And as the house itself gradually assumed its rightful air of ordered calm, as walls bloomed in clean new distemper, and chairs and sofas were clad in flowery cretonne covers which Susan made herself; as the effluvium of rat slowly faded, giving place to the pleasant smell of furniture polish and the scent of flowers; as the small army of workmen regretfully took their leave, she found herself not only able to bear Easter Hartrigg, but fond of it with the unreasoning, possessive affection reserved for what is one’s own. No doubt about it, the country and the plain-faced house had a ridiculously strong hold upon her by this time.
“We now have a local girl as cook, a perfect treasure, who rejoices in the improbable name of Donaldina Sprot. There should be another, of course, but we simply can’t afford it, and we had to have someone for outside work. Again the finances wouldn’t run to a full-grown man, but we have engaged a taciturn boy, commonly known as ‘Jems’ to clean boots and things and to help in the garden. His official title here is ‘orra-man.’ In plain English, odd-job-man. And you mustn’t imagine that all this time we have been neglected by our neighbours. Far from it. The Cunninghams are old friends of ours by now, and Oliver seems to find a constant delight in the society of Jed Armstrong, of whom I’ve written to you already. Personally, as you have gathered, I don’t find Mr. Armstrong congenial, but I welcome him gladly for Oliver’s sake, and he is a well-meaning clod.” Susan paused, and then, rather ashamed of herself, scratched out the word “clod” and substituted “creature.”
“Apart from these, it seems that almost daily I was summoned from battling with the workmen, the cook, or the furniture, and dirty and dishevelled, had to receive callers with a pleasant smile in one of the two half-finished sitting-rooms. If Oliver appeared at all, it would be looking more like a stowaway on board a tramp steamer than a retired Lieutenant-Commander of the King’s Navee. And we would sit uneasily on cushionless—and often coverless—chairs, making polite conversation while the visitors kept their eyes discreetly turned from the more obvious traces of disorder. Oliver and I striving with idiot laughter and not daring to look at each other. Probably everyone thinks we are quite mad.
“Lately an epidemic of tennis-parties has broken out, and we have sallied forth in pure white raiment, Oliver to cover himself with glory in spite of his game leg, and I with disgrace. You know how useless I am on a tennis-court, or indeed, in any place where games are played. Our own court having been allowed by the tenants to go wild, now bears a fine crop of hay, and even Oliver’s optimistic eye cannot see it as anything except a grass field.
“When are you coming to see us, Charles? All you do is to write disapproving notes—for they aren’t long enough to be dignified by the name of letters. You know how we’d love to have you, and perhaps a sight of us will make you less gloomy about our future. In the meantime I must stop this haver (as you see, I am learning Scots) and go to tea at the Manse of Muirfoot.”
Taking her letter, Susan set out with Tara, soberly gay, running ahead of her. It was a day on which the old gods might have chosen to leave their own mountain-tops for the golden haze of the Border hills. The lovely smell of new-cut hay and drying white clover filled the air, brambles were set with clusters of white blossom among their prickly leaves at the side of the old cart-road down which she walked. Tall hedges of hawthorn, the haws already beginning to show the faintest tinge of red, made a shaggy border to it on either side, and below them the flowers of late summer were blooming: sweet-scented feathery Queen-of-the-meadow, campions rose and white, St. John’s wort and knapweed and willow-herb, with long sprays of honeysuckle and blue tufted vetch lifting their heads above this tangled riot of sweetness. Tara, sniffing luxuriously, ran from side to side in distracted attempts to miss none of the alluring smells which seemed to abound there. Susan found the walk all too short, and sighed a little when she came out into the road near Muirfoot, where the village War Memorial stood, a cairn of the local stone topped by a tiny lion, which was all that funds could run to in the shape of sculpture. Many people laughed at it, and said the memorial would look better without it, but Susan liked the little lion standing defiantly on his cairn, and gave him a nod of greeting as she passed.
On her left rose the walls of the Manse steading, the old slates of the roofs gilded with lichen, the iron weathercock dated 1780 swinging in the light wind high over them all. What a lot the cock must have seen since he was first erected on the older church, Susan thought. She turned into the post office to see Mrs. Davidson, a local character who never failed to amuse her.
