“Do you live near here?” she asked.
He turned and pointed.
Rhoda saw a tiny cottage high up in the hills with a few stunted trees huddled about it. She had never imagined anybody could live in such an isolated spot. Compared with Sutherland’s new home, Boscath was in the midst of civilisation.
“It must be lonely!” she exclaimed.
“Loneliness is inside a person,” replied Sutherland. “It is possible to be lonely in a big city. If a person is contented and has enough work to do he will not feel lonely amongst the hills … but it is a wee bit out of the way and would not do for a man with young children who were attending school. All the same it is a solid little house and comfortable. If you are going in that direction Mistress Sutherland would be pleased to give you a cup of tea.”
Rhoda thanked him and explained why she was unable to accept the invitation.
“Maybe another day,” said Sutherland nodding. “Any day that you are walking in this direction you have only to chap on the door.”
Rhoda promised to come, and fully intended to keep her word for she was tremendously interested in Sutherland and felt she would like to meet his wife. She said good-bye to him and walked on. When she looked back she saw him mounting the hill with long loose strides … to Rhoda he looked more than life size. She would have liked to paint him.
Rhoda’s meeting with Sutherland had given her food for thought, not only because the man himself was worth thinking about but also because of his isolated life, which he had assured her was not lonely. The little cottage amongst the hills drew her eyes. She imagined the building of it. It had been built by men as a shelter for man — a primitive reason for building. A man must live here to look after sheep so a house had been built for him — and because it was necessary, it was eminently suitable to its surroundings. It was really a part of Nature … but indeed all the houses in this sparsely peopled land seemed actually a part of nature. There was nothing artificial about them. They were built of the stone of the hills in which they were set and so were in harmony with the nooks which sheltered them. There was no nonsense about them; they were built strong and without the slightest attempt at adornment and the tempests which raged about their snugly fitting roofs were powerless to destroy them.
Rhoda was getting to know this land and to make friends with it. In certain lights it was sad and lonely and cold, but when the sun shone suddenly from behind a cloud the whole landscape smiled. She had seen the same thing happen in the faces of her new neighbors: austere, they were, (eminently paintable with those interesting bones which seemed so close to the surface) but often sad and cold. Then would come the smile of friendship … the sun broke through the clouds and their whole aspect was changed and brightened with its kindly rays.
14
SO THINKING and musing as she walked along Rhoda came to the top of a rise and looking down saw Tassieknowe. There it stood. It was Jock’s Naboth’s vineyard. It was Flockie’s grief. The river made a bend round the hillock upon which it was built and beyond the hillock the hills rose steeply. Never having seen it before, Rhoda could not compare the present aspect of Tassieknowe with its aspect in the lifetime of Mr. Brown and as a matter of fact she was agreeably surprised by its appearance. The house was rectangular and solidly constructed, there was nothing beautiful about it but it pleased her eye for proportion. It was bare, of course — Flockie had called it naked — but for a thing to look naked it must first be clothed, so it did not look naked to Rhoda. She noticed, too, that it would not look bare for ever. Mr. Heddle had planted a few trees here and there upon the knoll and at one side of the house a rockery was in process of construction.
Rhoda was a little early so she sat down upon a rock and looked at the place. Somebody had said the house was built upon the site of a Roman Camp — perhaps Flockie had told her; it was easy to believe. If Rhoda had been a general she would have chosen that knoll for her fortress. The bend of the river would defend it upon two sides and the view up and down the valley was uninterrupted. The idea was fascinating. This place had once been a station upon a Roman road, it had once been full of Roman soldiers. Battles had been fought round its walls; small savage men had swarmed across the river and flung themselves fiercely upon their hated invaders; and the Legions of Rome clad in glittering armour had stood firm behind their walls and thrown them back.
Rhoda was a trifle hazy about the history of the Roman occupation of Southern Scotland but what she did not know she could make up for quite easily by imagination. She could almost see it happening as if in a vision, and it was all the more easy to visualise because there could not have been many changes here. Perhaps in those far-off days there were more trees — dark forests where wild beasts roamed — and most certainly there was more boggy ground but apart from that the surroundings of Tassieknowe were the same as they had been long ago: the same hills, brown and tan and green and golden-yellow, the same rocks and silver river, the same far-off, pale-blue sky.
