest news? Lady Bidborough is coming with her children to Priorsford for the winter.'

'Lady Bidborough? Little Jean Jardine! Whatever for? Hasn't she houses and lands in England? This is great news. Where are they going to live?'

Janet laid down her stocking. 'I am the fountainhead of knowledge, so to speak. Jean wrote to me about a month ago asking if I knew of a house to let furnished anywhere near The Rigs, and told me that her husband had to go for a voyage with his greatest friend, who was recovering from a severe illness. . . . There is a house just behind The Rigs, rather a nice place, called "The Neuk," owned by people who only use it in summer, and she has taken that. Jean herself wants to stay at The Rigs with her children; The Neuk will be used as an overflow. I think she said her secretary would live there, and the boys when they come. . . . Three maids are coming from Mintern Abbas.'

'Dear me, this is great excitement. . . . How long is it since Jean left? Nine years, is it? Won't Priorsford buzz!'

Janet looked up quickly. 'Why should it?' she asked. 'Everybody assumes that a country town is a hotbed of gossip; it's most unfair. In Priorsford we certainly take a friendly interest in our neighbours, but we are not gossips,--with one or two exceptions.'

'Yes, I know the exceptions! But I believe you're right. "Let live" is more or less the motto of Priorsford. . . . Well, I'm vastly excited about Jean coming back into our lives. She was a duck of a child, but I didn't see much of her after she grew up: I was away so much. Were you in Priorsford when the romance was going on?'

'No. Mother and I were abroad that winter. I wish I had been here to see a fairy tale come true. For the whole thing really was a sort of fairy tale. But it seems to have stood the test of time. Nine years, and this is the first time they have been separated, and it's evidently a great wrench. It was Lord Bidborough who thought of the Priorsford plan. Jean herself wanted to hold the fort at Mintern Abbas: she always had a conscience, the child.'

'She could hardly escape it,' said Mirren. 'You remember old Miss Alison Jardine, the great-aunt who brought them all up? An old terror!'

'She was, rather. But you'll admit her training was very successful. She managed to give Jean a certain distinction, to make her just a little different from other girls. Jean's manners were so good. She was neither affected nor offhand, but frank and natural, rather like a nice boy. And remember she was left at the age of eighteen to look after not only her own two brothers, but little Gervase Taunton, her stepmother's child by a second marriage.'

'Mein Gott! It sounds like "Ministering Children." How did she escape being a horrid little prig?'

'I know. But Jean was gay as well as sedate, and it was a very happy home. . . . Yes, I wish I could have been here when Miss Pamela Reston took Bella Bathgate's rooms, and Lord Bidborough arrived to visit his sister. You were away too, I think?'

Mirren nodded. 'Most people were glad to settle down after the war, but Peace sent me wandering. . . . It made things so final somehow. The bells on Armistice Day! I don't think I ever realised that Robbie was really gone until old Watty Somerville began to pull the Muirburn Kirk bell because Peace had come. I had hardly cried through it all, but that day I wept myself sick.' She stared out at the autumn flowers for a minute, then turned to her friend with a laugh. 'Life's a comic business. D'you know, I'm rather sorry Jean's coming back. She's grown into a legend. Jean, Lady Bidborough, who was an ordinary girl in Priorsford till the "baron's heir" appeared and carried her away to reign amid unimagined splendour. And here she is walking out of her fairy tale and back to the little house in the little town, bereft (for the time) of her husband and accompanied by three (probably very ordinary) children. She may even have grown stout . . . perhaps a little pompous . . .'

'Oh, no, Mirren,' Miss Hutton protested. 'Jean pompous is unthinkable. . . . Oh, dear, this sounds like a caller.'

'Mrs. Duff-Whalley,' the maid announced.

A small woman came into the room, with an important air, and stopped in the middle, surveying the two occupants.

'Actually I've found you in, Miss Hutton! How d'you do? And Mrs. Strang. How d'you do? Quite a pleasant day, isn't it?' She chose a chair and sat down, while her companions meekly resumed their seats. Wherever Mrs. Duff-Whalley was she elected herself mistress of ceremonies, relegating her hostess and every one else to the background.

She began: 'Did you motor down from Muirburn, Mrs. Strang? Oh, you have a car? Then you aren't quite cut off from society.'

'Not quite,' Mirren said gravely.

'And of course you have the Homes fairly near you and Lady Carruthers, dear woman. D'you see much of the Laverlaw people?'

'When they are at home they are hospitable. But they are away a good deal in winter, and of course you know they go to their place in Ross-shire from July to October.'

