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“Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.”

Love’s Labour’s Lost.

Sir Samuel departed the next morning immediately after breakfast, to finish his business, and get the train back to London, and Beatrice saw him go with a relief that she felt slightly ashamed of, for, as she told herself, he had really tried to be kind.

As she turned from saying good-bye to him Fairlie stopped her with:

“Excuse me, Miss Be’trice, but could you spare a minute to say what’s to be done with all the things? Oh, I know”—as the girl turned away—“it’s awfully hard for you, but it’s better to do it now when your heart’s as sore as it can be, than put it off and have it hanging over you. Come, ma dearie. I’ve laid out everything and all you need to do is just to nod your head, for I think I know where the mistress would have liked the things to go. I mean, of course, the ordinary things. The furs and lace you’ll be keeping. . . . But she had such a lot of good, well-made, sensible clothes and shoes—and they’ll be a fair godsend to some decent bodies. Mistress Gregor, for one; she’s worn the same coat for that many winters I’ve lost count.”

As Fairlie talked she guided Beatrice upstairs and into her mother’s bedroom, fresh and sweet as it had always been, with a west wind blowing in through the open windows, and the crystal and silver shining just as she had liked it. The sight of the garments, many of them so familiar, forced the hot tears to the girl’s eyes, but Fairlie talked on as if she noticed nothing.

“I wouldn’t send anything to a Jumble Sale if I were you, Miss Be’trice. It’s different to give them where you know they’ll be valued. My, this costume would be a treat to that poor delicate woman—what’s her name? Miss Ralston—that the mistress set up in a wee shop. You see, it’s decent clothes that’s the difficulty. They can manage along no’ that bad, but there’s little over for clothes and boots.”

“Oh, I know, Fairlie, and I’m more than willing that the things should go where they’ll be useful, but——”

“That’s all right then,” said Fairlie, in her comfortable, reassuring way. “I’ll see about getting them all parcelled up. And the—the personal things? Will you take them with you?”

“Is there any hurry? I won’t be leaving for some weeks probably.”

Fairlie stopped folding clothes and asked, “Did Sir Samuel not say to you that he wanted everything out of the house as soon as possible? I understood that all your own things were to be stored or sent down to Greenbraes at once, because the house had been sold and they wanted immediate entry. . . . The things in this room, dearie, are all yours, mind that; they’re your mother’s things.”

Beatrice looked round. “I’d hate,” she said, “not to keep the dressing-table and anything that goes with it, and those painted bottles, and the Morland prints, and the worked stool that stood before the dressing-table . . . . they can be sent to Greenbraes in the meantime.”

“Of course they can. I’ll take them there myself and see that they’re put in a proper place. . . . You wouldn’t like to live down there, Miss Be’trice? It’s a bonny place.”

“Yes. You always liked Greenbraes, Fairlie. I don’t know, I may settle there some time, but I was thinking that I’d like you to go there for the winter. Mr. and Mrs. Shields would be glad of your company, and I would feel that there was something to bring me back to Scotland. At present I’m like a knotless thread.”

“Toots, you’re nothing of the kind. You’ll be having a grand time in London with Lady Dobie. And I’d like fine to go to Greenbraes, for I get on well with the Shields, and I’d have the things she liked round me. No, no, we’ll no greet, ma dearie. . . . Here’s Agnes. What is it, Agnes?”

“Mrs. Lithgow wonders if you could see her, ’M? She’s waiting in the library.”

Beatrice shrank back, crying, “Oh, I couldn’t, Fairlie; I couldn’t—No, that’s silly. I’ve got to see people some time. Please tell Mrs. Lithgow, Agnes, that I’ll be down in a minute.”

“There’s a brave lassie,” encouraged Fairlie. “Just you give your face a sponge with cold water and you’ll be fine. Away down afore you’ve time to think about it.”

Mrs. Lithgow’s eyes filled with tears as Beatrice came in in her black frock, and she kissed her, and murmured sympathy, and sat down still holding the girl’s hand. Beatrice felt very uncomfortable. She did not know whether to let her hand lie in the visitor’s warm suede-covered grasp, or gently withdraw it finger by finger, and the problem so absorbed her that she hardly heard the first part of the conversation. When she did become aware of what Mrs. Lithgow was saying—“And now, dear Be’trice, I want you to come home with me. Yes, just now. I don’t know what your arrangements are for the future, but I can’t bear to think of you alone here. So long as you stay in Glasgow our house is your home. I daren’t go back without you. Both Mr. Lithgow and Peggy gave me my orders, ‘Bring Be’trice back with you’ ”—Beatrice gasped with horror. To go, at this time, to stay with strangers—though she had known the Lithgows all her life she had never been intimate with them—to leave Fairlie and her mother’s room and the loved familiar things! It was unthinkable. And yet here was Mrs. Lithgow, dressed in black to show nice feeling, positively exuding kindness and sympathy; how could she throw it back in her face?