It was too cold to sit for long so after a few minutes she got up and went down to the river. She expected to be able to cross the river dry-shod, scrambling from rock to rock and she walked up and down looking for a suitable crossing place. Presently she found one, two boulders in mid-stream made a couple of reasonably easy stepping-stones; she crossed carefully, balancing herself upon them, and walked up the hill.
The new owners of Tassieknowe were fond of bright blue paint, that was evident, for the doors and windows and rones and waste-pipes all bore evidence of what to Rhoda was an unfortunate predilection. Apart from this there was nothing very staggering about the outside of the house, the inside was a different matter. Rhoda who had walked over the hills and scrambled across a river was not in the right mood to appreciate the decor of Tassieknowe. The bright-blue, fitted carpets, the white walls with gilt mirrors and the light wood furniture of ultra-modern design looked artificial and garish. What were these things doing in an old-fashioned farm-house? James had said she would be “interested in the set up.” It was interesting, certainly.
Miss Heddle was at home; Rhoda was conducted up the stairs and ushered into a room which she guessed must be Miss Heddle’s private sanctum. It was decorated in the same style as the rest of the house but with some slight differences. The plain white walls were hung with photographs and some extremely feeble water-colour sketches, the chairs had cushions in them. There was a straggly plant, of a species unknown to Rhoda, on a bookcase in the corner, and, by the fire, a dog’s basket with a pink rug in it. Tea was laid on a low table and Rhoda was glad to note that there was plenty to eat; her walk had given her an appetite.
Miss Heddle did not appear for a few minutes and Rhoda, left to herself, sat upon the arm of a chair and looked about her; she formed the opinion that the excrescences on the modern austerity of the room were expressions of Miss Heddle’s personality. If so, it meant that the modern austerity expressed Mr. Heddle’s and it also meant that Mr. Heddle was the dominant partner. Miss Heddle was merely camping in the apartment set aside for her use, camping in much the same manner as one camps in a hotel bedroom.
It was extraordinarily quiet. There was not a sound to be heard, not even the murmur of the river. There seemed to be no birds in the vicinity, perhaps because the trees had been cut down. There were no noises inside the house either, the thick, blue, fitted carpets deadened every sound; the clock upon the mantelpiece was an electric one and completely silent. It was almost, thought Rhoda, as if one had suddenly become deaf … but she had no time for further reflection for the door opened and her hostess came in.
Rhoda had seen Miss Heddle in church so she knew her by sight; she was tall and thin with black hair, turning white; her eyes were dark brown and her complexion sallow. She was beautifully dressed and it was obvious that she frequented an expensive dressmaker. This afternoon she was wearing a dark-red woollen frock trimmed with fur and although it suited her it gave her a slightly exotic appearance. Rhoda became uncomfortably conscio
us of her own thick tweeds and muddy shoes and stockings.
“I am sorry I wasn’t ready,” said Miss Heddle cordially. “The fact is I didn’t hear your car. It’s funny because I usually hear cars coming up the drive.”
“I walked,” said Rhoda, shaking hands and smiling.
“You walked!” exclaimed Miss Heddle in amazement. “You walked from Boscath!”
“It isn’t very far and it was such a beautiful afternoon.”
“It’s miles and miles! Why, it took me nearly three quarters of an hour in the car. We had to go through Drumburly and over a bridge and after that miles and miles along a cart-road.”
“It isn’t so far if you walk,” replied Rhoda.
“It isn’t so far if you walk?” echoed Miss Heddle incredulously. “But it must be exactly the same distance, and of course it would take much longer.”
Rhoda explained, or tried to explain, the topography of the country but she soon realised she might have saved herself the trouble for Miss Heddle was incapable of taking it in. With chalks and a blackboard it might have been possible to make Miss Heddle understand but without these to help her she was powerless.