Mrs. Duff-Whalley reared her head in a way she had, as she replied, 'Of course, I know that. When I met Lady Tweedie yesterday at lunch at the Olivers' she told me she had been visiting them. Kinbervie is the name of the place. Quite a large place it seems, but very wild. . . . Mrs. Elliot is delightful of course, but it's a pity she seems to care so little for society. She's almost as bad as her husband. I often say to Lewis Elliot when I meet him, "Now, when are you coming to dine with me!" and he blushes like a girl! Odd that people in their position should positively shrink from their own kind!'

Mirren looked sceptical as she said, 'But d'you think they do. They're a very popular couple up with us, and certainly don't shirk their responsibilities: they help with everything, and Laverlaw is quite a hive of industry.'

'And how are the Homes?' Mrs. Duff-Whalley enquired. 'I've been meaning to call on them all summer, but there are so many demands on one's time. Is that marriage really a success? Colonel Home always struck me as such a crabbed individual, lame too, and much older than his wife. But of course she was glad of a home.'

Mrs. Strang laughed. 'I don't think pretty Kirsty was in any crying need of a home.'

'Of course, I forgot, she has money.'

'She has, but I'm not thinking of that. . . . Kirsty got the man she wanted, she adores her children, and, indeed, it would be difficult to find a happier home than Phantasy.'

'I'm sure I'm glad to hear it,' Mrs. Duff-Whalley said without warmth. 'It's too distressing to hear of so many unhappy marriages. I can't help sometimes being thankful that Muriel has so far been obdurate. . . . I heard some astonishing news this morning, that little Jean Jardine, Lady Bidborough, you know, is coming to winter in Priorsford. Do you know anything about it, Miss Hutton?'

Janet, who had been calmly knitting while she listened to the conversation, turned her deliberate gaze on her visitor, and said:

'Yes, Lady Bidborough is coming to The Rigs. Lord Bidborough has had to go with an invalid friend, who has been ordered a sea voyage.'

Mrs. Duff-Whalley's small keen eyes searched her companion's face, as if suspecting something hidden in her simple statement.

'Very sad,' she said at last. 'It's quite obvious to me that there's been a rupture. I never did think that marriage would prove a success. Too much disparity in every way. Lord Bidborough so aristocratic, and Jean such a plain little thing. Lady Tweedie said to me only the other day, "In these levelling days, when Jack's as good as his master, we old county people must make a stand." It's really deplorable how lax we are becoming. Young men marry beneath them, bring chorus girls to their parents and expect a welcome for them--Ridiculous! . . . And Jean is actually coming back to The Rigs! Why, it's a hovel compared to what she's accustomed to. Dear, dear, I feel quite distressed about it.'

'Oh, but you needn't. You will be glad to know that it is not as you fear. Major Talbot, who is Lord Bidborough's greatest friend--I believe he actually saved his life in the War--has been lying dangerously ill for months and must be out of England for the winter. He has no relations and is sick of hired help, and his old friend felt it his duty to go with him. I'm very sure Jean supported her husband in that. Lord Bidborough wanted Jean to be near his sister and away from the responsibilities of a big house and estate, so home she comes to Priorsford. She wanted to be in The Rigs with the children--sentiment, that,--and they've taken The Neuk--that nice house in the big garden, just behind The Rigs--to overflow into. It is really all very simple.'

Mrs. Duff-Whalley sat silent for a minute--it was obviously a disappointing explanation--then she reared her head, remarking, 'It's very astonishing. . . . Well, I hope everything is all right and that it really is a sick friend that Lord Bidborough has gone off with, but as a woman of the world--Well, well. She has taken The Neuk, you say. My daughter, Mrs. Egerton Thomson, wanted a house for a month or two in the summer and I took the chance to look through several. The Neuk isn't bad, quite decently furnished, and a billiard room: six bedrooms, I think, and fairly large public rooms. But if Lady Bidborough was coming back would it not have been much liker the thing if she had taken a place: there are several nice places in the neighbourhood she could have had. It's not as if money were any object. I wonder how she spends all she has. You know she got a large fortune from that old man--what was he called? Peter Reid. He must have been insane. Was there no one to contest the will?'

Mrs. Duff-Whalley rose to her feet and Miss Hutton asked mildly: 'Why should anyone have contested it? The old man had a perfect right to leave his money as he pleased. . . . Must you go?'

'Indeed I must. . . . Good-bye, Mrs. Strang. Muriel and I mean to call on Mrs. Home one day soon--perhaps Tuesday next. We might see you at the same time if you are free that day.'

'Would you like to lunch with me?' Mirren asked.

