Читать книгу Priorsford (Historical Novel) - O. Douglas - Страница 6

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'. . . But do not think that you can at all, By knocking on the window, call That child to hear you. . . For long ago, the truth to say, He has grown up and gone away. . .'

A Child's Garden of Verse.

Mrs. McCosh, the guardian of The Rigs, was a woman of sixty, the widow of one Andrew McCosh, a Clyde riveter. She had come from her native city of Glasgow after her husband's death to be housekeeper to the Jardines, first to old Miss Alison Jardine, and then to Jean and her brothers. When Jean married she had continued to look after the little house for which the Jardines had so great an affection.

This afternoon Mrs. McCosh was taking a final look round, to be sure that everything was as right as she could make it for the return of the owner.

Accompanying her was a neighbour, Miss Bella Bathgate, who owned a cottage called Hillview and let her rooms to people desiring rest and change in Priorsford. Tall and high-coloured, with a broad Priorsford accent, and a high opinion of her own walk and conversation, she was something of a terror to frailer folk, for she never disguised her opinion of their comparative unworthiness.

'This'll make a big difference to you, Mrs. McCosh,' she was saying as the couple returned from the kitchen, after making a tour of the house. 'It'll not be easy after nine years' peace, as ye might say, to start again with a mistress an' three bairns. I wouldna be you!'

But the serene face of Mrs. McCosh showed no apprehension as she replied in an accent as redolent of Glasgow as her friend's was of Tweedside.

'Weel, Bella, ye maun mind that it's Miss Jean, an' Miss Jean's weans, an' that mak's a difference. I've been mistress here ye may say, an' I've gotten into ways o' ma ain, but Miss Jean'll understand that. I'll no' be ill-aff wi' the weans, I like them fine, an' Ninny's an auld friend. The extra maids are to bide at The Neuk an' juist to come in here to help, ye ken. The secretary's to be there to keep an eye on them.'

Miss Bathgate pulled down her long upper lip.

'What secretary?' she asked suspiciously.

'Her wee leddyship's secretary, Miss ----, I canna mind her name. Wi' a' that siller Miss Jean needs somebody to dae accounts an' add things up for her like. . . .'

'I never right understood hoo she got that money,' said Bella.

'Mercy, d'ye no' mind o' the auld man comin' here to his tea? Mr. Peter Reid? I'm sure I tell't ye aboot it at the time. He had been a Priorsford laddie, brocht up in The Rigs, but he had been in London aboot fifty years or mair. . . . When he felt that he was comin' near his end he took a notion to come back hame, an', thinks he: "I'll gang back to The Rigs an' end ma days where I began." He hadna a relation in the warld, an', bein' a cankered kind o' man he'd never made friends. He'd made siller, though. . . . It seems he'd said to somebody that he'd leave his fortune to the first person who did anything for him for naething. Did ye ever! Up he comes to Priorsford, gey frail, puir body, and comes up to tak' a look at The Rigs. Miss Jean sees the auld frail man an' asks him in--that was her wy: and the laddies cam' hame and they a' hed their tea thegether, and Miss Jean gied him some auld sang-book he'd taen a notion o', an' syne he gaed awa' an' there was nae mair aboot it.'

'But I thocht ye said he meant to live in The Rigs himsel'?'

'Ay, but ye see he died no lang efter. Mebbe he hedna time to see aboot it, or mebbe he thocht it wasna worth while, but onywy, he made his will and left everything tae Miss Jean.'

'It was a queer thing to dae,' said Miss Bathgate, 'wi' so many infirmaries, no' to speak o' the Foreign Field.'

'That's so,' said Mrs. McCosh. 'Eh, will I ever forget that awfu' nicht when the news came! It was the nicht Peter cam' hame efter bein' lost for three whole days--Puir Peter, I miss him mair every day that passes.'

'Mercy, wumman, ye would think it was yer man ye were mournin', no' a dowg.'

'Weel, Bella, Andra wasna a bad man to me, an' I was real vex't he died so young, but a' the same he wis niver the comfort to me that Peter wis. Mony a time I think I hear him at the back door. . . . But I wis speakin' aboot Miss Jean's fortune.' She rose to sweep away a cinder that had fallen from the glowing ribs, and stood with the brush in her hand as she went on with her story.

