The Rutherfurd Saga. Anna Buchan
made plans for the future, Mrs. Jackson regaled her family circle with an account of her expedition to the Borders. They sat, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson and their son Andrew, in the dining-room of Deneholm. It was a fairly large room, elaborately decorated, with two bow windows and a conservatory.
Mr. Jackson and his wife sat at either end of the long oval table, while Andrew faced the fire-place. There was a reason for that. Behind him was a picture which his mother did not consider quite delicate. When it had been first bought and hung, and Andrew was expected home from school, she had arranged that he must change his seat and sit where he could not see it. Now he was thirty-two, and unlikely to be affected by any picture, but he still kept his back to it.
A long shining damask cloth covered the table, and the only decoration was a tall vase of rather packed-looking chrysanthemums. One felt had there been a daughter things would probably have been different. No large white table-cloth for one thing, but a polished table with embroidered mats: no bleak, tall vase, but a wide bowl with flowers.
Wherever Mrs. Jackson went, though it were only into town in the car to shop, she gave her men-folk on her return a circumstantial account of everything that had happened to her. Accustomed to her ways, they were apt to pay but a cursory attention to her talk.
To-night she was still somewhat breathless from the late home-coming and her hurried dive into the gown which she described as “a semi-evening,” but between spoonfuls of celery soup she bravely panted out details.
“Oh, it was a lovely drive,” she began. “Not at first, of course, for there was all that coal district to go through—Hamilton and those places. But afterwards, the Clyde valley, and round Lanark, and down the Tweed. . . .” She turned to the parlour-maid, “Another bit of bread, Mary. Thanks.” Then, “. . . I got an awful fright as we left Lanark; we very nearly ran over a wee dog.”
Mr. Jackson laid down his spoon and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He was a small man with sandy hair turning grey, and a scrubby moustache.
“What kind of place is Rutherfurd?” he asked.
But his wife was not to be hurried. “I haven’t got that length yet,” she said placidly. “We went away down past Peebles—d’you remember, Father, we stayed at the Hydro there one Easter? Was that before the War, I wonder? I think so, for Andy was with us, and we met yon people from Manchester—d’you mind their names? They stayed with us afterwards at Innellan; the man had asthma. . . . I don’t care much for Galashiels, it’s awful steep about the station yonder, but it’s lovely all round about it. We seemed to go a long way down the Tweed, and, of course, I had no idea whereabouts Rutherfurd was. In the end we had to ask. We came to a cluster of cottages—mebbe they called it a village, for there was a post office—and a man told us it was the first gate-house we came to, about two miles farther along the road. Sure enough we came to it, white-washed, with creepers, and an old woman who curtseyed as we passed. The drive winds, and crosses a stream with bridges about three times, and there are parks with deer. Deer—fancy! I wondered if we were ever coming anywhere, then we turned a corner and there was the house.”
She stopped dramatically.
“A good house?” asked her son.
“Beautiful. How many houses have I looked at, Father? Nine, is it? and not one of them was just what we wanted. Two were only big villas—we’ve plenty of them in Pollokshields. The old ones were awfully damp and decrepit. One was built in a hollow and got no sun, and the oldest of all was nothing to look at—it would have been a waste of money to buy it. . . . But Rutherfurd’s a place you’d be proud of.”
Mary removed the soup plates and presently they were engaged on the fish course.
“It’s a big house,” Mrs. Jackson continued as she ate her sole, “but not overpowering, if you know what I mean. A butler let me in—quite the old family servant—and I left my coat in the outer hall. Then he took me through the hall, a place just like a big room, with tables and chairs, and papers lying, and into the drawing-room. My word!”
“Was it very splendid, Mother?” Andrew asked.
“No, Andy, I don’t think you’d call it splendid; because everything in it seemed to be about as old as the Flood, but it was beautiful in a queer way. I think you’d like it awfully. And it was all panelled in squares, and above the fire-place there was a picture let in, a picture of—well, I declare if I haven’t forgotten who it was, Somebody of Somewhere. . . . Are you better pleased with these potatoes, Father? I tried another shop. Not any mutton for me, please, I’ll just take some vegetables. They’re quite your way of thinking about furnishing a room, Father, not a photo anywhere, and I don’t think I saw a single ornament. . . . Well, I stepped very gingerly over the polished floor till I found a good high chair, and presently the door opened and in came a girl. A young thing she looked, not more than two-and-twenty, with reddy-brown hair. I couldn’t tell you whether she was pretty or not, for her eyes fair beguiled me. She stood for a second and looked at me and an expression passed over her face that made me feel I had no business to be sitting there. But it was gone in a flash, and she came up and took my hand so kind like, and said, ‘Mrs. Jackson?’ Like that. D’you know, I never knew Jackson was a bonnie name until she said it. My! I’d give a lot to speak like yon. . . . Then she said, ‘You’ve come to see the house, haven’t you? Will you let me show you over?’ and off we went together. She took me everywhere and talked away as if she’d known me all her life. Sensible talk, too, considering who she is, for those kind of people are always queer. Just once, when we were looking at a long row of portraits, I asked who the handsome man was, and she said, ‘That’s my great-grandfather. He was mad.’ ”
Andrew Jackson laughed suddenly, and asked, “What did you say, Mother?”
“What could I say? I just said, ‘Fancy!’ Like that, ‘Fancy!’ But imagine anybody saying a thing like that about a relation.”
“Probably she only meant that he was known to be eccentric, a character.”
Mrs. Jackson nodded, willing to think the best of her new friend. “Mebbe that was it, Andy. . . . There are twelve large bedrooms and eight smaller ones—all very shabby; I don’t think they can have had anything papered and painted for ages. I got my tea, too. When we’d seen pretty well everything, this girl—I didn’t know who she was till later—took me back to the drawing-room. Tea was all ready, as cosy as you like before a fine fire, and two ladies sitting. One was Lady Jane Rutherfurd, the mother of the girl—my girl; and the other girl was a niece—Miss Burt.”
“And what,” asked her son, “was the name of ‘your’ girl?”
“Well, Andy, I can’t tell you, but it sounded to me like Nee-coal, and that’s a daft-like name. The other was plain Barbara. I didn’t like her much. I knew fine what she was thinking of me. Common. She handed me my tea as if I was a school treat. . . . But Lady Jane’s a fair delight. I saw in a minute where the daughter got her pretty ways. But, oh, poor soul, she did look sad! Of course, I made no remark, but I saw by the deep mourning that they had had a loss, and I talked away to make it easier for them. My girl’s awful cheery. It would take a lot to daunton her, but she’s young, of course; it’s hard for older folk. . . . I asked them if they’d be taking away all the furniture, but they didn’t say. It would be nice if we could keep it just as they have it, then we’d be sure it was right. . . . And, Father, I’d like if you could arrange to keep on the butler, he gives such a tone to the house. Some butlers are just like U.F. elders, but he’s more like an Episcopal clergyman, tall and clean-shaved and dignified. There’s a footman, too.”
Mr. Jackson stared at his wife.
“Good gracious, woman, what are you talking about? You’d think the whole thing was settled. D’you suppose I’d have any use for a place like that? A barracks of a place evidently, unsuitable in every way, far too far from Glasgow. . . .”
“Well,” said his wife, calmly stirring the sugar in her coffee, “you’re determined to buy a place in the country and there’s no good in swallowing the cow and choking on the rump. If we’re to have a place it