“We must have a look at this painter of yours,” said Robin Anstruther. “Sure he isn’t all your imagination, like the burglar?”
“How mean of you. I hope he wakes up and comes down to threaten you with the Last Trump,” said Kate, flushing under his amused stare.
“Well, never mind him just now. He’ll keep till after lunch. I want to taste that beer,” and Andrew led the way to the kitchen.
Kate, meditatively eating ham sandwiches in a corner beside the rather smelly oil-stove on which her kettle was slowly and unwillingly coming to the boil, could see the two men sitting on the table over by the window, quite silent, but apparently pleased to be with each other. She remembered how Robin Anstruther and Andrew had always been friends, and wondered a little if the break in Andrew’s home life had made any difference. Probably not; there was no real reason why it should, and, in any case, men were much better about minding their own business than women. The kettle began to sing in a feeble protesting whine, and Kate’s thoughts drifted. Why had Andrew Lockhart come to Soonhope in this odd, sudden way, without letting anyone know? It could hardly be pleasant to him to see the house which he had lived in all his life, dismantled and chill. . . . Of course, the place was unchanged, perhaps he was homesick and felt that he must have a glance at it. She had gathered from his few remarks to Robin that he was on his way north to shoot. ‘I’d have done exactly the same thing myself,’ Kate decided. She felt a fresh interest in this first cousin of her mother’s, whom she had not seen very often since she grew up, and not at all for the past five years. But if he were so devoted to Soonhope, then to run away and leave it as he had done must have taken some influence so powerful that it was almost frightening to think about, like the sudden breathless shock of jumping into very cold water, or trying seriously to realize that each star in the sky was a world on its own. . . . Then the kettle boiled over, putting out the oil-stove, which revenged itself by smelling even more hideously than before, and Kate hurriedly made tea.
The men, gulping the remains of beer even more hurriedly, told her that the kitchen was no longer inhabitable by persons not equipped with gas-masks, and left. She could hear them talking, with an occasional burst of laughter, in the hall, before their voices died away. Evidently they had gone upstairs to view the painter.
“I wish them joy of him!” said Kate, flinging the window wide open, and sitting on the sill with a cup of tea in her hand.
4
The fumes from the oil-stove gradually became less obnoxious and finally vanished altogether, blown by the fresh air. Kate had finished her tea in great content, and was halfway through a cigarette before she began to wonder what the others were doing. The thunder had rolled far to the south, and the sun was making a million rainbows of the heavy drops that hung trembling from every leaf and blade of grass.
Loud bumping noises on the backstairs, which wound down from a turret to the kitchen, brought Kate to her feet, and as she reached the door at the foot of the stair and opened it, a pair of large hobnailed boots appeared in mid-air round the corner a little above the level of her eyes.
“Good heavens!” she said, recoiling.
“Steady with the feet, below there!” came Robin Anstruther’s deep voice, a little breathless. “I don’t want to scrape the Sleeping Beauty’s head all down the wall. Bad for the plaster—”
“All dashed fine for you, but I’m going backwards, and the damn’ things are sticking out over my shoulders,” complained Andrew. “I hope we’re nearly at the bottom.”
Kate, with fascinated interest, watched the descent of a group which somewhat resembled the Laocoön in its involved embrace. The painter’s inert form was carried with scant regard for his comfort, but he remained heavily asleep, disturbed only by the subterranean rumblings which broke forth regularly as a clock’s tick in loud hiccups, and shook both his own person and those of his bearers from head to foot.
“Like carrying a bloomin’ earthquake!” Andrew grumbled, as they staggered past the entranced Kate and out across the flagged courtyard. The procession was disappearing through the half-open doorway of the yard when she called after them: “Don’t hurt him!”
Their reassuring shout came faintly to her ears, and she hesitated, for a moment half in mind to follow and see what they were going to do. Then she shook her head: better leave them to their own devices. Interfering never did any good, least of all to the interferer. ‘Prudent again!’ she thought, and was a little surprised at her new discretion. Perhaps it was force of suggestion? Certainly she had never been in the habit of thinking before she acted, until Robin Anstruther had commended her in a sneering fashion for her prudence.
