‘I may – or I may not. It all depends how strong I feel,’ replies Tony cryptically. ‘But tell him from me he’s a lucky devil.’
‘Do come on, Hester,’ says Guthrie impatiently. ‘I thought you were in such a terrific hurry to get home.’
‘But now she is home, so there’s no need to hurry any more,’ explains Tony kindly.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and what’s more you don’t know yourself,’ exclaims Guthrie furiously. ‘You seem to think I’m half-witted – ’ ‘No, no – not half-witted.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Think it over when you get into bed,’ Tony advises him in a soothing voice. ‘You are bound to understand it in time if you persevere. Just lie flat on your back, and breathe easily through the nose–’
Guthrie turns on his heel with a muttered curse and strides up the drive like a grenadier. I am thankful to see him go without bloodshed.
‘What a peppery little fellow he is, to be sure!’ exclaims Tony. ‘Always taking the huff about something, isn’t he?’
‘It’s entirely your fault and you know it,’ I tell him sternly. ‘You could wind Guthrie round your finger if you liked – why can’t you be nice to him, like you are to me?’
‘I’m nice to you, am I?’ he enquires in a strange voice.
‘Frightfully nice,’ I reply.
‘Well!’ he says, ‘I suppose that’s something,’ and, so saying, he lets in his gear and is gone in a flash.
I follow Guthrie up the drive, and we let ourselves into the quiet house as silently as we can. I can’t help smiling to myself, for the darkness and silence of the house remind me of that night when Guthrie and I laid our plans to capture the burglars, and discovered the treasure seekers instead. Guthrie remembers it too, for I see him glance at the warming pan on the wall with a strange expression on his face.
‘What are you thinking of ?’ I whisper as we creep up the uncarpeted stair.
‘Bones,’ he replies solemnly, and the tone of his voice bodes no good for that lanky individual.
We part at my bedroom door.
‘This is the last night, Hester,’ he says sentimentally. ‘You won’t want me after tomorrow.’
I tell him not to be a donkey, and he goes away sorrowfully.
My undressing is soon accomplished, for I am very tired, and I slip into bed and blow out the candle; but for a long time sleep eludes me. Tonight is, in a way, the end of my leave. I am longing to see Tim, of course, but I can’t help being sorry the fortnight is over. It has been such a complete change from my ordinary life – almost a change of soul. Instead of thinking all the time of my family, and my household affairs, I have been able to think of myself – for a whole fortnight to be myself, not just Tim’s wife, and the mother of Bryan and Betty. It has been a lovely thing to find that people like me for no other reason than just because they like me.
Is it really only a fortnight since I left Kiltwinkle? It seems years. I have done so much in the time, seen so many beautiful places, and made so many new friends. Mrs. Loudon I knew before, of course, but my feeling for her has grown and deepened; we shall never lose each other now. I love her downright manner and her uncompromising attitude towards life. Guthrie is a new friend well worth having, his simplicity is endearing. (I hope Tim will like Guthrie; somehow I think he will.) I have learnt to know Tony Morley in a different way during these two weeks, to appreciate his real goodness of heart, though I cannot always understand him. Even Mrs. Falconer is nice. Strange as she is I like her, and I know she also likes me. And Deirdre, my Fairy Princess, what of her? Shall we see each other again? I hope so greatly, for she interested me, and I feel that we would be friends if we had the opportunity. I shall always remember, and be glad that I helped her to marry her Fairy Prince.
A score of bright little pictures stand out clearly as I look back over my time at Avielochan. I pick them out and smile over them one by one. My first morning in the garden – the bright, bright sunshine, and the crystal clearness of the air; Guthrie and Elsie fishing on the loch (how hard poor Guthrie struggled to reconcile the rival attractions of love and sport!); Castle Quill party where I first heard the story of the beautiful Seónaid; the visit to the laundry (I can see the lines of snowy garments dancing in the breeze and hear the soft tones of Miss Campbell’s gentle voice); Guthrie’s burglars; the picnic when we saw the ghost of Seónaid which turned out to be Deirdre; the dinner party; Betty’s adventure in the mist; my expedition with Tony to Gart-na-Druim with its pleasant memories of our welcome and the beauty of the Western Sea; the elopement of my Fairy Princess; and lastly the fair (a jumble of impressions from which our adventure at the roundabout stands forth as the high light).
Dawn is breaking now, and its pallor creeps in at my open window and spreads like water over the polished floor. Somehow the coming of the new day turns my thoughts to Tim. The page is turned; it is a page of bright colours which will live for ever in my memory. Tim will be here tomorrow – no, today. At this very moment he is rushing towards me in the train. The same dawn which is creeping in so slowly at my window is breaking over Tim as he rushes through the sleeping land. Dear old Tim – how lovely it will be to have him here! He will enjoy it all so much –the mountains, the forests, the lovely clear air. We shall go fishing together, perhaps we shall climb the hills. We shall laugh together at Mrs. Falconer’s rambling stories and Betty’s quaint sayings. What was it that Mrs. Loudon said: ‘Never the time, and the place, and the loved one all together.’ Lucky me, for I shall have them all!
The light brightens and fills the room. A little bird chirps outside my window, and another wakens and answers. Suddenly a perfect choir of little birds bursts into song.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
DOROTHY EMILY STEVENSON was born in 1892 in Edinburgh, into a family of engineers. She was related to Robert Louis Stevenson on her father’s side and was attracted to writing from a young age.
In 1916 she married a young officer, Major James Peploe, and had four children. Although busy with family life, she later found time to write. Her first novel, Peter West, was published in 1923, and although it was a number of years before she wrote any more, Dorothy continued to keep a diary, observing the characters and personalities of those around her.
In the early 1930s a friend, whose daughter was shortly to marry an army officer, borrowed Stevenson’s diary in order to get a sense of what her daughter could expect. She greatly enjoyed it, and urged Stevenson to publish it. The result was Mrs Tim of the Regiment (1932), the first of what was to become the Mrs Tim quartet. The series continued with Mrs Tim Carries On (1941), Mrs Tim Gets a Job (1947) and Mrs Tim Flies Home (1952). The books were well received. During her career, Stevenson wrote more than forty novels, including the hugely popular Miss Buncle’s Book, and sold over four million copies in the UK and three million in the USA.
During the war she and her husband moved to Moffat, Scotland. Stevenson died there in 1973.
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Copyright © The Estate of D.E. Stevenson 1934
Ex libris illustration © 2009 by Penelope Beech
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Published by Bloomsbury USA, New York
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA HAS BEEN APPLIED FOR
ISBN 978-1-60819-052-2 (paperback)
First published in 1940
Published in the U.S. by Bloomsbury USA in 2010
This e-book edition published in 2010
E-book ISBN: 978-1-60819-178-9
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