'Well, that would be nice, and give us a long afternoon for calling. That's settled then. Tuesday. One-thirty, I suppose?. . . Good-bye, Miss Hutton, you must come and lunch with me some day. I'll ring up.'

Mrs. Duff-Whalley stepped into her car and was whirled away to her residence, The Towers, which stood on the outskirts of Priorsford. A very large, staring villa, with many bow-windows and pepper-pot turrets, it had been built for twenty years; but wind and weather seemed to have no effect on its red and whiteness, and it looked almost as glaringly new as the day it was finished.

Mrs. Duff-Whalley found her daughter Muriel in the morning-room, rather listlessly trying over a new song.

'You're in, Muriel. . . . Evidently there's a tea-party at Glenoliver: odd we weren't invited: they owe us a tea-party. Did no one call this afternoon? . . . I've been to tea with the new people who've bought Archfield. They are still in a great turn-up. I don't think Mrs. Forbes can be much of a manager; there seemed a lack of a head: servants dodging about in each other's way----'

'They wouldn't be keen on a visitor for tea.'

'No, the invitation was rather halting, but it was tea-time, so I stayed. I doubt if they'll be much use in the county. One daughter, married, a son in Kenya or somewhere, and a young son at home. . . . They seem a quiet couple. He likes books and talked away about some coloured prints. . . . Then I went to Miss Hutton's to get the truth about Jean Jardine. She says Lord Bidborough has had to go for a voyage with a sick friend--a very queer story!--and Jean is coming to The Rigs!'

'But surely,' said Muriel, 'that's absurd. The Rigs is a mere cottage: there isn't a decent-sized room in it: where will she put nurses and children?'

'They've taken the house just behind--The Neuk. You remember I looked at it for Minna? . . . I must say it seems to me a very odd arrangement. It's all very well for Janet Hutton to talk about Lord Bidborough having to take a sick friend abroad, but I think he must have been glad of the chance. Men in that station are always rovers, and I never did think Jean would be able to hold him, quiet, dull little thing that she was. Now you, Muriel, have some go in you. If you had had the chance . . .'

Muriel moved impatiently. 'Well, I hadn't. And now I'm thirty-four.'

'You don't look it,' said her mother quickly. 'You don't look a day more than five and twenty.'

'The fact remains. . . . In a year or two I'll be one of the spinsters of Priorsford.'

'Oh, no, Muriel, don't say that. Don't get such a thing into your head. People marry later now; you've lots of time. Why, look at Nancy Burnett; she must be forty if she's a day, and no one thinks of putting her on the shelf. She's always the centre of everything.'

'Nancy Burnett has brains, and can fill her life full of so many things that I don't suppose she even gives marriage a thought. With me it's different. I've only brains for a house, and they're not needed, for you see to everything. It's no pleasure to me to sit on committees: I loathe them. I'm not religious, so I get no comfort from putting flowers in the church and attending early services. I never was taught to read good books and it's too late to acquire the taste, so I only read novels, and I'm sick of them. I'm quite good at games, but there are so many young girls coming up, and--oh, what's the good of talking. . . . And now here comes Jean Jardine, with her title and her children, to remind me how many years I've been hanging round this dead-alive place.'

'Muriel,'--Mrs. Duff-Whalley's face was firm with purpose,--'Muriel, we'll go away for the winter. You've wanted to, often, but I wouldn't stir; but I'll go now. I don't deny it'll be a wrench, for I like winter in Priorsford, but I'll go. We might take a cruise to the West Indies. I see numbers of titled people are doing that. It would be a complete change for you. I can see I've been selfish. I'm so taken up running the house and looking after the servants, and sitting on committees, and keeping things going in Priorsford--they're such an apathetic lot I don't believe they'd ever do anything if some one didn't stir them up--that I never realised that you might be bored. We'll write for information about cruises, and then we can say to Lady Bidborough, "How too bad of you to come just as we are leaving. . . ." Well, I'll get my things off. Why, it's about half-past six!'

As she was going Muriel said:

'It's very good of you, Mother, to be willing to go away, but I think we won't cruise this winter. You'd hate it, and I don't believe I'd like it much. . . . By the way, Madge Williamson telephoned when you were out asking me to dine with them to-night. They are having that Mr. Hamilton who has come to Drykeld, and they want a fourth for bridge.'

Mrs. Duff-Whalley gave a snort. 'The farmer of Drykeld? Dear me, I remember the time when a farmer wouldn't have been asked to dinner.'

'This man's come home from India,' Muriel said, indifferently, 'and wants to sheep-farm. I suppose he must be all right, and after all, in this spinster-haunted place, a man's always a man--especially if he can play bridge.'