The various excitements of the morning had unsettled her, and she wandered restlessly through the bare house until she found herself in the billiard-room, staring up at Andrew Lockhart’s photograph again. He had changed a good deal since it was taken. He was thinner, graver with a kind of bitter gravity which had drawn lines from nostril to mouth, the ruddy hair had grey patches at the temples.
“Well? Having a look at the Prodigal Husband?” said Andrew’s voice behind her, and she turned round with guilty haste. “Oh, I don’t mind. I’m hardened to it,” he added, as Kate was thinking of something to say.
Annoyed both with herself and him, she answered tartly: “You needn’t be so proud of it,” and then could have bitten out her tongue for saying it. “I’m sorry, Drew. That was horrible of me!” she cried.
“My fault. It was a rotten thing to say, anyway. Why shouldn’t you look at the photograph, or anything else, for that matter, if you want to?”
“I was just—sort of glaiking at it,” stammered Kate, and I thought you were outside with Robin Anstruther. What have you done with the painter?”
“Robin’s dealing with him. There’s a lot of the old lawless spirit still in Rob, that kind of freakish Border humour that likes a rather rough joke. I found I wasn’t playing up properly, so I left,” said Andrew. “Lord, how wretched the house looks like this, doesn’t it? Pretty dismal for you, Kate. I understood that Aunt Robina was seeing to things here?”
“I’m only understudying her until it’s time for the furniture and stuff to arrive,” explained Kate. “I do so wish this hadn’t happened—the painter, I mean. It makes me look so—so incompetent.”
“My dear girl, why? You could hardly be expected to know that he was going to drink a bottle of whisky—we found the bottle, by the way, empty, in the cupboard he was painting.”
“All the same, I’d hate Lucy to know. You won’t tell her, Andrew, will you?”
“I?” Andrew Lockhart stared at her as if she had lost her senses. “Not likely. Lucy and I don’t tell each other much nowadays. No, she won’t hear anything about it from me—not even about your locking me in the cupboard.”
“If you think the cupboard will amuse her, you can tell her that. I’ll sound like a complete fool, but I don’t mind much,” said Kate generously.
“It wouldn’t amuse her in the least,” Andrew said, so coldly that Kate felt snubbed, and determined not to speak again.
“I’ll have to push off,” he said after an uncomfortable silence. “Damn’ silly of me to come, really. I wish now that I hadn’t. Good-bye, Kate. I suppose we’ll see you sometime, when things are settled here?”
He was gone, leaving Kate to wonder if Lucy had omitted to tell him that she was filling the house with his relatives as soon as it was habitable, and what he would say when he found out. She was still wondering, still staring at the smiling photograph when Robin Anstruther shouted to her from the hall.
“Hi, Kate! Come out and see your painter!”
Kate found his loud voice so cheerful and heartening that she forgave him for alluding to the painter as hers, and gladly left the empty room to join him.
“Old Drew’s looking a bit hag-ridden, isn’t her” he said suddenly, as they walked over the flags of the courtyard, which the sun had almost dried by this time.
&n
bsp; But Kate did not feel that she wanted to discuss her cousin, and she suspected that she was merely being driven into airing her views, so she said lightly: “Remorse, I expect.”
He shot her a quick, curious look, and replied: “I expect that’s it.”
“What have you done with the painter?” Kate asked firmly.
“Don’t be so impatient. You’ll see in a minute.”
“Impatience and prudence don’t seem to go well together,” observed Kate. “Oh! Here comes Mrs. Pow at last.”
“Who said you were prudent?” he asked.
“You accused me of it,” Kate said.
“And it’s been rankling, has it?”
“Not in the least,” said Kate loftily and untruthfully.
He answered with a provoking laugh, but before Kate had time to be annoyed she caught sight of the painter, and forgot everything else.
“Rather tasteful, don’t you think?” asked Robin Anstruther, surveying his handiwork with fond pride.
The painter lay on an ancient mouldering hearthrug, under a drooping rowan beside the drive. His legs were crossed midway between ankle and knee, his feet rested against an empty whisky-bottle, his arms were folded on his breast with the paint-brush like a sword at his side. On his stomach, gently rising and falling with each deep breath, was pinned a large piece of cardboard, inscribed simply, ‘R.I.P.’
