Henry realised that he must see Nan, and see her at once, so that he could put her mind at rest about Adam. And if he saw her about Adam it would be difficult to refrain from telling her about the new development in his own affairs. He had promised Adam to tell nobody until he had seen his lawyer, but he knew Adam would not mind his telling Nan. Nan knew so much already and she was perfectly safe … Henry felt he must talk to somebody about it.
At first he thought he would go and see Nan. Then, when he had thought about it for a few minutes, he decided that he would not go to her house. He had a feeling that it would be better to meet Nan upon neutral ground; he could ask her to come to the Steele Arms Hotel. He did not know why he felt this, but the feeling was quite definite. So, having said goodbye to Tom and thanked him for the lift, Henry went to the hotel. First he rang up his mother and told her he was safely back at Drumburly and arranged for Blaikie to fetch him after tea; then he rang up Nan and told her Adam was better and asked her to come to the Steele Arms.
“Now?” asked Nan in surprise.
“Yes, if you don’t mind,” replied Henry. “I’d like to see you if it isn’t a bother.”
There was nobody staying at the hotel and the lounge was deserted; Henry sat down near the fire. He was very tired and he had had no lunch but he had forgotten about lunch and he did not feel hungry. He tried to think about his problems and decide what to do but it was difficult to think, his brain felt woolly. In a few minutes the door opened and Nan came in.
Henry had been watching the door so he saw her before she saw him. She looked worn and pale, her eyes seemed larger than usual … and rather frightened. Henry’s heart went out to her, he felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to spring up and take her in his arms and comfort her, but he knew he must not. It crossed his mind suddenly that he had never kissed Nan, never made love to her, never said anything to her that all the world might not have heard!
“Nan,” said Henry, rising as he spoke. “Come over near the fire. It’s cold, isn’t it?”
She came across the lounge quickly. “What is it?” she asked. “Is it something you want to tell me about Adam? Don’t hide anything from me, Henry.”
“But I told you,” Henry said. “I’ve seen Adam and he’s getting better. You needn’t feel anxious about him.”
“I thought perhaps — I mean why did you ask me to come?”
“I’m sorry I frightened you. Honestly there’s no need to worry about him, Nan.”
She sat down in the big chair by the fire and Henry sat down opposite to her. He told her exactly how he had found Adam and how he had restrapped the ribs; he told her how Adam looked and how well he was being looked after.
“It was awfully good of you to go,” Nan said.
“Nonsense,” replied Henry. “I quite enjoyed the expedition. I went on skis over the hills and I took a large consignment of drugs. Fortunately it was quite unnecessary.”
Henry went on talking about his expedition, for now that Nan was here he found it impossible to tell her about Elizabeth — he realised that he had no right to bother her with his private affairs.
“Henry,” said Nan, looking at him with her clear frank eyes. “You meant to tell me something … something has happened … something unexpected.”
“Yes — and I felt I had to see you, but now I realise I shouldn’t have bothered you. I’ve no right to ask you to advise me what to do.”
“We’re friends, Henry,” she told him. “I don’t know whether I could advise you what to do, but we could talk it over, couldn’t we? Sometimes it helps to talk things over.” She hesitated and then added, “You’ve heard something about — about Elizabeth.”
“Adam has found her.”
“Adam!”
“Yes, she has been here all these years within a few miles of Drumburly.”
“Here!” cried Nan. “But how amazing! Where is she — and how did Adam find her?”
Henry explained and, now that the subject had been opened, he found it easy to go on and tell Nan the whole story, for Nan was easy to talk to and she had thought so much about Henry’s affairs that her mind was clear. She loved Henry so dearly that her understanding was intuitive. Before Henry had finished explaining Nan had understood — it was as easy as that.
“It seems incredible,” said Henry at last. “I mean I can hardly believe she has been at Mureth all these years and I never found out.”