“The room’s ready, the fire burning and all, and Peggy’s away out to get flowers,” said Mrs. Lithgow, and every word seemed to draw the net closer round the girl.

“Oh, but—you are too kind,” she murmured.

“Kind? Nonsense. I was at school with your mother, and we put our hair up the same day. I’m very sure Janie Boyd wouldn’t have let my Peggy be alone if I had been the one to be taken. Now, you ring for Fairlie and get a case packed and I’ll call for you in about an hour. I’m just going down town to do some shopping. . . . Now, my dear, you mustn’t mind me being so, so precipitate. Sometimes we’re the better of having our minds made up for us. . . . Don’t you worry about things here, Fairlie will manage. Your mother always said she could trust Fairlie with anything. You’ll be better out of the way—I’ll be back about twelve. Ta-ta.”

As the door shut behind Mrs. Lithgow Beatrice stood and apostrophised herself as a weak fool. Why had she not said firmly that it was impossible for her to leave Park Place in the meantime, that there was much to arrange and that she must be on the spot to direct—instead of allowing herself to be dictated to like a child. There must be some way out of it. What if she went to bed and left a message with Fairlie that she wasn’t well? She could imagine how Mrs. Lithgow’s kind face would lengthen! All her preparations wasted, the fire, Peggy’s flowers. . . . It wasn’t fair, perhaps, to thwart people’s efforts, but oh, why were people so set on being kind?

Reluctantly she went upstairs to tell Fairlie. “I shan’t stay more than two nights,” she promised herself.

“You’ll just see,” said Fairlie soothingly; “you’ll mebbe like it fine. . . . You’ve nothing much to pack—just the coat and skirt and the lace dress (I took off the cape last night after you went to your bed and I think it hangs better now), but Mrs. Lithgow won’t have company when you’re there; it wouldn’t be seemly. And I’ll try to do everything here just as you would like, and of course I can always ring you up if there’s anything I don’t know about. Sir Samuel didn’t say when they’d expect you in London?”

“No. He said Lady Dobie would write. Now that everything’s changing and breaking up, perhaps the sooner I go to London the better. After all, Fairlie, they are my relations in a way, and I ought to feel nearer to them than I do, say, to the Lithgows.”

“Of course,” Fairlie readily agreed, “blood’s thicker than water.”

“I’m Elaine’s step-aunt. It’s a ridiculous relationship.”

“Oh, ay, but you’re aged more like sisters, only four or five years between you. I mind Miss Elaine at Greenbraes long syne. An impident wee thing she was, ordering us all about! She was as dark as you was fair; she was but a bairn then and you were a long-legged lassie.”

“It sounded an alarming household,” Beatrice went on, “from Sir Samuel’s description. They seem all so occupied that I doubt if they’ll ever take in that I’m coming!”

“No fear of them; they’ll be only too glad to have you. . . . Is Mistress Lithgow calling for you, did you say? See you’re ready in good time, dearie. Mistress Lithgow’s a lady that’s always rather before her time than after it, and it wouldn’t be nice to keep her waiting. I’ll take the suitcase to the front hall to be ready.”

Beatrice smiled faintly. “I’ll not be late, I promise you. It’s a blessing I’ve still got you to keep me right.”

True to her word she was in the hall when Mrs. Lithgow’s Sunbeam drew up at the door, and earned for herself a word of praise from that lady.

“That’s right, always be punctual. I’ve simply no use for the haphazard ways of the girl of to-day. Some of Peggy’s friends are just awful: don’t reply till the last minute and then refuse, or else accept and never turn up. But I can tell you if they treat me like that once they don’t get the chance again. Peggy just laughs and says, ‘What does it matter?’ But it’s not good manners and it does matter.”

Beatrice smiled non-committally and made some remark about the beauty of the day, a subject her companion eagerly followed up, for she was anxious that there should be no pauses.

