People Like Ourselves (Scottish Historical Novels). Anna Buchan
envied that man. Not that I could rise to such Oriental heights. The beggar's bowl wouldn't do for me. I cling to my comforts: also, I am sure Sir Purun Dass left himself no loophole whereby he might slip back to his official position whereas I—— Well, the Politician thinks I have gone for a three months' rest cure, and at sixty one is not impatient. You will say, 'How like Pam!' Yes, isn't it? I always was given to leaving myself loopholes; but, all the same, I am not going to face an old age bolstered up by bridge and cosmetics. There must be other props, and I mean to find them. I mean to possess my soul. I'm not all froth, but, if I am, Priorsford will reveal it. I feel that there will be something very revealing about Miss Bella Bathgate.
"Poor Biddy, to have such an effusion hurled at you!
"But you'll admit I don't often mention my soul.
"I doubt if you will be able to read this letter. If you can make it out, forgive it being so full of myself. The next will be full of quite other things. All my love, Biddy.—Yours,
Pam."
Three hours later the express stopped at the junction. The train was waiting on the branch line that terminated at Priorsford, and after a breathless rush over a high bridge in the dark Pamela and her maid, Mawson, found themselves bestowed in an empty carriage by a fatherly porter.
Mawson was not a real lady's maid: one realised that at once. She had been a housemaid for some years in the house in Grosvenor Street, and Pamela, when her own most superior maid flatly refused to accompany her on this expedition, had asked Mawson to be her maid, and Mawson had gladly accepted the offer. She was a middle-aged woman with a small brown face, an obvious toupée, and an adventurous spirit.
She now tidied the carriage violently, carefully hiding the book Pamela had been reading and putting the cushion on the rack. Finally, tucking the travelling-rug firmly round her mistress, she remarked pleasantly, "A h'eight hours' journey without an 'itch!"
"Certainly without an aitch," thought Pamela, as she said, "You like travelling, Mawson?"
"Oh yes, m'm. I always 'ave 'ad a desire to travel. Specially, if I may say so, to see Scotland, Miss. But, oh, ain't it bleak? Before it was dark I 'ad me eyes glued to the window, lookin' out. Such miles of 'eather and big stones and torrents, Miss, and nothing to be seen but a lonely sheep—'ardly an 'ouse on the 'orizon. It gave me quite a turn."
"And this is nothing to the Highlands, Mawson."
"Ain't it, Miss? Well, it's the bleakest I've seen yet, an' I've been to Brighton and Blackpool. Travelled quite a lot, I 'ave, Miss. The lydy who read me 'and said I would, for me teeth are so wide apart." Which cryptic saying puzzled Pamela until Priorsford was reached, when other things engaged her attention.
* * * * *
There was another passenger for Priorsford in the London express. He was called Peter Reid, and he was as short and plain as his name. Peter Reid was returning to his native town a very rich man. He had left it a youth of eighteen and entered the business of a well-to-do uncle in London, and since then, as the saying is, he had never looked over his shoulder; fortune showered her gifts on him, and everything he touched seemed to turn to gold.
While his mother lived he had visited her regularly, but for thirty years his mother had been lying in Priorsford churchyard, and he had not cared to keep in touch with the few old friends he had. For forty-five years he had lived in London, so there was almost nothing of Priorsford left in him—nothing, indeed, except the desire to see it again before he died.
They had been forty-five quite happy years for Peter Reid. Money-making was the thing he enjoyed most in this world. It took the place to him of wife and children and friends. He did not really care much for the things money could buy; he only cared to heap up gold, to pull down barns and build greater ones. Then suddenly one day he was warned that his soul would be required of him—that soul of his for which he had cared so little. After more than sixty years of health, he found his body failing him. In great irritation, but without alarm, he went to see a specialist, one Lauder, in Wimpole Street.
He supposed he would be made to take a holiday, and grudged the time that would be lost. He grudged, also, the doctor's fee.
"Well," he said, when the examination was over, "how long are you going to keep me from my work?"
The doctor looked at him thoughtfully. He was quite a young man, tall, fair-haired, and fresh-coloured, with a look about him of vigorous health that was heartening and must have been a great asset to him in his profession.
"I am going to advise you not to go back to work at all."
"What!" cried Peter Reid, getting very red, for he was not accustomed to being patient when people gave him unpalatable advice. Then something that he saw—was it pity?—in the doctor's face made him white and faint.
"You—you can't mean that I'm really ill?"
"You may live for years—with care."
"I shall get another opinion," said Peter Reid.
"Certainly—here, sit down." The doctor felt very sorry for this hard little business man whose world had fallen about his ears. Peter Reid sat down heavily on the chair the doctor gave him. "I tell you, I don't feel ill—not to speak of. And I've no time to be ill. I have a deal on just now that I stand to make thousands out of—thousands, I tell you."
"I'm sorry," James Lauder said.
"Of course, I'll see another man, though it means throwing away more money. But"—his face fell—"they told me you were the best man for the heart…. Leave my work! The thing's ridiculous Patch me up and I'll go on till I drop. How long do you give me?"
"As I said, you may live for years; on the other hand, you may go very suddenly."
Peter Reid sat silent for a minute; then he broke out:
"Who am I to leave my money to? Tell me that."
He spoke as if the doctor were to blame for the sentence he had pronounced.
"Haven't you relations?"
"None."
"The hospitals are always glad of funds."
"I daresay, but they won't get them from me."
"Have you no great friends—no one you are interested in?"
"I've hundreds of acquaintances," said the rich man, "but no one has ever done anything for me for nothing—no one."
James Lauder looked at the hard-faced little man and allowed himself to wonder how far his patient had encouraged kindness.
A pause.
"I think I'll go home," said Peter Reid.
"The servant will call you a taxi. Where do you live?"
Peter Reid looked at the doctor as if he hardly understood.
"Live?" he said. "Oh, in Prince's Gate. But that isn't home…. I'm going to Scotland."
"Ah," said James Lauder, "now you're talking. What part of Scotland is 'home' to you?"
"A place they call Priorsford. I was born there."
"I know it. I've fished all round there. A fine countryside."
Interest lit for a moment the dull grey eyes of Peter Reid.
"I haven't fished," he said, "since I was a boy. Did you ever try the Caddon Burn? There are some fine pools in it. I once lost a big fellow in it and came over the hills a disappointed laddie…. I remember what a fine tea my mother had for me." He reached for his hat and gave a half-ashamed laugh.
"How one remembers things! Well, I'll go. What do you say the other man's name is? Yes—yes. Life's a short drag; it's hardly worth beginning. I wish, though, I'd never come near you, and I would have gone on happily till I dropped. But I won't leave my money to any charity, mind that!"
He walked towards the door and turned.
"I'll leave it to the first