“If you had only told me you were coming I would have sent Mason to fetch you,” declared Miss Heddle. She said it several times and continued to say it even when Rhoda assured her that the walk had been agreeable in the extreme.
“I never walk,” said Miss Heddle. “Nestor likes walking but I never walk at all. You must be absolutely exhausted; I’m sure it’s bad for you. Mason will take you home.”
They sat down to tea.
“Isn’t the house pretty?” said Miss Heddle. “Dear Nestor planned it of course. You haven’t met Nestor, have you? He’s very clever. Do you have many guests?”
“No,” replied Rhoda. “We haven’t had any yet. We’ve just been married.”
“We have a great many guests; they’re Nestor’s friends of course. They like coming here for ten days or a fortnight because it’s new. Nobody has ever seen anything like this before — or at least none of Nestor’s friends have. It’s new, you see. People get tired of ordinary things, of living in London and going to parties or going to Italy or the Riviera or yachting, so they like to come here. It’s quite, quite different. You must feed them well, but I see to that. I give them good plain food — and that’s different too. We can get plenty of lamb of course and plenty of eggs and cream, which makes it easy.”
“Yes,” agreed Rhoda. Her hostess’s conversation was a little muddled but it was very revealing. Rhoda could imagine Nestor’s friends from London, jaded with parties, arriving at Tassieknowe and saying how new and different it was. She could imagine it all the more easily because she had met people just like Nestor’s friends who did nothing but chase pleasure from morning to night without ever catching up with it.
“Do you like living here?” asked Miss Heddle.
“Yes,” said Rhoda. She was about to say why she liked it and then she saw that Miss Heddle was not listening … or at least was not listening to her. Miss Heddle was listening to something else.
“What is it?” asked Rhoda.
“Oh nothing,” Miss Heddle said casually. “It was just poor Mr. Brown coughing, that’s all.”
“Mr. Brown!”
“He lives here, you know,” nodded Miss Heddle. “Do have another of these little cakes. I’m sure you must be hungry after your walk.”
“Mr. Brown lives here?” enquired Rhoda, taking one of the little cakes without noticing what she was doing.
“Yes,” said Miss Heddle. “I haven’t seen him of course, but I often hear him coughing. Poor man, he has a dreadful cough.”
“You haven’t seen him?”
“No,” said Miss Heddle. “I shouldn’t like to see him. That would frighten me. You can’t be frightened of a cough, can you? Listen …”
Rhoda listened. It was very quiet indeed.
“You can hear him, can’t you?” Miss Heddle said. Her dark eyes were fixed upon Rhoda with a curiously compelling gaze. “You can hear him, can’t you?”
“I’m — not sure,” said Rhoda uncomfortably, nor was she. Perhaps there had been some slight sound.
“Some people can’t hear him,” admitted Miss Heddle. “Nestor always says he can’t hear him, but I think Nestor does hear him sometimes.”
There was a short silence while Miss Heddle gave her guest another cup of tea.
“You see,” said Miss Heddle in confidential tones. “You see it’s quite simple, really. It’s just that Mr. Brown hasn’t gone away. I think he’s waiting for us to go away — that’s what I think. Nestor doesn’t understand; Nestor thinks money can buy anything; he thinks he bought Tassieknowe, and of course I thought so too, at the time.”
Rhoda gazed at her without speaking.
“You understand, don’t you, Mrs. Dering Johnstone?” said Miss Heddle smiling confidently.
“But Mr. Heddle did buy Tassieknowe.”
“Oh well,” said Miss Heddle. “I suppose he did, in a way, but there are some things you can’t buy for money, you have to be given them. You know what I mean, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Rhoda faintly. The woman was mad, of course, and yet … and yet there was a sort of sense in her words … and she didn’t look mad. Miss Heddle’s manner and demeanour were perfectly calm and collected. She looked perfectly sane.