After serving her with the stamps she asked for, the postmistress said: “Yer paircel hasna come yet frae Lunnon, Miss Parsons. They’re awfu’ slow at thae English shopes. I’m sure it’s five days sin’ ye postcarded them.”
Swallowing the astonishment which was still liable to overcome her at such proofs of Mrs. Davidson’s omniscience, Susan assured her that it was not an important parcel, nodded good day, and prepared to cross the road.
“Ye’re for the Manse? Ay, I kent they was expeckin’ fowk tae tea, for Mistress Cunningham was bakin’ the day. When the wind’s in this airt I can smell her girdle scones as fresh as if I stood by her kitchen fire.”
“Yes,” said Susan, “I’ve been asked to tea, especially to meet the little grandchildren.”
“Ay. Bonnie bairns baith, an’ the wee laddie as like his mither, puir Miss Elspeth that was! They’ve another wi’ them this year,” went on Mrs. Davidson relentlessly. “A lassie, a kizzen on the faither’s side, so I hear. An’ that flee-awa’ lassie Jo-an Robertson frae Reiverslaw actin’ nursemaid tae them. Her! I doot she needs a nurse at her ain heels tae mind her! Weel, they ha’e their tea on the chap o’ hauf-past fower at the Manse, so ye’d better awa’ ower the road.”
Thus dismissed, Susan opened the Manse gate and went in. She found the minister, bare-headed and in a kind of clerical undress uniform, mowing the lawn. On seeing her approach, he stopped and frankly mopped his brow, further untidying his silver hair.
“Well, well,” he said in his hearty Scots voice, “so you’ve walked down from Easter Hartrigg, then, Miss Parsons? You and the doggie with you—”
They shook hands, while Tara, no great admirer of the clergy, whom he lumped with dislikeable persons such as postmen and policemen, allowed himself to be patted on the wrong place, on his head, with a courteous but aloof air, for he justly resented being alluded to as “the doggie.”
Susan herself always experienced a feeling of wariness on meeting any clergyman, and greatly preferred to see them only in church; but to this rule Mr. Cunningham had proved a shining exception from their first encounter. Even if he had not been what he was, a genial, kindly, broad-minded and upright man, of surprisingly wide interests, his passionate love of flowers would have endeared him to anyone who cared for a garden. The most rare and delicate plants flourished bravely for him, and repaid his tender care by making the Manse garden one of the sights of the neighbourhood from spring to late autumn.
That honest old-fashioned pleasance did not disdain to grow vegetables, modestly screened from the walks by glowing flower borders. Gooseberry and currant bushes offered their harvest freely, fruit-trees stood with gnarled trunks deep in blossoms. Nowhere else did sweet-pea hedges grow to such a height, or bloom with so lovely a profusion of exquisite clear colourings and fragile perfume. The long bed of Columbines fluttered their softly-tinted frilled petals in every slightest breeze like an elfin ballet, delphiniums backed the herbaceous border in massed spires of blue in every tone from grave to gay. Mrs. Cunningham could have supplied every linenpress in the county with lavender bags from the two great bushes flanking the garden door: the whole house was sweetened by its prim clean fragrance when it was gathered and laid on trays to dry in the sun. Silvery-pink peonies looked all the cooler beside their flaunting crimson sisters, lupins drew the bees with warm honied scent. The Manse garden held out its sweets to every sense as soon as the door leading into its walled beauty was op
ened.
A pomander of lovely odours for the princess of some fairy-tale could not have smelled more delicious, the colour dazzled and yet soothed the eyes, velvet or fine damask was never so soft as the grass walks underfoot or the brush of rose-petals against the cheek in passing under some laden arch. Fruit melted like gold sunshine in the mouth or tickled the palate with pleasant tartness, and birds added a song, bees a murmurous undercurrent of praise to hymn this simple paradise.