'We were juist gettin' ower Peter's hame-comin'--I mind Miss Pamela was at her tea--when the six post cam' in wi' a letter for Miss Jean. I forgot to pit it on a tray. Ma bein' a pew-opener afore I gaed into service I wasna weel up in leddys' ways, an' I whiles forgot the wee things they pit sic value on, like sayin' "Mem" an' "Sir," an' pittin' things on trays.'

Mrs. McCosh gave a tolerant laugh. '. . . In I gaed wi' the letter. Miss Pamela, Mrs. Elliot I should say, wis sittin' on the sofa wi' her work on her lap, an' a' her silks spread oot aboot her: Miss Jean wis mendin': Mr. Jock wis daein' his lessons, an' Mhor (as we ca'ed him then) wis lyin' on the rug, an' in a meenute, by the tearin' open o' an envelope, ye micht say, the whole world was changed to them. Ay, that wis an awfu' nicht. Puir Miss Jean grat, she didna' ken whit to mak' o' the news.'

'It brought great changes,' said Miss Bathgate, 'whether for good or ill who can say. It brought Miss Jean a lord for a husband----'

But here she was interrupted.

'That's where ye're wrang, Bella,'--Mrs. McCosh's voice was meek but final. 'Lord Bidborough speired her afore there was a sough o' the siller. I ken that for a fac'. She wadna' look at him the first time but----'

'It brought great changes,' Miss Bathgate repeated firmly. 'I'm no' sayin' Lord Bidborough mairret Miss Jean for her siller (I kent fine he was efter her from the first, but she was quite right no' to tak' him till the money had evened things up a bit), but what I'm sayin' is this: they were a' oot o' The Rigs in three months--Miss Jean mairret, an' the laddies aff to English schools. They were kinna nice laddies then, though wild, of course.'

'They're nice laddies noo,' Mrs. McCosh said. 'Weel, ye can hardly ca' them laddies, for Mr. Jock's twa and twenty an' Mhor--Mr. Gervase--maun be sixteen. When they were at Laverlaw aboot a year syne--I think you were at Portobello--they cam' here, an' went ringein' through the hoose like bloodhounds. They were that gled to see their bits o' auld things again. I've aye keepit them juist as they left them.'

'Mhor wasna a bad callant,' Bella said in her grudging way. 'He used to come and ask me for tea-biscuits for Peter. "Not Abernethy, please, Miss Bathgate, Peter doesn't like them." (The imitation was given in a high English voice, very unlike Bella's native woodnotes wild)--'But what I'm wonderin', Mrs. McCosh, will ye get to the Women's Guild on the Wednesdays? Wi' the Sale comin' off in November we need all our workers. I'm at ma twelfth semmit, an' I've made six pairs of socks, an' six pairs of boys' stockings.'

'That's good,' said Mrs. McCosh, quite unruffled by the note of conscious superiority in her neighbour's tone. 'I hevna made as much as a garter, but of course I'll bake for the Provision Stall--black bun an' shortbread, the same's I dae every year. Na, Miss Jean'll no' object. I gie the materials masel', there's juist ma time.'

'Mrs. Duff-Whalley's to open it,' Bella said gloomily. 'Suggested hersel', I wadna wonder. Impident? As a packman's powny. An she'll no buy mair than she can help: juist provisions, likely; an' there's sma' profit on them. . . . If Mr. Thornton hed waited we might hev hed Lady Bidborough. That's the worst of a young unmairried minister--he's at the mercy of unprincipled women.'

Mrs. McCosh had begun to make preparations for the meal that the mistress was to partake of. Emerging from the scullery with a bright frying-pan, she said:

'Wud ye ca' Mrs. Duff-Whalley unprincipled? She's kinna impident an' angersome, but I wadna say she meant ony ill. She'll hae her ain troubles dootless, puir sowl.'

'Ay, she's unprincipled,' said Bella firmly, 'for she doesna do things from a right motive. . . . What are they gettin' for their denner the nicht?'

'A drap o' soup, a cutlet, an' an omelette. There's juist Miss Jean and the secretary. The bairns'll get their supper an' awa to their beds, an' Ninny an' me'll hae oor supper an' a crack, rale cosy. I'm lookin' furrit to them a'.'

'And are the maids at The Neuk?'

'Ay.' Mrs. McCosh was getting down a snowy baking board, and diving into what she called her 'meal ark' for flour.

