The House That is Our Own. O. Douglas

      CHAPTER VII

       Table of Contents

      It was warm, with a latent shiver in the air that made

       the warmth only the more welcome.

      Weir of Hermiston

      Isobel slept so deeply that night that when she woke all recollection of the events of the day before had passed from her mind, and she was surprised to hear unfamiliar sounds.

      Starting up she found herself looking, not at her net-curtained window in the Queen’s Court Hotel, but—the window being wide open—straight out to the miniature glen, with the burn and the rowan-trees. Some calves were looking through the fence at a black-and-white collie, and it, in turn, was watching a yellow cat on the prowl. Two lambs gambolled absurdly; a cock was crowing, someone was whistling; a new day was well begun.

      Isobel looked at her watch. Half-past six. Two hours before she could go downstairs. Mrs. Bruce, she knew, would have enough to do getting the room and breakfast ready for the time appointed, without her lodger getting in the way; so, reaching for her writing-pad, she began a letter to Kitty Baillie.

      “Dearest K.,” she began. “It is 6.30 a.m., and I have just woken up. I long to dress and go out, for there are all sorts of exciting things to see—calves and pet-lambs (at least I think they must be pet), a collie-dog, a burn with rowan-trees, and a hillside, but the hour is too ridiculous, so, instead, I am starting a letter to you.

      “I’ll tell you later what I think of Glenbucho as a place, meantime, know that the rooms are all one could desire, clean—such pure white sheets I never encountered before; it must be the soft water and clear air—a comfortable bed, and—luxury!—a bathroom to myself. I had an idea that in Scotland they hadn’t even water in the house, and was bracing myself to wash in a tin basin, so the shining new bathroom came as a delightful surprise. It is quite palatial in size, having once been a small bedroom, and has a lovely view. I remember once, at Stratford-on-Avon, having a bathroom from which one saw the Avon and the spire of Shakespeare’s church; this one looks out to the hillside. From the sitting-room you see the garden and the stackyard, with the main road (not very ‘main’) and the hills beyond.

      “My landlady, Mrs. Bruce, is fifty-ish, I should think, with a long, stern face and a most uncompromising manner. She only began to keep lodgers last summer, and she has still the air of not being quite sure how it is going to work, but whether it is herself or me she distrusts I can’t tell. Certainly I have no complaint to make. Last night she gave me an excellent meal, high tea, or supper, whatever you like to call it: bacon and eggs, scones and pancakes, honey and gingerbread. After hotel food it tasted like nectar. My obvious enjoyment of her cooking seemed to thaw Mrs. Bruce slightly, and she stopped to talk for a little about Glenbucho Place. Her husband was born on the place, and it seems to be a real grief to both of them to see its decline. There is only the home-farm left, and the old house. It was very wise, I think, of Gideon Veitch to go to Canada to make his own way.

      “The Bruces are left to look after things as best they can. There is very little money for the upkeep of the place, and they are trying to make a little extra by taking in summer lodgers. I thought all this feudal feeling, this love for a family and a place, had died out. It is interesting to come across it here.

      “3 p.m.

      “I didn’t write much this morning after all, and as I find letters leave at 4.30, I’ll finish this now.

      “It seems a long time since this morning. Then I was a stranger in Glenbucho, now I almost feel as if I belonged.

      “After breakfast I sauntered out and made the acquaintance of the collie (he is called Yarrow), and the lambs (they are pet), and met Mr. Bruce, who is a slow-spoken, gentle creature, like so many men with managing wives.

      “I am interested in the accent here. I find they say ‘efternin’ for afternoon, ‘perk’ for park, ‘gress’ for grass, but some of their words are very broad, ‘paurlour’ and ‘ma-an’—never ‘mon’ as some writers spell it. The effect is soft and beautiful, and I can understand wonderfully well, better than they can understand me. I speak too fast and slur my words.

      “To continue. I set out to see the village of Glenbucho, and found that it is in three parts: the post-office, two churches, and a few villa-ish looking houses make one part; the station, a shop, the school, and school-house make another; the third is the real village, a row of houses on either side of the road, a shop, a burn with a bridge over it, and, round a corner, the churchyard. This scattered village lies cradled among solemn, round-backed hills, and this May morning the beauty of it made my heart leap. The hawthorn is out, and the broom and everything seems white and gold and green: the air is so tonic you feel as if you could walk for miles.

      “First I looked for Miss Agnes Home, Merchant. Her shop is the one near the station. It is built on the top of a sharp slope, and the garden runs down to a stream called Glenbucho Water. It’s a real village shop, with a startlingly loud bell as you open the door, and a smell compounded of almost everything under the sun—oatmeal, onions, paraffin oil, soap, brown paper, apples, acid-drops—a most satisfying smell.

      “Didn’t you imagine Miss Agnes Home as a gentle creature with a quiet brow? I did. But she isn’t. She is large and broad and rosy, with a friendly, forthcoming manner, a loud laugh, and a most hearty interest in everything that happens, and in everyone who enters her door.

      “She greeted me with a wide smile, and a ‘What can I do for you?’ and after I had made a few purchases I thanked her for her kindness in telling me about the rooms at Glenbucho Place.

      “ ‘Oh, ho,’ she said, standing back a little to have a good look at me, ‘so you’re at Mrs. Bruce’s. I saw you pass in Jardine’s car from the six train last night, and I just thought ye’d be going there. And are you comfortable? Ay, I thought ye would be. Mrs. Bruce hasn’t long begun taking lodgers, and she’s not very sure of herself yet, but I said to her, “Ma woman the folk that come to you’ll be in clover.” ’

      “Then she put both her hands on the counter and began to confide in me that she and Mrs. Bruce (‘Beenie Forrest she was then’) had been at the school together, and had walked four miles there and four miles back, and what a struggle they’d had on stormy days.

      “ ‘Eh, my,’ she said (you would have enjoyed her soft Border speech), ‘when I think of the bairns nowadays, jumping into motor-cars, fetched down and sent home again, I take a good laugh to myself. They’ll entirely lose the use of their legs, the poor creatures.’

      “I pointed out that a four-mile walk in rain or snow was a bad beginning to a school day, but she refused to believe it, and said it made the children strong and self-reliant. I daresay it did if they survived it!

      “Another customer coming in, I had to leave, but I look forward to many more talks with Miss Agnes Home.

      “The walk home was lovely, and I walked slowly, enjoying every step of the way. Going to the village I’d been looking south, to the Drumelzier Hills—I got Mrs. Bruce to tell me some of the names of the places up Tweed, Mossfennan, Stanhope, Crook, Hearthstanes, The Bield, Talla—aren’t they nice?—but coming home the scene was different, a wider strath, the hills lower and greener, except where Cardon raised its head. Glenbucho Place stands at the entrance of a lovely green glen which I mean to explore very soon.

      “I was back just in time for my midday meal, which was what Mrs. Bruce described as ‘broth and meat,’ which meant an excellent thick vegetable soup, then the beef that made it served with potatoes. This was followed by an apple-dumpling with cream from the cool milk-house, and I feel as if I’d had enough nourishment to last me all day! Now I’m going to sit in the garden,