“Don’t you like it?” demanded the creator of the tableau. “I call it ‘Hic jacet’—emphasis on the hic, of course.”
“It’s a masterpiece,” said Kate, and broke into a peal of laughter that hastened Mrs. Pow’s steps towards them.
On reaching the group she stopped, folded her arms, and nodded down at the sleeping knight with grim amusement. “Ay. Juist as I thocht,” she said. “I might hae kenned he’d be at the whusky, but I keekit in his bag, and there was nae bottle in’t this morning, that I’ll swear.”
“He was too clever for you, Mrs. Pow,” said Robin. “The bottle was hidden in the spare bedroom cupboard. He must have smuggled it in yesterday.”
“By! He’s an awfu’ ane!” said Mrs. Pow.
“Don’t be too angry with him,” pleaded Kate. “He’s given us a laugh, anyway.”
“Ou, I’ll no’ fyle ma tongue wi’ him,” retorted Mrs. Pow. “He can bide there till he wakens, an’ if he isna roused by the time I leave the big hoose, I’ll send ane o’ the bairns doon tae the Sidegate an’ tell his guid sister. He bides wi’ her, ye ken, an’ she’s a warrior, I’m tellin’ ye. She’ll sort him. Ay,” finished Mrs. Pow with grisly triumph. “He’ll get his kale through the reek this nicht!”
“I’m glad you didn’t say anything to Mrs. Pow about Drew having been here,” said Robin Anstruther, as he walked back with Kate to his aunt’s house. “Better not mention it even to Aunt Jean, I think.”
“I’m not quite a fool,” Kate said coldly. “Nor do I babble about other people’s business, whatever you may think of me.”
She put her hand on the little green gate of The Anchorage to push it open, but he held it against her while he said coolly: “I think, my dear, that you’re a regular spitfire. But I hand it to you for pluck. After all, you didn’t know it was Andrew you’d shoved into that press. It might have been a drunken tramp or anyone—”
“Thank you so much,” said Kate with extreme bitterness. “I appreciate both your compliments very much. Good afternoon.”
CHAPTER THREE
1
“Hannah has some sandwiches for you in the kitchen,” said Mrs. Anstruther, adding with splendid calm: “If you are going I should advise you to leave immediately, and by the back-door. I can see Flora Milligan hovering at the gate.”
“Good Heavens! Has she seen me?” Kate made a bound for the door, then stopped. “No, she can’t. Blessings on your fernery, darling. Is that why you cherish it?”
“I find it useful,” admitted Mrs. Anstruther.
“I bet you do. Isn’t it rather despicable of me to creep away and leave you at Miss Milligan’s mercy?”
“I don’t think,” said Mrs. Anstruther dryly, “that I am as much at her mercy as she is at mine, poor Flora! But she has now screwed up her courage to open the gate, so really you had better go—unless you are anxious to see her?”
“Perish the thought! I’m gone. Expect me when you see me.” And Kate made a hasty exit kitchenwards.
The grenadier, with a spasm of her grim countenance which passed for a smile, handed over a neatly tied packet. “Here yer lunch,” she said. “Samwidges an’ twa-three rock-cakes.” Taking a huge orange from a drawer in the dresser, she remarked: “It’s drouthy wark climbin’. Here an oranger. Mebbe ye’ll no’ fancy it as weel’s beer, but it’s a lang sicht better for ye. Fu’ o’ thae vitty-mings, as they ca’ them, but that’ll no’ hairm ye.”
Kate thanked her suitably, left her to answer Miss Milligan’s timid ring, and went out into the fine morning.
She had put in five days of faithful overseeing, and now a particularly lovely day tempted her to play truant from Soonhope, the more so as Mrs. Pow now insisted on supervising the painter herself. “I’ll learn him tae drink whusky an’ pent his dirty heid instead o’ the doors,” she had said darkly. And so grimly did she carry out this intention that the painter had begun to wear the hunted look of a mouse which knows that the cat is lurking for it round the next corner. Though she could not help pitying him, Kate felt that Mrs. Pow’s vigilance certainly had its uses. She was able with a clear conscience to take a holiday, secure in the knowledge that Mrs. Pow also would enjoy her day, monarch of all she surveyed, alternately harrying the painter and her husband, who was engaged in ‘sorting’ the lawn and ‘redding up’ the garden. So away went Kate through the town, along Riverside Street, where the old houses of great Lowland families, now converted into slum-dwellings for labourers, wore an air of wistful longing for the days when lords and their ladies came to Haystoun in winter, when the cobbled streets knew the echo of their horses’ hoofs and the rumble of their heavy coaches. Her way led her over the narrow hump-backed bridge, with Alewater, reduced to a summer trickle, creeping beneath the arches, and then she was free of the town at last, and open country lay before her.