“How could you have found out? You weren’t at home very often were you? And even if you went over to Mureth it would be easy for her to keep out of your way. I mean I’ve been to Mureth several times myself but as far as I can remember I never saw her. Mrs. Johnstone told me that Lizzie was shy and kept in the background when anybody came to the house. No,” said Nan. “No, the surprising thing is that we didn’t realise Duggie is so like you. I can see it now, of course.”
“Mother realised it,” said Henry, smiling a little at the recollection which had crossed his mind. “Or at least she noticed that he is like her, which comes to much the same thing. It was in this very room, after the entertainment at the school. ‘Shylock is like me,’ she said. Of course we all laughed and thought it one of her jokes … Oh Nan!” exclaimed Henry in sudden consternation. “Oh Nan, what am I going to do about the parents! They’ll be so terribly upset and miserable. How am I going to tell them about it? Shall I ever be able to make them understand how it happened!”
Nan sought for something to say but found nothing.
“It’s a terrible thing,” continued Henry in a low, strained voice. “You do something and that leads to something else and it all piles up like a snowball … bigger and bigger.”
“If I were you I should tell your father tonight,” said Nan gently.
“Oh Nan!”
“I’m sure he’ll understand. I’ve seen him in church and he has an understanding face. Tell him tonight, Henry. Tell him the whole story — just as you told me.”
“Yes,” said Henry. “Yes, I believe you’re right. I’ll tell him.”
There was silence for a few moments.
“About the children,” said Henry at last. “I wonder what Elizabeth will want to do about them.”
“I think she would be glad to let you take the responsibility of the children,” replied Nan thoughtfully.
“You think so?”
“She doesn’t understand Duggie. She has no patience with him. I’m quite sure something could be arranged.”
“I should like that. Yes, I should like to — to make myself responsible for the children … but all that must wait until I find out what Elizabeth wants to do.”
“I thought you said she wanted to stay at Mureth?”
“Yes, that’s what she told Adam, but perhaps she would rather have a house of her own. I could arrange that for her. She made it quite clear that she didn’t want to come back to me, but she might like a house of her own … in that case she might want to keep the children with her. Don’t you think so?”
Nan did not think so, but she saw it was no use arguing with Henry, he was too upset to keep to the point and make plans. She encouraged him to talk for she thought it was the best thing to do. Henry had never been able to talk about himself and his troubles to anyone, his troubles had been bottled up for years. He was talking now, talking at random, saying everything that came into his mind. He talked about Elizabeth and about the children, he told Nan a lot more about his unavailing search for them … and Nan listened and pieced everything together in her mind. Presently she discovered that he had had nothing to eat since his picnic at sunrise upon the hill so she rang for tea to be brought at once.
Henry did not want tea but he ate and drank to please Nan and began to feel better.
“It’s awfully good of you to listen to all this,” he told her. “It has cleared my mind talking about it and I’m beginning to get things straight. I don’t like the idea of divorce, but in this case …” he hesitated and looked at Nan doubtfully.
Nan no
dded. She did not like the idea of divorce, but what was the alternative? Was Henry to be tied for life to a woman who did not want him? (And this would be quite unlike the usual sort of divorce case. Henry and his wife had not seen each other for ten years. Their marriage was a thing of the past. Time and separation had dissolved the marriage and a legal divorce was merely a form to regularise the dissolution. This was Nan’s view of the matter. Perhaps it was a slightly prejudiced view of the matter but most people are slightly prejudiced where their deepest feelings are concerned.) Nan thought Henry had suffered enough and deserved a little happiness. She found it easy to pardon the follies of his youth.
“Yes,” said Nan. “I think you should consult your lawyer about a divorce.”
“You really think so?”
“What else can you do?” asked Nan. “If she doesn’t want to come back to you it’s the only thing to do.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “It ought to be cleared up. Even if neither of us wants to re-marry it’s the right thing to do. It’s — it’s untidy to — to leave it.”
Nan was silent.
“Nan,” said Henry in a low voice. “I’ve made a complete hash of my life. I’ve been such a fool — such a failure as a husband — I could never ask another woman to take the risk.”