“Yes, isn’t it? I think Glasgow on an autumn morning’s just lovely, and there’s such a nice cheery feeling of everything beginning again, people settling down after the summer, ordering winter clothes.” She stopped, feeling she was being tactless, and started again brightly and at random. “Did you ever see anything lovelier than that flower-shop there? So tasteful the way the autumn leaves and the flowers are arranged! It’s a very good shop that. I always go there for my wreaths . . . I’ve been reading a very nice book just now. I wonder if you’ve read it. It’s called—what is it called? I’ll forget my own name next, anyway it’s awfully nice. I’ll let you have it when I’ve finished reading it. Oh, there’s Mrs. Murray! She doesn’t see us.” Mrs. Lithgow leant forward and waved frantically but without success. “She’s been tempted out by the good morning to take a walk; she’s heavy on her feet, poor body. And here we are at home, and here’s Peggy.”

Mrs. Lithgow’s daughter had been watching for the car from the dining-room window and came running down the front door-steps to welcome the guest. She was a happy-looking girl, with a mop of dark hair and breezy manners, and after she had kissed Beatrice affectionately she began to chaff her mother about some mistake that lady had made.

“You who are so particular, Mother! Always down on me for my slap-dash ways. But I don’t put wrong letters into right envelopes. Mrs. Morris has just been to ask if you’re going to help her with her beano for mothers—I don’t know what it is—next Wednesday, for the reply she got from you this morning began ‘Dear Lucy,’ and as Mrs. Morris’ name is Janet she gathered it wasn’t for her.”

Mrs. Lithgow sat down on the settle in the hall, and clucked with her tongue at her own stupidity.

“Now, isn’t that awful! I was writing to Lucy Beatson at the same time. I never did such a thing in my life before. Anno domini, I suppose! But you needn’t look so triumphant, Peggy—need she, Be’trice?—it’s easy done.”

“Ah, but it’s fine once in a while to get a handle against Mother! Come along, Bee, and I’ll show you your room. It’s nice of you to come to us!”

They mounted two flights of stairs, Peggy explaining: “Mother wanted you to have the spare room on her floor, but I thought you might like to be up beside me—the view’s nicer.” She went to the window. “If it’s clear you can see right away to the hills. And we can share a bathroom. It’s a shabby affair compared to the one downstairs, but it’ll do. And I’ve put in lots of books, and a comfortable chair, and you stay up here just as much as you like. Now, don’t mind refusing if Mother wants to take you out and you’d rather stay in. You’re to do just what suits you best. They’ve brought up your case; shall I ring or would you rather unpack your own things? All right. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“No, oh no. What a lovely, comfortable room! And the flowers! You’ve taken a lot of trouble, Peggy.”

“Bless you, no. I liked it.” She bent down to sniff at a bowl of violets, hesitated for a moment and then said, “I’ll leave you now. Lunch is at 1.15 prompt.”

Beatrice went over to the window when the door closed, and stood looking out at the neat little back gardens of the crescent, the roofs of innumerable houses, and, far away, a line of blue hills all glorified by the noonday sun. It was odd to find herself an inmate of Mrs. Lithgow’s household, but then, she told herself, everything from now on would be odd and unfamiliar. Sometimes—not very often—she had gone to stay for a night or two at some one’s house, for a dance, perhaps, or some festivity, but how gladly had she hastened back to Park Place and her mother. That had always been the real fun of a visit, to recount to her mother everything that had taken place. And now there was no mother and very soon there would be no Park Place.

But no, she wasn’t going to pity herself. . . . Glancing at the clock she remembered Peggy’s warning and began laying out what Fairlie had packed, and her hands were washed and her hair smooth when the gong sounded. A sister of Mrs. Lithgow’s, a Miss Turnbull, who lived quite near in a very select boarding-house, was also at lunch, and the conversation never flagged, chiefly owing to Peggy’s efforts. Beatrice was grateful to her for behaving naturally, more especially as Miss Turnbull felt it right to adopt for the occasion a subdued manner and a lowered tone, and kept casting sympathetic glances at the black-frocked girl opposite to her.

“Peggy has such high spirits,” she said, apologetically, across the table.

“And why not?” demanded that young woman. “If I hadn’t high spirits now when would I have them? I’m only rejoicing in my youth as the Bible tells us to do.”

“Before the evil days come,” added her mother, helping herself to red-currant jelly with her mutton.

“Oh,” said Peggy, “I expect the evil days’ll come all right, but I should think you’re better able to bear them if you’ve done some rejoicing before. Life’s good and bad for everybody, but more good than bad for most. I’m sure, Mother, you haven’t much to complain of.”