There was gossamer flying, sure sign of dry weather. The fairy strands, almost invisible, brushed her face or floated aside as she walked. At the first cross-roads she left the broad macadamized surface for a real country road, red as the soil of the fields it divided, velvet-soft with dust lying thickly to be stirred up by the slow-moving carts which had left long wisps of hay trailing from the hedges. Kate, seeing the glossy brown of her shoes gradually acquiring a greyish bloom, was carried back to her childhood. She could hear the singsong voice of Highland Nannie raised in mild and ineffectual reproof: “Kit-tay! Grey! Look-you-boots!” She knew again the lovely soft slippery scrunch under those stout boots, the satisfactory little dust-storms agitated by each guiltily scuffled step.
Of course the disappearance of those gritty clouds which teased eyes, nose and throat was a boon to motorist and pedestrian alike. Kate’s common-sense and love of comfort forced her to admit this, but she felt that an arterial road, bare and ugly as its name, was something to be hurried over at top speed in a car, and avoided at all costs when walking. It was hard and unsympathetic to the feet, bordered by wires strung between concrete posts, adorned by hideous hoardings which even at night shouted the advantages of some hotel or patent food or cheaper petrol to the passers-by, and she held firmly to her private conviction that dust, a great deal of dust, would improve it by obscuring its immediate surroundings. Perhaps if trees were to be planted alongside it might be better, but the road-makers’ ambition seemed to be to cut down every tree within reach and replace it by telegraph poles which, however useful, were hardly objects of beauty. ‘The Utilitarian or Tin-Can-and-Cellophane Age,’ thought Kate, and childishly pleased with this description, which struck her as excellent, went on in great content.
Round a corner came three
carts, the drivers lying deep in the fragrant loads of hay, the horses’ huge fringed hoofs clop-clopping gently in the dust, the harness jingling. Kate, forced almost into the hedge, stood on the grey-green leaves of the silverweed to let them pass on a wave of farmyard odour. The warm air was filled for a moment with the strong smell of horses and stables, of leather, of sun-dried hay, so essentially of a piece with the summer day that she sniffed it joyfully. As she did so she seemed to hear Lucy Lockhart’s mild complaint, uttered years ago and never forgotten: “Kate is so dreadfully bucolic! She absolutely revels in all those horrible country things that smell of manure!”
A smile tugged at her mouth, and the man on the last cart, a rustic Lothario burnt almost black by constant exposure to weather, with a glint in his eye which spoke eloquently of many conquests, grinned at her and bawled a broad rural compliment above the dull rumble of the iron-bound wheels. Kate, rather wishing that Lucy had been there to look disgusted, waved gaily in reply. Presently the sound of their movement faded away behind her. She crossed a farmyard heavy with the silence of midday, and quite suddenly the road dwindled to a deeply-rutted track running straight into the Lammermuirs. A fresh breeze blew from their heights, a colder, stronger air very welcome after the heat of the valley. Larks were rising in a madness of shrill song to lose themselves in the almost colourless sky, thyme and lady’s bedstraw and bluebells took the place of vetch and crane’s-bill, heather began to show among the coarse grass.
She had eaten her sandwiches and was deep in the silent hills when she saw the sheep. It was lying with its short black legs sticking pathetically in the air, and as she caught sight of it, there was a convulsive struggle, a wild flurry of grey fleece and straining head. ‘Silly creature, it can’t get up,’ thought Kate, and stood for a moment watching, hoping that it could right itself. But a fat ewe, once on its back in a hollow, soon becomes panic-stricken and exhausted if its first attempts to get up do not succeed. She realized that she must go to the rescue, and leaving the path, made her way towards it, wading knee-deep in heather.
Yoked with a Lamb Page 6