Priorsford (Historical Novel). O. Douglas
she said, 'our plans are altered. Biddy is going abroad, and I am taking the children to Scotland for the winter.'
Lady Agnes laid down her knife and fork. 'What!' she said. 'That's my last out-post gone! Jean, are you and Biddy going to separate. . . . And I banked on you two.'
'Really, my dear!' her mother warned her, 'you go too far. Jean--what has happened, my dear?'
'Biddy, you tell this time,' Jean cried. 'I seem to have been recounting it all morning.'
'What a nuisance,' said the Duchess, when things had been explained. 'I quite see that you can't very well do anything else, but still. . . And I was relying on you, Jean, to take Agnes out next winter and let me be lazy at home.'
'And I thought you'd help with the play we're doing in October,' Lady Agnes said; 'there's a perfect part for you. Oh! and my ball in December! It's too bad, Jean.'
'I shall miss you all sadly,' Jean said.
'I wonder!' Lady Agnes munched a salted almond and studied her hostess. 'Biddy, I think you're rash to let Jean go back to Priorsford. She loves it too well. . . . And there's something so very nymph-ish about her, I'd never be surprised to find her becoming the shade under the beech-tree or whatever it was the girl became in the story.'
'Most unlikely,' said the Duchess comfortably. 'Though I'm selfishly sorry we're to lose you for a winter, I think Jean will be greatly the better of getting away from us all for a little. I hope you will get a rest from responsibilities, my dear.'
Her daughter scoffed. 'Not she! The Priorsford people--horrible creatures I'm sure they are--will have "the face ett off her." Are you going back to The Rigs? Really, Jean? Well, I'm coming to stay with you whether you ask me or not. Yes, I'm determined to see Priorsford with my own eyes, and Mrs. McCosh, and Bella Bathgate.'
Jean nodded. 'Of course. We'd love to have you. But don't come expecting too much, and be disappointed. I'd hate anyone who didn't appreciate Priorsford.'
When the luncheon guests had departed others arrived for tea, and it was not till dinner was over that the husband and wife could finish their morning talk.
'Wasn't I right, Jean, not to leave you here? As Agnes puts it, elegantly, the neighbours would have "the face ett off you!" You're too popular, my girl.'
Jean was leaning back in a chair by the wide open window enjoying the evening air that came in sweet with a thousand scents.
'Not so much popular,' she said lazily, 'as soft. It's easier for me to do things than refuse, and people have found that out--I've written to Miss Janet Hutton, Biddy, to ask if there's a furnished house to let for the winter near The Rigs. I didn't want to trouble Pamela when she is away. Besides, Pamela really doesn't know much about Priorsford. She and Lewis keep themselves very much to themselves in their green glen at Laverlaw. . . . Did you ring up the steamer people?'
Lord Bidborough came over and sat on the window seat.
'They can give us the accommodation we want on a ship sailing on the 25th September--the Duchess of Inverness or something. I've written to Tim sending him all details--he'll be in a fever until things are settled.'
'Oh, Biddy, it makes it so dreadfully definite, a fixed date. As Ninny says "a set time soon comes."'
Biddy nodded gloomily. 'I'm wondering why I ever considered going. To leave you with so many responsibilities--the children, two places to run, and all your own money to worry about! If anything happens, if you're too worried, cable, and I'll come as quick as I can be brought.'
Jean patted his hand reassuringly. 'Don't let's be silly,' she said. 'Just think of soldiers and Indian civilians and other people who spend their lives parting from their best beloved! I've been reminding myself all day how little I have to complain about. Indeed, I won't cable for you. You're quite capable of trying to fly home from Australia and arriving with a dunt.'
CHAPTER III
'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