Nan turned her head and smiled at him.
“You understand, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Nan. “But I don’t think you understand. Perhaps another woman might be willing to take the risk.”
“Nan —”
“No, Henry,” said Nan quickly. “Don’t say anything now. Let’s leave it, shall we?”
“You understand everything,” Henry told her. “You’re so wise and good. You’re a wonderful person, Nan.”
37
THE SUNNY arctic conditions lasted exactly a week and then the Weather Clerk decided to make a change. Certainly if variety be the spice of life the inhabitants of the British Isles, and especially the inhabitants of the northern kingdom, have spice in abundance; sufficient spice to make their lives, in a meteorological sense, the equivalent of a Scotch Bun. On this particular occasion the Drumburly folk had just settled down to the snowy and icy conditions, had looked out their curling-stones and resurrected their sleighs, when a fresh wind from the south west began to sigh gently across the hills and the snow began to melt. At first it melted slowly, disintegrating into grey slush, but twenty-four hours of warm rain hastened the process considerably.
Various things happened: Henry went to Glasgow to consult his lawyer; Adam recovered and went home; the road to Tassieknowe was cleared and Adam’s car was rescued and towed into the garage at Drumburly. Soon everything became normal — or nearly normal — except at Boscath of course.
Boscath was completely isolated now. The daft road was a quagmire and the word was impassable. There was no way of getting to Boscath except by walking five miles across the moor.
Mamie felt very unhappy about it. She had known this would happen but that did not make it any less disastrous — and this was not an exceptional occurrence by any means. This would go on happening every time the river rose. She went down to look at the river and there it was, a rushing roaring torrent, brown as coffee and flecked with foam, full of branches and sticks and pieces of wood which had been swept down from the hills; they were being hurled along at an incredible speed, tossed in the air and swept over rocks, they were turning over and over as they went.
Oddly enough Rhoda had had the same impulse at exactly the same moment and was standing upon the opposite bank. Mamie waved to her and Rhoda waved back and made signs to show that all was well, but somehow Mamie had a feeling that Rhoda looked a trifle dejected. No wonder, Mamie thought!
They stood and looked at one another for some little time — and waved. There was no other means of communication possible, for the river was making a noise like thunder.
It won’t do, thought Mamie miserably as she walked back to the house. It isn’t right. I can’t bear them to be cut off like that. I must talk to Jock again; we’ll have to build a bridge.
Jock was out all day; he had gone to Drumburly on business and had not returned to lunch; by the time he returned Mamie was absolutely determined upon a bridge. It would be expensive of course and probably it would be extremely difficult to obtain material for its construction but somehow or other all the difficulties must be overcome and a bridge must be built.
Mamie was just sitting down to tea in the drawing room when she heard Jock come in. He did not at once shout for her (which was his usual habit upon entering the house), but closed the front door quietly and went into the dining room.
Was it Jock? wondered Mamie, listening intently. Could it be somebody else? She rose and crossed the hall and opened the dining room door and there was Jock standing by the table.
“Is anything the matter?” she enquired.
“Er — no,” replied Jock. “Nothing’s the matter. I was just — er —”
“Jock,” said Mamie earnestly. “I can’t bear it. I’m miserable about Boscath — simply miserable. We can’t go on like this. I went down to the river this morning and Rhoda was standing on the opposite bank. We waved to each other — it was a wretched business; we stood and looked at each other for quite a long time. Oh Jock, we must have a bridge, no matter what it costs; either that or the road must be re-made.”
“No,” said Jock, shaking his head firmly.
“No?” she asked in surprise.
“No, Mamie, there’s going to be no bridge and I’m not pouring any more good money into that bog on the daft road.”
“But Jock! What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to sell Boscath.”
She gazed at him speechless with amazement.
“Just that,” said Jock nodding. “We’ll sell the place for what we can get. We’ll turn out James and Rhoda neck and crop. Throw them out, that’s the thing to do. I’m sick of wasting money on Boscath.”