'Ay, they cam' in here the day, three o' them: said her ledyyship hed gien them orders to report theirsel's to me. Rale wise-like young women, and pleasant-spoken: no' flee-awa' (though one o' them hed earrings an' powder on her nose!): English, of course. They've a' been at Mintern Abbas for years, an' ye can see it's hame to them. They're six mile frae the nearest toun, so they think this is fair Piccadilly. I tell't them we hed twa picture-houses an' a public bath, an' twa parks wi' seats an' a band-stand, an' a golf-puttin' green, an' they were fair excited. I'm thinkin' they'll see life in Priorsford.'

Bella shook her head. 'Priorsford's no' what it was. I mind when it was a quiet nice bit where we a' kent one another and were friendly thegether, and now I dinna ken half o' the folk I see walkin' aboot. An' the auld folk are mostly a' away. I just lookit round the kirk last Sabbath at the elders takin' up the collection, an' they were a' young men: no' a venerable head among the lot. And eh, the difference in the congregation! There used to be seat efter seat filled wi' big families, an' the faither at the end. Everybody gaed to the kirk: it never entered ony body's heid to stay away. But everything's changed noo. They play tennis and golf on the Lord's Day. I wonder they're no' feared! . . . I'm never oot o' the kirk morning or evening, an' I spend the rest o' the day readin' a guid book. I've never countenanced entertaining on the Sabbath: I wasna brocht up to it.'

'Oh,' said Mrs. McCosh, 'I see no harm in giein' a friend a cup o' tea on a Sunday. I'm real glad to see onybody, an' I aye tak' care to hev a cake in the crock. They whiles come in on their way to the evenin' service--Mrs. Beaton, the keeper's wife up at Peel, an' ithers--an' we hae a cup o' tea an' a crack an' nae harm done.'

'Gossip on the Sabbath day canna be pleasin' to the Almighty.'

'Hoots,' said Mrs. McCosh, 'the Almighty's mair to dae than listen. . . . Sit doon, Bella, I meant no ill.'

But Bella rose majestically to her feet, saying:

'Ye're like a' the rest o' them, Mrs. McCosh--light-minded. It's the fault of the age. I said that to Mr. Thornton when he visited me last Thursday. It was his pastoral visitation, intimated from the pulpit, an' I hed a cup of coffee ready for him. He's a right-thinking young man, Mr. Thornton. I gave him some advice. I said----'

'Open the oven door, Bella. What time's that? Oh, mercy!'

'I'll away back to ma peaceful hame, Mrs. McCosh. This is a terrible stir for ye.'

'Stir! No. It'll mak' me young again: I've been slippin' in to auld ways. . . . I think I'd be as weel to pit a match to the fire in Miss Jean's room. It's no' cauld, but a fire's aye a welcome, an' she'll be dowie enough, puir thing, comin' here an' her man awa' ower the sea!'

'She'll likely be in to see me the morn,' Miss Bathgate said importantly: 'she was never one to forget old friends. I'll just treat her as I aye treated her. Rank's no' a thing I bother aboot.'

'I'll hae to try an' mind to ca' her "ma leddy," though I ken ma tongue'll aye be slippin' back to "Miss Jean".'

Bella pursed her mouth. 'Very daft-like that would sound to the mother o' three bairns.'

'So it would. . . . Gudenicht then, Bella. I'll likely be seein' ye sometime the morn.'

It was a good thing that Mrs. McCosh was not easily upset, for the arrival at The Rigs of a small army of people, and a pile of boxes, not to speak of the cocker-spaniel puppy, Black Douglas, might have caused the bravest spirit to quail. The little house looked so inadequate to house such an invasion. But it looked a very welcoming place, with lights twinkling from every window, and Mrs. McCosh on the doorstep.

Jean came up the flagged path leading Alison, who was murmuring with deep content, 'It's like Wendy's house. . . . Peter, it's Wendy's house.' But Peter was already on the doorstep, thrusting into Mrs. McCosh's hands what had been such a charge to him all day. 'It's my gold-fish,' he explained. 'I nearly spilt him on the platform and they let me keep his bowl in the wash-hand basin on the train. He's called Baxter. Don't let Black Douglas get him.'

'An' wha's Black Douglas?' asked Mrs. McCosh, accepting the gold-fish in its bowl with the placidity with which she accepted most things in this world.

She was not long left in doubt. A black object came careering up the steps, charged into her, and vanished through the door.

'Keep us!' said Mrs. McCosh.

