The Rutherfurd Saga. Anna Buchan
Then comes three lasses and the twins, an’ thae three.” She looked at the two playing gravely at her feet with a broken melodeon, then she chirruped to the baby, who leapt and plunged in her arms like a hooked trout.
“Ay,” said his mother encouragingly, “I ken ye’rs a wee horse. I ken fine ye’re a wee horse. By! ye’re an awfu’ ane.”
Lady Jane’s eyes met those of Mrs. Brodie over the head of “the wee horse,” and she said, “You’re a happy woman, Mrs. Brodie, with your children all about you.”
“Ay, I mind ma mither aye said a wumman’s happiest time was when her bairns were roond her knees, an’ she gethered them under wan roof when nicht fell. I’m thrang eneuch, guid kens, but it’s hertsome wark.”
She nodded to the mother and daughter as they left her, remarking that they were getting a fine day for their walk.
Miss Symington was in, they were told, when they had rung the bell at Ravenscraig, at which intelligence Nicole cast an exultant glance at her mother.
There was no one in the drawing-room, and the housemaid lit the gas-fire and left them. The room had an unused feeling; no books lay about; in one of the big bow windows there stood on the floor an aspidistra in a yellow pot.
“It looks lonely,” Nicole said, eyeing it.
Miss Symington came in, apologising for having kept them. She was dressed to go out, and looked oddly bulky in her coat and skirt and round felt hat beside the mother and daughter in their slim long coats and close-fitting hats.
It was obvious at once that if there was to be any conversation it would have to be made by the visitors.
Nicole, poising her card-case between the tips of her fingers, smiled gaily into the somewhat unresponsive face of Miss Symington and began to talk. She and her mother tossed the ball of conversation deftly to each other, appealing often for confirmation to the shadowy third, putting remarks into her mouth until that lady began to feel that she shone in company.
As they were leaving, “You have a nephew,” Nicole said.
“Alastair,” said Miss Symington.
“Yes, Alastair. He and I made friends on the rocks the other day. Is he in? I expect he’ll be out this fine day?”
“He goes out every afternoon from two to four.”
“Perhaps some day you would let him come to tea with us? My mother likes boys—don’t you, Mums?—and Alastair is such a lamb. He must be a great delight to you.”
Alastair’s aunt seemed surprised at this assertion.
“I do my best for him,” she said, “but I’m afraid I don’t understand boys. I would never think of asking a boy to come to see me for pleasure.”
Lady Jane leant forward, smiling. “Do bring Alastair to tea with us, Miss Symington, and we’ll all try to amuse each other. Which day? Wednesday?”
“I’ve a Mothers’ Meeting that afternoon.”
“Thursday, then?”
“Yes, thank you. We shall be very pleased, though I don’t see why you should be bothered having us. What hour?”
“Oh,” said Nicole, “shall we say four sharp, then we’ll have time to play after tea. That’s fine.”
As they walked down the gravel-path Nicole said, “I’m so glad I brought the indoor fire-works left from our last children’s party. I nearly gave them away, not thinking that Kirkmeikle might produce a small boy. . . . Miss Symington’s a nice woman, Mums, you think? Very, very well-meaning and decent.”
Lady Jane looked back at the house as they went out of the garden gate into the road.
“It is odd that a woman can live in a house like that and make no effort to make it habitable. I wonder if it has ever occurred to her how ugly everything is. I didn’t see one single beautiful thing. . . . She has nice eyes, Miss Symington, like clear pools, and I think she is utterly sincere.”
Her daughter nodded. “I know, but she is inarticulate, isn’t she? I felt ashamed of talking so much, but what could I do? . . . This is Knebworth. Here lives one Mrs. Heggie, with at least one daughter and, I daresay, others that we know not of. Quite a different type, to judge from the house. . . . Isn’t this fun? Let’s greet the unknown with a cheer. An electric bell this time, and, I expect, a much smarter parlour-maid. . . I thought so.”
She followed her mother and the short skirts and high heels of the maid through an ornate little hall, complete with a fireplace and ingle-neuk and red tiles, into the drawing-room. It was a room of many corners and odd-shaped windows, comfortably furnished, the walls hung with reproductions of famous pictures. Tall vases filled with honesty and cape-gooseberries stood about, and a good fire burned on the red brick hearth. A small book-case fitted into a niche held a selection of the works of the most modern writers, while on a table lay some magazines.
Mrs. Heggie was seated on a low chair beside the fire, with a writing-pad on her knee, and a bottle of ink perched precariously on the rim of the fender. As she rose to greet her visitors paper and envelopes and loose letters fell from her like leaves in an autumn gale. She was a tall, stout woman with a round face and an all-enveloping manner.
“Well now,” she said, as she held out one hand to Lady Jane and the other to Nicole, “isn’t this nice? and to think I nearly went out this afternoon! If it hadn’t been for some letters that I knew simply must go to-day nothing would have kept me in.”
“But,” said Lady Jane, “I’m afraid we are interrupting you—your letters——”
“Letters,” Mrs. Heggie said airily, thrusting her visitors into two arm-chairs, “they can wait: it’s hours till post-time, any way.” She subsided into her own low chair and asked in tones of deep interest, “And how d’you think you’re going to like Kirkmeikle?”
“Very much indeed,” Lady Jane replied. “We were lucky to get such a nice house. You know it, of course—the Harbour House?”
“I don’t. The Harbour House is a sealed book to me, and I’ve always had the greatest desire to see inside it. There is something about it—the crow-step gables and long, narrow windows facing the sea—that fascinates me. I’ve often tried to see in when I passed! Mrs. Swinton was a queer woman. She never visited the other people in Kirkmeikle. I suppose she had her own friends and kept to them, and of course she was quite right, if that was the way she was made. People are so different. Now, I’m miserable if I don’t know everybody. I don’t think I’m a busy-body, but I do take the greatest interest in my neighbours and their concerns, and if I can do anything to oblige them I’m just delighted. Rich or poor, I like people and want to be friends with them.”
“Hurrah!” said Nicole. “I feel like that too. Life is much too short to be exclusive in. One misses so much.”
Mrs. Heggie beamed at the girl. “That’s what I always say. You’ll find Kirkmeikle very friendly—what there’s of it. I suppose everybody has called?”
“Let me see,” Nicole said gravely: “Miss Symington, Mr. and Mrs. Lambert, Dr. Kilgour and Miss Kilgour, Mr. and Mrs. Buckler—you and your daughter.”
Mrs. Heggie nodded her head at each name. “That’s all,” she said. “Are you returning all the calls to-day?”
“We hope to,” said Lady Jane, the corners of her mouth turning up. “We have just seen Miss Symington and are going on to the Bucklers.”
Mrs. Heggie sat forward. “You’ve seen Miss Symington? She’s very nice, quiet and solid, but very nice. Does a lot of good with her money. She’s very rich, you know, though you wouldn’t think so to look at her. She’s like her father: all he cared for was missionaries and evangelistic meetings. D’you know, every week-end Miss Symington has a minister of sorts staying with her! She keeps up the Mission-hall her father started in Langtoun