Mamie gazed at him and Jock gazed back with an expressionless face.
“I’m the wicked uncle,” said Jock solemnly. “I’m throwing the two poor children out of their home. You didn’t know I was so cruel, did you, Mamie? Maybe we’ll give them a wee tent to live in — we could pitch it on the lawn — or, wait a moment, maybe we could put them into Tassieknowe. How would that do?”
He had been making superhuman efforts to keep his face perfectly serious, but he could manage the feat no longer and a beaming smile spread across it from ear to ear.
“Jock, you old ruffian!” cried Mamie, rushing at him and throwing her arms round his neck. “Tell me — tell me at once — what have you been up to?”
“Buying Tassieknowe, that’s all,” declared Jock laughing. “I bought it from Heddle this afternoon. I’ll tell you the whole thing if you’ll stop choking me for a moment.”
“Jock, it’s almost too good to be true!”
“I know,” he agreed. “I keep on pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming … but here are the title-deeds!” and he showed her the bundle of documents, yellow with age, which were lying on the table.
“The title-deeds of Tassieknowe!” exclaimed Mamie, looking at them in delight.
“I’ve been gloating over them,” declared Jock. “I couldn’t bear to let them out of my hands and I knew you’d want to see them. Of course they’ll have to go back to Mr. Skene’s office, I’m not keeping them here. It’s a silly thing to keep title-deeds in the house.”
Mamie nodded.
“But just for tonight,” continued Jock. “Just for tonight I thought I’d like to put them in the drawer.” He went across to the tail-boy as he spoke and pulled out the top drawer. “This is where old Brown kept them. Many’s the time I told him he was a fool to keep them there,” added Jock with a somewhat sheepish grin; for Jock always pretended he was a hard-headed Scot and here he was being sentimental over a handful of old papers.
Of course Mamie understood perfectly. “I remem
ber,” she said. “Mr. Brown got them out one day when we were at Tassieknowe to clear up some point about the marches. I can see the old man standing on tiptoe and fishing them out of the top drawer.”
“He was a wee man,” nodded Jock, who had no need to stand on tiptoe.
“Tell me more,” demanded Mamie. “Tell me everything. Did you go to Tassieknowe to see Mr. Heddle about it?”
“Not me. I fixed to meet him in Drumburly at Mr. Skene’s office for I knew perfectly well I was no match for Nestor Heddle in business matters. Heddle appeared with his own lawyer in tow so you can imagine it was a solemn enough affair. When I bought Boscath it took me five minutes; I said to Sinclair I’d buy and he said he’d sell and we went and had a drink at the Steele Arms … but it took me long enough to buy Tassieknowe and there were no drinks going, I can tell you.”
“Why did Mr. Heddle change his mind, I wonder. Adam said he was determined not to leave the place.”
Jock smiled. “Miss Heddle walked out on him, that’s why. He went to Glasgow on business and when he got back she had gone. I must say I was surprised to hear it for I thought she’d do anything for that glumphy brother of hers, but apparently there are limits to her submission, and as she does all the housekeeping and is necessary to his comfort he can’t stay on without her. He explained all that — he was very hurt about it — but I didn’t pay much heed. I wasn’t caring why he was going so long as he’d made up his mind and go.”
“But he’s getting married, isn’t he? Couldn’t his wife look after him?”
Jock chuckled. “She doesn’t care for housekeeping. She likes having a good time (that’s what he said) and I wasn’t surprised to hear it when he said who it was.”
“Who?” breathed Mamie.
“Who do you think? You know the young lady. I wouldn’t exactly say she’s a friend of yours. It’s Holly Douglas, that’s who it is, and I wish her joy of her man.”
“Jock!” exclaimed Mamie in horrified tones. “Oh, Jock, how could she?”
“Och, don’t worry,” said Jock. “She knows well enough what she’s doing. There’s no need for us to bother our heads about her.”
Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3) Page 25