'So here we are,' said Jean, as they all stood looking round the little square hall with the Chinese rug and the grandfather clock with the clear face; the oak chest, and the old brass. 'Nothing's changed, Mrs. McCosh. . . . You know Ninny, of course. This is Elsie. Miss Barton will stay at The Neuk; the luggage has gone on there, but she kindly came in to see if she could help, and we'll have some dinner together before she goes. . . . Betty, this is Mrs. McCosh, who looked after us all when we were children and is going to look after us again.'

The tall young girl nodded, but Mrs. McCosh, in her friendly Glasgow way, held out her hand, remarking: 'Pleased to meet ye.'

'Now then, babes, supper and bed.'

'Not till we've seen the house, Mummy,' Peter pleaded, and bounded into the drawing-room, followed by Alison and Quentin. Then upstairs and down again.

'It's a lovely house,' Alison said; 'there's no nursery.'

'I've got Uncle Jock's room,' Peter boasted, 'and there's a ship on the mantelpiece. I knew it was there: he told me himself--Ho! Good! Fish for supper. Alison, fish for supper.'

'This is a treat,' Jean said. 'I thought I told you bread and milk, Mrs. McCosh?'

'Oh, so ye did, but I thocht that was a wairsh kinna meal for comin' aff a journey. It'll dae them no' ill. If ye want mair milk there's plenty. . . . Mrs. Elliot brocht a' thae flowers the day an' pit them as ye see them; an' I was to tell ye she'll be here the morn's mornin'.'

Later, Jean and her secretary sat over their coffee.

'You will be glad to go to bed,' Jean suggested, as Miss Barton tried unsuccessfully to conceal a yawn. 'Two of the maids are here, Mrs. McCosh tells me, to take you to your own quarters. It's only a minute's walk. One gets odd impressions of a new place, arriving at night, but things look better in the morning.' The girl agreed politely, and asked if she were to come to The Rigs in the morning, or work at The Neuk.

'Well--when things are in their usual place I'll come to you every morning, just as I do at home, but to-morrow--to-morrow, I fear, will be a very unsettled day. Just work away by yourself, will you? There'll be rather an accumulation of letters to go through, I expect. Bring them over to me at tea-time.'

They rose and stood by the fire. Jean said: 'You have everything you need? You are sure? I hope they have a good fire in your room, and everything comfortable. I'll see it to-morrow. . . . Good night, Betty, sleep well. I expect you feel rather far from home.'

'Oh, no, thank you, Lady Bidborough. I can't feel far away from what I haven't got! Good night.'

The door closed behind the girl, and Jean stood looking about the empty room. How familiar it was, and yet how strange!

Pamela had filled the place with chrysanthemums, the single ones that Jean loved: they were beautiful, against the yellow walls. . . . Every one was kind, and it was absurd to feel so desolate. She gathered together some belongings and proceeded upstairs to bed.

A murmur of voices from the kitchen meant that Mrs. McCosh and Ninny were enjoying their talk.

All was peace upstairs. Peter lay asleep in Jock's old room, with Black Douglas in his basket beside him.

Alison shared a room with Elsie, who was making everything tidy before going to bed. Quentin was with Ninny.

Jean went into her own room. Her things were unpacked and put away; her dressing-gown and slippers toasted before a bright fire. It was cosy and welcoming, but how small the room seemed, and shabby. . . . She had been so proud of this room: the Indian rug had seemed such an extravagance: she had made the curtains and bedcover herself. . . . It was cruel to look critically at it, for once it had seemed so fine, but--it was Jean Jardine's room, not Lady Bidborough's.

'You can't go back,' Jean told herself, rather bleakly. 'You can't go back.'

She sat down by the fire and tried to think over what had been happening. The past six weeks seemed to her like a confused dream. There had been so much to arrange, such endless plans to make, so many people to see, and over everything had brooded the thought of parting. 'Anyway,' Jean told herself, 'that's over. Now that Biddy's really away, every day is bringing him back. At least----' She sighed as she thought of the waste of waters that already lay between her and her love.

She rose and took a step to the writing-table, and stopped.

'No,' she said to herself. 'I shan't begin a letter to-night. It'd be sure to tell how home-sick I was. In the morning I'll be better.'

Before Jean got into bed she opened her wide window and let the cold clean air, smelling of autumn, rush in.

The sound of Tweed over its pebbles mingled with her dreams.