“Indeed I haven’t,” said Mrs. Lithgow. “So far I’ve had what you might call a flowery path. And even in these hard times Father’s business isn’t too bad. Not what it was, of course, but so far he’s been able to keep on his men, and that’s a great relief to his mind. When I think of some people I know with big houses they can’t sell and practically no income, I can tell you I’m a thankful woman. And you, Ella,” she turned to her sister, “you’re about as well off as it’s possible to be—not a worry in the world.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Miss Turnbull protested. “These are difficult days for every one, and my dividends aren’t what they were, and the taxes take a big slice. But, of course, I’ve nothing to keep up, and I know exactly what my living costs me. Oh, I’ve many blessings; a nice circle of friends, books——”

“And bridge,” supplied her niece. “Bridge is your great stand-by, Aunt Ella. I forget if you play, Bee.”

“I don’t,” said Beatrice. “Somehow—we seemed always to be doing something else, and only two of us. . . .”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Lithgow quickly. “I don’t know that I’d ever play myself if it weren’t for Father; he likes a game of an evening. But I’d as soon have my work or a book. . . . Ella, I read that book you recommended, but I must say I thought it very queer. The mother going on like that! Such notions writers have now, hardly one of them can write a decent, straightforward story.”

“Well,” Peggy explained, “they’re not writing for you or your friends. They’d scorn to. . . . If they think of you at all it’s only to wish you were out of the world.”

“Well, I never!” said Mrs. Lithgow, looking round helplessly. “Peggy, what a way to talk! What have I ever done to writers? The only one I ever met was that brother of Mrs. Warwick’s, and I never thought he was right in the head, but I’m sure I’ve done nothing to deserve——”

“The fact that you exist is enough,” said Peggy inexorably. “You’re middle-class and middle-aged, two of the things the bright young writers hate most. . . . and you’re decent and clean-minded and you can’t expect them to pardon that.”

Poor Mrs. Lithgow could only shake her head, and her sister, with something of a condescending air, as of one more used to the ways of the world, began to comfort her. “It’s true in a way what Peggy says, Nettie; some of these younger writers are quite unbearable. You’d think no one over thirty and respectable had a right to live! But most of the people they’re hitting at are blissfully unaware of their efforts, don’t know the writers exist, in fact, so no harm is done. I must say it rather amuses me to read those books just to see how far they’ll go.” She addressed Beatrice. “I find reading a great comfort. I hope you are fond of books?”

Beatrice said she was, and Mrs. Lithgow broke in, “I should say so. She’s been brought up among books. I think her mother read about every important book that came out; and highbrow weeklies and quarterlies; there was always a table piled with them. I used to feel such an ignoramus when I looked at them. I never get further than a novel.”

Immediately after lunch Miss Turnbull hurried away to keep an engagement, Peggy went off on some business of her own, and Mrs. Lithgow ordered the car and took Beatrice for a long drive, during which she spoke without intermission, except when for a few minutes she was overcome by sleep. Beatrice was rather miserably aware that had her kind hostess not been so keen on doing her duty by her guest, she would have spent the afternoon asleep in her comfortable chair by the fire.

Mr. Lithgow was at home for dinner, a small man with a cheerful, ugly face. His way of showing sympathy with his guest was to press on her the choicest viands at his disposal and a large selection of beverages.

“You wouldn’t like a little white wine? No? Well, what about some green ginger—Crabbie’s green ginger, a grand warming thing in cold weather? No? Well, some cider then? Well, lemonade?”

Beatrice, touched as well as amused, could not refuse the lemonade, whereupon Mr. Lithgow told her the story of a country girl at a dance who said that the worst of lemonade was that it was “sae bowffy.” He chuckled with delight, and advised Beatrice to tell that story to her London relatives and see what they made of it.

After dinner Peggy’s fiancé, Harry Lendrum, came in, and he and Peggy indulged in a war of words which seemed to afford them much satisfaction. They were as good-looking and cheerful a young couple as anyone could wish to see. Mrs. Lithgow’s pride in them was obvious, though she pretended that Beatrice must be shocked at their behaviour.

“Children,” she commanded, “stop arguing and behave yourselves. We’d better have a quiet game, something we can all join in. Be’trice doesn’t play bridge.”

Beatrice was conscious of nothing but a burning ache at her heart. Peggy, with her mother and father and her big Harry—how rich she was! No wonder she could laugh and be glad, with life so full of interest, so crammed with things to do, so crowded with people who were fond and proud of her. Lucky Peggy, she thought. And kind Peggy, she added, as, noticing the wistful look on her friend’s face, the girl held her hand for a moment in a warm grasp.

