Complete Works. Anna Buchan
day since he came I seem to have got lonelier and lonelier, and the sight of your familiar face and the sound of your kind voice finished me…. I'm quite sensible now, so don't go away. Tea will be in in a minute, and the boys. Isn't it fine that Davie will be home to-morrow? D'you think he'll be changed?"
Lewis Elliot stayed to tea, and Jock and Mhor fell on him with acclamation, and told him wonderful tales of their new friend, and never noticed the marks of tears on Jean's face.
"Jean, what is Lord Bidborough's Christian name?" Jock asked.
"Oh, I don't know. Richard Plantagenet, I should think."
"Really, Jean?"
"Why not? But you'd better ask him. Are you going, Cousin Lewis? When will you come and see Davie?"
"Let me see. I'm lunching at Hillview on Friday May I come in after luncheon? Thanks. You must all come up to Laverlaw one day next week. The puppies are growing up, Mhor, and you're missing all their puppyhood; that's a pity."
Later in the evening, just before Mhor's bedtime Lord Bidborough came to The Rigs. Pamela was resting, he explained, or writing letters, or doing something else, and he had come in to pass the time of day with them.
"The time of night, you mean," said Mhor ruefully "In ten minutes I'll have to go to bed."
"Had you a nice time this afternoon?" Jean asked.
"Oh, ripping! Coming up by Tweed in the darkening was heavenly. I wish you had been with us, Miss Jean. Why wouldn't you come?"
"I had things to do," said Jean primly.
"Couldn't the things have waited? Good days in December are precious, Miss Jean—and Pam and I are going away next week. Promise you will go with us next time—on Saturday, to the Eildon Hills."
"What's your Christian name, please?" Jock broke in suddenly, remembering the discussion. "Jean says it's Richard Plantagenet—is it?"
Jean flushed an angry pink, and said sharply:
"Don't be silly, Jock. I was only talking nonsense."
"Well, what is it?" Jock persisted.
"It's not quite Richard Plantagenet, but it's pretty bad. My name given me by my godmother and godfathers is—Quintin Reginald Fuerbras."
"Gosh, Maggie!" ejaculated Jock. "Earls in the streets of Cork!"
"I knew," said Jean, "that it would be something very twopence-coloured."
"It's not, I grant, such a jolly name as yours," said Lord Bidborough—"Jean Jardine."
"Oh, mine is Penny-plain," said Jean hurriedly.
"Must we always call you Lord?" Mhor asked.
"Of course you must," Jean said. "Really, Mhor, you and Jock are sometimes very stupid."
"Indeed you must not," said Lord Bidborough. "Forgive me, Miss Jean, if I am undermining your authority, but, really, one must have some say in what one is to be called. Why not call me Biddy?"
"That might be too familiar," said Jock. "I think I would rather call you Richard Plantagenet."
"Because it isn't my name?"
"It sort of suits you," Jock said.
"I like long names," said Mhor.
"Will you call me Richard Plantagenet, Miss Jean?"
The yellow lights in Jean's eyes sparkled. "If you'll call me Penny-plain," she said.
"Then that's a bargain, though I don't think either of us is well suited. However—now that we are really friends, what did you do this afternoon that was so very important?"
"Talked to Lewis Elliot for one thing: he came to tea."
"I see. An excellent fellow, Lewis. He's a relation of yours, isn't he?"
"A very distant one, but we have so few relations we are only too glad to claim him. He has been a very good friend to us always…. Mhor, you really must go to bed now."
"Oh, all right, but I don't think it's very polite to go to bed when a visitor's in. It might make him think he ought to go away."
Lord Bidborough laughed, and assured Mhor that he appreciated his delicacy of feeling.
"There's a thing I want to ask you, anyway," said Mhor.—"Yes, I'm going to bed, Jean. Whether do you think Quentin Durward or Charlie Chaplin would be the better man in a fight?"
Lord Bidborough gave the matter some earnest thought, and decided on Quentin Durward.
"I told you that," said. Jock to Mhor. "Now, perhaps, you'll believe me."
"I don't know," said Mhor, still doubtful. "Of course Quentin Durward had his sword—but you know that way Charlie has with a stick?"
"Well, anyway, go to bed," said Jean, "and stop talking about that horrible little man. He oughtn't to be mentioned in the same breath as Quentin Durward."
Mhor went out of the room still arguing.
The next day David came home.
The whole family, including Peter, were waiting on the platform to welcome him, but Mhor was too interested in the engine and Jock too afraid of showing sentiment to pay much attention to him, and it was left to Jean and Peter to express joy at his return.
At first it seemed to Jean that it was a different David who had come back. There was an indefinable change even in his appearance. True, he wore the same Priorsford clothes that he had gone away in, but he carried himself better, with more assurance. His round, boyish face had taken on a slightly graver and more responsible look, and his accent certainly had an Oxford touch. Enough, anyhow, to send Jock and Mhor out of the room to giggle convulsively in the lobby. To Jean's relief David noticed nothing; he was too busy telling Jean his news to trouble about the eccentric behaviour of the two boys.
David would hardly have been human if he had not boasted a little that first night. He had often pictured to himself just how it would be. Jean would sit by the fire and listen, and he would sit on the old comfortable sofa and recount all the doings of his first term, tell of his friends, his tutors, his rooms, the games, the fun—all the details of the wonderful new life. And it had happened just as he had pictured it—lucky David! The room had looked as he had known it would look, with a fire that sparkled as only Jean's fire ever sparkled, and Jean's eyes—Jean's "doggy" eyes, as Mhor called them—were lit with interest; and Jock and Mhor and Peter crept in after a little and lay on the rug and gazed up at him, a quiet and most satisfactory audience.
Jean felt a little in awe of this younger brother of hers, who had suddenly grown a man and spoke with an air of authority. She had an ache at her heart for the Davie who had been a little boy and content to lean; she seemed hardly to know this new David. But it was only for a little. When Jock and Mhor had gone to bed, the brother and sister sat over the fire talking, and David forgot all his new importance and ceased to "buck," and told Jean all his little devices to save money, and how he had managed just to scrape along.
"If only everyone else were poor as well," said Jean, "then it wouldn't matter."
"That's just it; but it's so difficult doing things with men who have loads of money. It never seems to occur to them that other people haven't got it. Of course I just say I can't afford to do things, but that's awkward too, for they look so surprised and sort of ashamed, and it makes me feel a prig and a fool. I think having a lot of money takes away people's imagination."
"Oh, it does," Jean agreed.
"Anyway," David went on, "it's up to me to make some money. I hate sponging on you, old Jean, and I'm not going to do it. I've been trying my hand at writing lately and—I've had two things accepted."
Jean all but fell into the fire in her surprise and delight.
"Write! You! Oh, Davie, how utterly splendid!"
A torrent of questions followed, which David answered as well