The Rutherfurd Saga. Anna Buchan
her room, and flung open the door impressively. Barbara almost recoiled.
The room was heated by radiators, but a large fire had been ordered as well. The walls glowed rosily, the carpet also was pink, and very thick. A crystal bowl of pink geraniums and maiden-hair fern stood on the dressing-table.
Mrs. Jackson clasped her hands before her and beamed.
“It doesn’t need the fire for heat, but I thought it would be a nice welcome. I always think a fire’s just a friend.” She looked round complacently. “The room’s changed a wee bit. I hope you like it. Can you mind what it was like before?”
Could she “mind”? This had been Lady Jane’s own room and Barbara remembered every detail of it. The wall-paper had been white with a tiny sprig, and on it had hung water-colour drawings of her aunt’s old home, rather vague and amateurish, but treasured by their owner. There had been a fine four-poster bed with chintz valance round the top. In this room Nicole and Ronnie and Archie had been born.
Barbara was grateful that Nicole had been unable to come. Aloud she said, “There is a most wonderful difference. How did you manage to keep it all pink and get everything to tone so beautifully?”
“I like pink,” said Mrs. Jackson, “it’s such a cheery colour; and I wanted a complete change, for it was awful washed-out looking before.”
“Nothing had been done for a long time.”
“Oh, of course, we quite understood that. Besides, it’s far more satisfactory, I think, to do up a house to suit your own taste, and if it’s been fairly recently done it seems extravagant. I wouldn’t dare to meddle with the reception-rooms, for I’m not sure of myself, if you know what I mean, but in the matter of bedrooms I could let myself go. Our own room is yellow. Ucha! Carpet and all. They wanted me to have pale lemon walls and a grey carpet, and mebbe it would have been more artistic, but I like something strong. It’s not to call orange exactly, but it’s tending that way. I’ll let you see it. It’s lovely. Then we’ve a pale blue room, and two other pink rooms, and two pure white, suites and all—— But there, you’ll see them all to-morrow. Here am I keeping you standing all this time. Would you like to rest till dinner-time? Your luggage is all in the dressing-room so as not to litter your room. Esther’ll be unpacking it now. Isn’t that a queer name for a housemaid—Esther? I always think of the King, you know, and the poor girl going in to beg for her people, and Haman being hung and all that. Aren’t there some queer stories in the Bible? Well—I’ll leave you to yourself for a bit. . . . I’ll mebbe take a rest myself, for what with all the things I’ve got to think of, and you coming, I’m real worn out.” She still lingered, then, “Well, ta-ta,” she said, with a wave of her hand, and left her guest feeling both dazed and exhausted.
At dinner Barbara met for the first time the new owner of Rutherfurd. It was surprising to see such a rich man so thin, and he had an oddly detached air as if he had no connection with his surroundings. She found him fairly easy to talk to, but then, as she reflected, a man is always interesting when he talks his own shop.
After dinner Mr. Jackson went off at once to his own den, and Barbara talked by the drawing-room fire with her hostess and Andrew. Very soon Mrs. Jackson’s head began to nod, and her son rose and put a cushion more comfortably behind her head.
“Oh, thank you, Andy.” She roused herself to say apologetically to Barbara, “Was I nodding? Sleep comes on me like an armed man. I must ask you to excuse me. . . .”
The young people continued to talk for a little, then Andrew asked if Barbara played the piano.
“I do, but——” She looked towards her sleeping hostess.
“It’s all right,” he assured her, “it won’t disturb my mother. Will you play for me?”
They went together to the piano, and Andrew produced a pile of music.
“I play these with one finger. They’re mostly Gilbert and Sullivan. But play anything you like. I’m tremendously keen on music. . . .” So Barbara played what she could remember, and Andrew listened. Presently she broke into the music of Patience and they sang together “A magnet hung in a hardware shop” and “Prithee, pretty maiden.”
Mrs. Jackson woke up at intervals and pretended to beat time, only to doze off again.
When Johnson brought in the tray at ten o’clock he coughed discreetly to waken his mistress, and she promptly sat up, put on her slippers, which she was apt to kick off as the evening advanced, and, looking very alert and wakeful, said in a loud Englishy voice, “What a treat to have a little music. Andy, you’re in luck to-night.”
Barbara left the piano and came over to the fire.
“We’ve had quite a concert, haven’t we?” she said, holding her hands to the blaze. “Your son has a delightful voice; you should make him take lessons.”
“D’you hear that, Andy? It’s what I always say, Miss Burt. He had always a nice voice. I mind when he wasn’t more than three, he would sit beside me and sing, “Lord, a little band and lowly” and “Bonnie Charlie’s noo awa’,” as sweet as sweet. He had golden curls, Miss Burt, though you wouldn’t think it to look at him now, and he wore a wee blue velveteen suit, sort of made like a sailor but trimmed with lace—— He was an awful nice wee boy!”
Andrew looked at his mother with a quizzical expression as she retailed these confidences to their guest, but only said:
“Here’s your hot water, Mother—Miss Burt?”
“May I have some hot water?”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Jackson, “there’s nothing like it, I think, a glass of hot water every night gives you a wash inside. As my mother used to say, ‘The stomach’s an ill dish to clean’—I’m sure I hope we’ll all get a good sleep to-night and be well for to-morrow.”
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