The Rutherfurd Saga. Anna Buchan
eight Mrs. Jackson and her son were being admitted into the hall of Langlands. Mrs. Jackson’s heart, she would have told you, was in her mouth, but she got a crumb of comfort as soon as the door opened and it was this—the Langlands’ butler could not compare either in looks or deportment with Johnson. She felt oddly uplifted by the fact, and was able to leave her cloak, and follow the butler with something like equanimity, though for days the thought of the moment when she would be ushered into a gathering of strangers had almost made her swoon.
There were only about half-a-dozen people in the room when her name was announced, and she stotted forward on her high heels towards the out-stretched hand of a tall lady in a soft grey gown who was hastening to greet her.
“Mrs. Jackson. I’m so glad to meet you at last. I’ve been so unfortunate missing you twice. . . . My husband——”
The next thing Mrs. Jackson knew was that she was sitting on a comfortable high chair talking to her host, at least, Lord Langlands was talking and she was making little gasps of assent. She looked round her. Lady Langlands was talking to Andy, very thin she was, not young, but striking looking, with a small head like a deer.
“Mrs. Jackson, I don’t think you know Mrs. Kilpatrick.” Her host was speaking, and she found herself shaking hands with a young woman with a bright colour and a fashionable head. Her dress was cut very low and finished prematurely, revealing a pair of stalwart legs and somewhat unfortunate ankles, her lips were painted an unconvincing carmine, her voice was shrill and she spoke with an affected lisp, but she was very pleasant, and assured Mrs. Jackson that she would have been to call on her long ago, but her infants had chicken-pox.
“A troublesome thing,” said Mrs. Jackson in her comfortable voice that made one think of warm nurseries and soft little garments and violet powder. “It’s such a long infection. Three weeks, isn’t it? I mind Andy—my son, you know—had been playing with a wee boy who took it, and we kept him in quarantine, as they call it, for a whole three weeks, and the day he should have gone back to school there were the spots!—real provoking. But it’s an easy trouble once you get it. I hope your children are better?”
“Oh, thanks, I think so. Nurse says they’re perfectly all right. I haven’t seen them myself for about a week. Tim and I have been away and only got back to-night.”
“Is that the way of it?” said Mrs. Jackson, and with that dinner was announced.
“We’re a man short,” Lady Langlands said, “but it doesn’t matter, for we’ll walk in just anyhow. Jean, lead the way. . . .”
It was a round table, and Mrs. Jackson found herself between her host and a small horsey-looking man who, she saw by the name-card, was Major Kilpatrick, the husband of her vivacious young friend. Having cast one glance at him she decided that she could do nothing for him in the way of conversation, so she turned her attention to her host. Her first remark was somewhat unfortunate. Looking round the room she said, “My! this is a fine house for a big family.”
“Yes,” Lord Langlands said, without enthusiasm. The nurseries at Langlands were empty. . . . “How do you like Rutherfurd?”
Mrs. Jackson looked him full in the face, gave one of her beaming smiles, and said, “We like it fine. At first, you know, I wasn’t sure about living in the country, always being used with the town, and not caring much for country sports or gardening or visiting cottages, but we’ve settled down wonderfully. Andy, my son over there, has taken to it like anything and tramps about in knickerbockers quite the country gentleman. Mr. Jackson, of course, has to be a great deal in Glasgow—he’s in London to-night, that’s why he’s not here—but he’s quite pleased with Rutherfurd too. Of course, you know the place?”
Lord Langlands laid down his soup spoon. “Walter Rutherfurd was my greatest friend. We were at school together, and Oxford together, and his boy Archie was my namesake.”
“Is that so? You’ll miss them. Ucha! I’m awfully sorry for poor Lady Jane losing her boys and her husband like that. Indeed, I don’t know how she goes on at all, and yet she’s wonderfully bright, too.”
Lord Langlands murmured something, and his companion continued.
“Have you heard how they’re liking Fife? Fancy having to go to a house in a street—I understand it’s not even a good villa in a garden—after Rutherfurd! Mind you, some people are tried in this world.”
At that moment Lord Langlands’ attention was claimed, and Mrs. Jackson turning her head met the glance of Major Kilpatrick and had, perforce, to make some remark.
She smiled shyly and said, “Isn’t it wonderful weather for the time of year?”
“Oh, not bad, not bad. . . . D’you hunt, Mrs.—eh—Jackson?”
“Me?” Mrs. Jackson began to laugh. Was this jerky little man trying to be funny? “I never was on a horse in my life. You see, I’ve always lived in Glasgow, in Pollokshields. D’you know Pollokshields? It’s an awfully nice suburb.”
“Oh, I’ve been to Glasgow,” said Major Kilpatrick. “At the Motor Show, you know, and catching trains and that sort of thing. Bit grimy, isn’t it? What!”
Mrs. Jackson at once rose in arms. “Not a bit grimier than any other big town. Bless me, its smokiness is just a sign of its prosperity.” She gave a sigh. “It’s a fine place, Glasgow. I’m proud, I can tell you, to belong to it.”
“Quite right. By Jove, yes. Stick up for the place you belong to, that’s what I always say. But this part of the world’s not bad either, you know, and Rutherfurd’s far the nicest place round about. What times I used to have there with Ronnie and Archie. It was dashed hard luck that they had to sell it.” Major Kilpatrick ate a few mouthfuls rapidly, and continued: “Not that it’s not jolly nice having you there, you know, Mrs. Jackson, but the Rutherfurds—well, the Rutherfurds, we all know them, don’t you see?”
“That’s what I said myself,” his companion assured him. “The first time I went to look at the place they were so kind and pleasant to me, and I just said, ‘What a down-come from Lady Jane Rutherfurd to Mrs. Jackson.’ ”
Major Kilpatrick laughed uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t say that. Oh, by Jove, no, I wouldn’t say that. . . . By the way, does your son hunt?”
“He never has, but he’s going to learn. You see, since ever he came home from the War he’s been pretty close kept at it, learning the business, but now that we’ve bought a place, Mr. Jackson wants Andy to be more or less a country gentleman, if you know what I mean? Father’s not what you’d call an old man—sixty-four; that’s nothing, when you see pictures of people quite spry at a hundred—and he’s quite able to look after the business himself—in fact, he prefers it. He has a wonderful business head, Father has, as sharp as a needle. I think, mebbe, Andy’s more like me, inclined to be dreamy-like. And he likes the country; he’s as fond of that old house as if his ancestors had lived in it for hundreds of years.”
“Is he though? By Jove.”
“Yes. I sometimes think it would comfort Lady Jane to know that the one who’ll come after us likes the place so well.”
Major Kilpatrick agreed, and in the pause that followed addressed a remark to the lady on his other side.
Mrs. Jackson sat crumbling her toast and watching her fellow-guests. Andy was talking to Mrs. Douglas and laughing at something she had said. His mother decided that he was much the best looking man at the table. Lord Langlands had a big nose, and stooped, and was rather like some great bird; Major Kilpatrick was an ugly little man with a comical face; Colonel Douglas was red-faced and bald; but Andy looked really well in his white tie and waistcoat, not handsome exactly, but solid and kind and dependable. He glanced her way and she nodded and smiled to show that all was well with her. . . . She liked Lady Langlands, she decided; she had a grave, almost a sad face, and a gentle manner. Mrs. Douglas seemed quite an old friend and Mrs. Jackson felt a proprietary pride in her very smart appearance—how well she put on her clothes. Mrs. Kilpatrick of the carmine