To think of the Manse of Muirfoot was to think of its garden; to think of the garden instantly called up a picture of its roses. They grew regally in a small garden of their own close to the house, backed by a tall yew hedge of great age, which made a perfect foil for them. Here were all varieties, old favourites for their dark sweet scent, newer treasures for beauty of form and hue, all in small beds carpeted with blue clouds of forget-me-not. Susan felt that she had never known, until she saw them in the Cunninghams’ garden, how superbly lovely roses could be. They demanded and received their rightful tribute of silent admiration from all who came to look at them. Some of his parishioners whispered that Mr. Cunningham would have been better advised to spend less on the garden and more on the furnishing and decoration of the Manse itself. Certainly the rooms were plain enough, empty of almost everything but the bare necessities of furniture, with flowers their only adornment. Susan, thinking of the riches out of doors, considered the Cunninghams wise. She knew that a country minister, unless he has private means, is a poor man, and the amount of money laid out on their darling garden could never have given them an equivalent result if spent on interior decoration. If young Jim was at Cambridge, it was because he had won a scholarship, and his parents had pinched and saved to lay aside the remainder of the money necessary. Peggy, though always neat, was plainly dressed, as was her mother; and while the family lived so simply as to be almost frugally, their gracious hospitality might have given points to many a wealthier host and hostess.
Susan, therefore, approaching them cautiously, liked them at once, and was pleased to find that they liked Oliver and herself in return. The liking increased as they came to know each other better. Familiarity did not breed contempt in this case, for real goodness, especially when salted by a sense of humour, excites respect wherever it is found. The minister’s solid virtues were never obtrusive, Mrs. Cunningham’s gentle blue eyes had a merry glint in them which had carried her triumphantly through many a parish squabble. Jim and Peggy—the latter in particular—had an innocent gaiety which was most refreshing. It only remained for Susan to see what the beloved grandchildren, all they had left of their elder daughter, were like.
“I hope I’ll see the children,” she said, as they walked up the drive.
“Surely, surely. They’re with Peggy in the rose-garden just now. It’s a sheltered spot and they get all the afternoon sun. We’ll just go quietly up and take a peep at them through the yew hedge, and you’ll see them at their best, Miss Parsons. Pity that a child’s lack of self-consciousness lasts such a short time.”
Holding Tara by the scruff of his indignant neck, Susan followed the minister over the turf in conspiratorial silence towards the opening cut in the high dark wall of the yew hedge. A sound of voices came from behind it, and she peeped cautiously as commanded.
Peggy was sitting on the dry grass, her white cotton frock, sprigged with pink and blue flowers, spreading out round her, the sun shining down on her bare golden head. A small boy, with hair of the same bright gold, was carefully crowning her with a daisy wreath as she read from a book in her lap to two little girls who sprawled beside her, their four brown legs waving in the air. The ceaseless chatter of Colin seemed to disturb the party as little as the sleepy cooing of wood pigeons in the beeches beyond the yew hedge.
“Pitty Peg! Pitty Peg!” said the small boy.
And when he came at London’s court,
He fell down on his knee.
“Thou art welcome, Lockesley,” said the Queen,
“And all thy good yeomandree,”
read Peggy to her breathlessly attentive audience.
Mr. Cunningham interrupted them. “I’ve brought you a visitor—” and they all jumped up.
“Two visitors, Grandaddy,” said one of the little girls reprovingly, and stroked Tara’s head.
“Is that your dog?” asked the other, a small witch with silvery curls and dark eyes.
“Yes. Do you like him?”
“All but his tongue. He wants to wass my face with it,” she said, avoiding a moist pink kiss with difficulty, for Tara’s face and her own were on a level.
“It needs to be washed anyway, Cilly,” said Peggy laughing, “before tea.”
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Peggy,” Susan said. “You all looked so happy without us.”
“It’s a good thing you did. I was getting hoarse, and we were coming towards the end of Robin Hood, and I didn’t know what we were going to do about it. Death-bed scenes always make Cilly cry!”
“Is Cilly your niece, or the ‘wee kizzen’ Mrs. Davidson has already told me about?” asked Susan.
“Cilly is the ‘wee kizzen.’ Our two are much plainer, I’m afraid. Bun, Colin, come and shake hands—if you aren’t too dirty——”
“I’m not ezackly scooplusly clean,” said Bun advancing politely and extending a grubby paw. “But Colin’s dirtier, far,” she added cheerfully.