“For instance,” continued Miss Heddle with the air of a school-mistress explaining a mathematical problem to a child. “For instance when my dressmaker retired she sold her business and Madame Delavine bought it. Madame Delavine bought the shop and all the fittings and paid a lot of money for them, but the good-will of the business was given to her. It’s such a pity Nestor wasn’t given the good-will of Tassieknowe, isn’t it?” added Miss Heddle with a sigh.
“Yes.”
“I knew you’d understand.”
The strange thing was that Rhoda did understand. The matter had been explained to her with absolute lucidity and she understood it perfectly, but it was crazy all the same. She’s like the Red Queen, thought Rhoda. She really is. The Red Queen talked arrant nonsense with just that commonsensical air.
15
RHODA WAS so busy identifying her hostess with the Red Queen (and incidentally herself with Alice) that she lost the thread of the conversation and did not realise that the subject had been changed.
“You will, won’t you?” Miss Heddle was saying in earnest tones.
“I — er —” said Rhoda doubtfully, for who would care to make a pact with the Red Queen before knowing exactly the terms of it?
“Just a sketch,” Miss Heddle implored. “He wouldn’t sit, of course; you wouldn’t expect him to, would you? But it would be so nice to have a picture of dear Nestor — so much nicer than a photograph.”
“It would be difficult without sittings,” said Rhoda, picking up the thread.
“Oh, I know, but of course I would pay you more.”
“It isn’t that. It’s just that I couldn’t do a sketch without sittings — and I haven’t seen Mr. Heddle.”
“There!” said Miss Heddle, taking a large glossy photograph off the wall and putting it into Rhoda’s reluctant hands. “There, that’s dear Nestor. He’s very handsome, isn’t he? Of course a photograph doesn’t do him justice, because it’s really his colouring that’s so unusual … Oh!” exclaimed Miss Heddle, struck all of a sudden by a brilliant idea. “Oh, I know what to do! You can take the photograph home with you and make a sketch of Nestor, and then you would just have to see him and colour it.”
“That isn’t the way I work,” said Rhoda with remarkable restraint.
“But if I pay you,” urged Miss Heddle. “I would pay you twice as much as you get for ordinary portraits and I’m sure you could do it beautifully!”
Rhoda had begun to wonder why she was not angry with the woman. She was not in the least angry. It’s because she’s the Red Queen, thought Rhoda, looking at her.
“Y
ou will, won’t you, Mrs. Dering Johnstone?” said the Red Queen. “I’ll take it out of the frame and wrap it up in paper for you —”
“No, Miss Heddle,” said Rhoda firmly.
“I’m sure you could. It’s often done,” declared Miss Heddle. “I remember when my eldest brother was killed at Mons — in the first war, you know — my parents had a beautiful painting of him done from a photograph.”
“But Mr. Heddle hasn’t been killed,” Rhoda pointed out. “Mr. Heddle can easily give me some sittings if he wants me to do a sketch of him. I should want at least three sittings, perhaps more.” She handed back the photograph as she spoke.
Whether or not Miss Heddle would have accepted this as the final word upon the subject is open to doubt, for at that moment the door opened and the original of the large glossy photograph walked in. He was large and glossy with black wavy hair and dark brown eyes. James’s description of Mr. Heddle had done him less than justice for he was very good-looking indeed. Rhoda, thinking of the proposed sketch and seeing him in terms of paint, decided that if she had her way she would paint Mr. Heddle in oils, wearing oriental garments, with jewelled bracelets upon his arms and a golden fillet encircling his head … but it was very unlikely that she could have her way.
Miss Heddle was so startled at the sudden entrance of her brother, just when they had been talking about him, that she forgot to make the proper introductions.
“Oh, Nestor, I thought you were out — I mean I didn’t know you had come in,” babbled Miss Heddle nervously.
“How do you do,” said Mr. Heddle, shaking hands with Rhoda.
“She walked over,” continued Miss Heddle. “I could have sent Mason easily, but I didn’t know. It’s miles beyond Drumburly — across the hills.”
Mr. Heddle did not look at his sister. He was looking at Rhoda and smiling. “You ought to be hungry,” he said. “I hope my sister has given you a good tea.”
Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3) Page 10