Mrs. Lithgow absolutely refused to let Beatrice go back to Park Place.

“Nothing of the kind,” she said. “Here you’ll stay till you go to London, and the longer that is the better we’ll be pleased. Fairlie can come here every day and report. You need more things? Well, we’ll send for them. I’ll take you along this very day to Park Place and you’ll tell Fairlie what you want; that’s easy enough surely.”

And Beatrice, comforted in spite of herself by the warm kindliness of the Lithgow household, was thankful enough to remain.

On the fourth morning of her visit she got a letter from Lady Dobie saying they would be glad to see her in Portland Place on the 15th of October—the Monday of the following week.

She told Mrs. Lithgow as they sat in the morning-room after breakfast. It was Mrs. Lithgow’s time for reading the paper: she went through the Herald and Bulletin from cover to cover, exclaimed at the different brides, mourned over any premature deaths, shook her head over political muddles, and turned hastily away from reported crimes.

This morning, just as she was finishing the papers, Mrs. Murray was announced. She came in explaining that she was out very early as Mr. Murray had gone with the ten train to London, and she had been to the Central to see him off.

“I’m interrupting you,” she said, “but I won’t stay a minute.”

“Who are you interrupting?” asked Mrs. Lithgow. “I’m doing nothing, nor is Be’trice. Peggy’s the only busy one—just listen to her.”

Peggy used the morning-room for many purposes, sewing, telephoning, writing notes for her mother. To-day she was carrying bowls of bulbs from one place to another, and as she worked she whistled loud and clear like a boy. Her mother, remembering a saying of her country up-bringing, told her that “whistling maids and crowing hens were not canny about any man’s town,” and turning to her friend said, “Did you ever hear that proverb, Mrs. Murray?”

Mrs. Murray shook her head rather hopelessly. “I daresay I have,” she said, “but I hardly dare commit myself to a statement now. My memory’s something awful. It’s a humiliating thing to have to confess, but I have to write down everything I mean to do in a wee book, and then, as likely as not I lose the book! And my purse! And my spectacles! It’s become a joke in our house, ‘What’s Mother lost now?’ but I can tell you it’s no joke to me. I take many a cry to myself. I often wish I had a daughter like Peggy to run and search and keep me right.”

“You needn’t wish that,” said Peggy, pausing with a bowl of bulbs in each hand. “You’ll get daughters-in-law all in good time; when Tom and Richard have stopped butterflying from flower to flower.”

Mrs. Murray sighed and said, “Daughters-in-law are no better than they’re called. I really came in this morning to see if Be’trice wouldn’t come and pay me a visit. It would be a real kindness on her part.”

“Oh, but you mustn’t steal her from us,” cried Mrs. Lithgow. “Why, she’s only just come, and I said this would be her home so long as she stayed in Glasgow, didn’t I, Be’trice?”

“You did indeed, and I’m more than grateful for your kindness, and for Mrs. Murray’s, but I’ve just had a letter from my step-sister saying they’ll be ready for me on the 15th. That is Monday, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Mrs. Lithgow. “Still, of course, they are your nearest. D’you know Lady Dobie well?”

“Hardly at all,” said Beatrice. “D’you care to see her letter?”

Mrs. Lithgow took it eagerly. She had a passion for reading letters, anybody’s letters, even if she knew nothing of the writers, but in this Lady Dobie she took a profound interest.

“Yes,” she said, handing it back a minute later, “quite a nice letter. I’m sure I hope you will be happy with them. And now,” briskly, “what about getting things ready? You would need to have everything as nice as possible.”

“Why, Mother,” Peggy protested, “are you implying that Beatrice hasn’t?

“No, no, I’m sure she has everything perfect. But London, you know. And Portland Place. Not to speak of Lady Dobie. You’ve seen her photo in the papers, haven’t you, Mrs. Murray?”

“I may have,” said Mrs. Murray guardedly, “but you see so many queer sights in the papers.”

“And you’ll need to be a lot smarter in London than in Glasgow,” Mrs. Lithgow continued. “Will you order some things at once, or would you rather wait till you get to London, Be’trice?”

“What do you think?” said Beatrice, while Peggy broke in, “What a mercy that it’s Beatrice and not me! Bee is all right, she’s been a lot abroad and picked up an English accent. They’ll never suspect, Bee, that you hail from Clyde-side. But I’d give away the show at the start.”

“What show?” said her mother. “Are you pretending to be ashamed of Glasgow, Peggy?”

“Only pretending,” said Beatrice.

“I should hope so,” said Mrs. Lithgow.