Colin, hearing his name, came no nearer, but burst into a roar of laughter, astonishingly loud for so small a person.
“What a terrible laugh,” Peggy said. “It’s quite new. I never heard it before this summer.”
“He learnt it from a wee boy next door at Granny Richardson’s,” said Bun calmly.
She might not have her cousin’s elfin prettiness, but her broad brow, her serious, wide-set eyes and clear colouring, were very attractive. An unusual-looking child, with straight thick dark hair tied back into two funny little pig-tails, with beautiful sturdy legs and upright carriage, there was something haunting about her. Charming creature though Cilly was and always would be, Susan felt that Bun was the one who would remain longest in the memory. As for Colin, he was the delightful mixture of rogue and cherub which goes to the make-up of every nice small boy, and his conversation consisted generally of parrot-like imitation of his elders’ remarks.
“Here’s Jo-an come for you, to make you tidy for tea,” said Peggy.
A pretty red-haired girl in blue print dress and white apron stood hesitating at the far end of the rose-garden. The children went to her, Colin running ahead of the others, and clutching her round the knees.
“My nice Jo!” he shouted joyfully.
“How pretty Jo-an looks,” murmured Peggy. “I’d like to take a photograph of her with Colin.”
Susan nodded, but something about the girl, her small, still, secret face, troubled her. This was Mrs. Robertson’s “flee-awa’ lassie.” Surely no child was ever less like her parents; this looked more like a fairy’s changeling than the daughter of those two hard-faced Borderers, the grieve at Reiverslaw and his wife. She answered Peggy respectfully enough, but unsmiling, and her glance passed quickly over the children as swift and unheeding as a bird in flight. Only when Colin said again: “Nice Jo! Take me up!” her frozen expression melted to human warmth, a smile curved her small red mouth. She stooped with the same bird-like swiftness, lifted the little boy in strong arms, and followed by Cilly and Bun, went away to the house.
“A difficult lassie,” said Mr. Cunningham. “Her parents find it hard to keep her contented at home, and she won’t stay in a place. I don’t know what’s to come of her.”
“But father! She likes being here,” Peggy said eagerly. “And you can see she’s really fond of Colin. I’m sure she’ll go to the Richardsons when it’s their turn to have the Infantry, and—oh, she’ll settle down. After all, she isn’t any older than I am, and she’ll marry someone—”
Privately, Susan wondered if she would. Jo-an Robertson did not look cut
out to be a ploughman’s or shepherd’s wife; but: “Now you’re being fanciful,” she told herself sternly. “The girl is just the same as others, except that she looks moire discontented.” Aloud she only commented on the name “Jo-an,” pronounced with two syllables in the old Scottish fashion.
Mrs. Cunningham met them at the door, and greeted Susan with the unfeigned pleasure which made it a delight to visit the Manse.
“Come away in,” she said in her gentle lilting voice. “Yes, of course, the doggie can come too. He won’t touch pussy, I know.”
“No, he won’t,” Susan assured her, for Tara’s calm ignoring of the very fact that such an animal as the cat existed or was ever created, would have been ludicrous if he had not managed to make it impressive.
Tea was delicious, with newly baked scones light and fluffy as feathers, dark heather-honey, and blackcurrant jam still tasting sunnily of the ripe luscious berries which had gone to its making, and yellow butter like solidified cream.
“I always mean to give up tea,” Susan said pensively, “but somehow I can’t bear to. I put it off from day to day, and then at last an afternoon comes when I’ve really made up my mind very firmly only to drink a cup of tea and eat nothing. And then of course I find that Donaldina has made some particular bun or cake, and I have to eat it or she’d be hurt. Rather than run the risk of hurting Donaldina’s feelings I’d get as fat as any pig.”
The Cunninghams all laughed, even the children. It was one of their charms as a family that they were so ready to enjoy anything that could possibly be taken for a joke. They greeted it not with polite unamused smiles, but honest and appreciative laughter.
“There’s not much danger of anyone as active as you getting fat,” said Mr. Cunningham.
“I know it’s unfashionable, but I do like a good tea,” said his wife. “Are you not for another cup, James? You’ve not had your second—”
Susan Settles Down Page 6