by Guy McCrone
He had turned his back, and saying nothing, was looking out through the leaves across the river.
Phœbe had a strong desire to laugh. It was all so sudden and ridiculous. And she felt she was behaving quite wrongly. As a well-brought-up young lady she ought to have fainted. Bel had fainted the first time Arthur had “sought her hand”, or so, at least, she had once said. But even Bel, even in moments of great stress, always made a point of doing the correct thing. Or if she, Phœbe, hadn’t fainted, at least she should have exclaimed that the suddenness of his proposal had taken her completely by surprise—as indeed it had. But instead of causing her a proper maidenly agitation it had only made her want to laugh. The thing was so abrupt, so ill-timed.
She stood for a moment watching his back. Suddenly he turned and faced her.
“Well?” His voice was almost savage. It was gloomy here in the evening woods, but she could see the distress in his face. For a moment this wealthy young man, this spoilt child of fortune, had turned into a lame duck.
“What do you want me to say, Mr. Hayburn?”
“I’ve asked you to marry me.”
“Please, I don’t want to marry anybody. You or anybody else. Quite honestly I haven’t thought much about that kind of thing. You see, I’ve only just grown up.”
“Will you promise you’ll think about it, Miss Moorhouse?”
“No. I don’t think so. Please don’t get upset, Mr. Hayburn. But why should I?” He was standing looking so miserable, that she added, “There’s a seat by the well, isn’t there? Come and sit down.” He followed her, and they sat.
“I wanted to marry you whenever I saw you. You’re never out of my mind now.”
“Nonsense. Admit you think a great deal about your work.”
He turned to her, his eyes shining with eagerness. “But that’s it. Don’t you see? Down there on the bridge just now, when you told me that you understood about my work, it was wonderful that you, you of all people, should understand what it means to me! When even my own mother and brother—”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, I think it’s possible that neither your mother nor your brother may be very quick in the uptake. You’ll find many people, besides myself, who would realise it quickly enough.”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. And then, after a long pause, “Please, Miss Moorhouse.”
Phœbe shook her head. She turned on the seat and looked at him. “You know, Mr. Hayburn, I’m not such a nice person as you think I am. I want to be fair to you, you see. That’s why I’m talking about myself. No. There’s a hard core to me.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You needn’t bother to say that. There is. Sometimes I think I haven’t got real affections at all. I find myself standing back and looking at everything and everybody interestedly, as if I was watching—oh, how can I put it?—well, looking at people as if they were goldfish swimming about on the other side of the glass. You’ll see what I mean, if you try.”
He nodded.
“It makes me frightened sometimes. It’s not a nice thing really, to feel quite cold when people expect you to feel glad, or sorry, or excited about something. But there it is. I even look at the people I live with and wonder if I really like them.” She stopped for a moment, then went on, more to herself than to the young man. “And yet—yes, I suppose I do. I’ve done things for my nephew Arthur. … And I still have a kind of schoolgirl’s hero-worship for my sister-in-law, Bel. But do you know, I’m looking at you just now, and a bit of me is saying to itself, ‘That’s what a young man looks like when he imagines he’s in love.”’ She put her hand over the large, capable hand that was resting on the seat beside her. “Oh, I’m nasty and callous, Mr. Hayburn. Forget about me.”
He said nothing, but grasped her hand and held it. It was he who spoke first again, after a pause. “Perhaps your feelings are not developed yet.”
“Perhaps not. Perhaps someday I’ll turn into a real woman.”
“For God’s sake, don’t talk like that, Miss Moorhouse.”
She got up. “I don’t think this talk’s leading us anywhere, anyway. I don’t know why I began it. Unless maybe to show you how little use I can be to you. At least you can forgive me. Will you?”
He got up too. “I don’t see what there is to forgive. I spoke too suddenly. I believe I’ve frightened you.”
“Not in the faintest. I wish you had! That would have been something!”
He could not make her out as he followed her up the road to Kirklee. There he said goodbye to her, feeling how desperately unsatisfactory life was, how much he was always bungling things, and how inadequate he had been.
And as Phœbe crossed the Great Western Road and went down towards Grosvenor Terrace she was, perhaps, not far from having the same feelings.
Chapter Nineteen
PHŒBE’S first proposal of marriage left no deep impression on her mind. When she did think of it—which, in a very short space of time, was not often—the incident seemed a little ridiculous, even a little pathetic. Henry Hayburn couldn’t, after all, really care much about her. He had met her only twice before in his life. That his proposal had been, at the moment, sincere, she did not doubt. All his behaviour, its very ineffective gaucheness, had shown her that. Yet his feelings couldn’t have deep roots.
But, of course, she just didn’t want to marry Henry or anybody else. She was only eighteen. On the whole, her family made a pleasant pattern about her; and if she was not conscious of strong attachment to them as individuals, she knew she was, at least, attached to the pattern. Bel and little Arthur were perhaps exceptions. For her sister-in-law, Phœbe’s first childish admiration was not diminished, though at times she found herself smiling at Bel’s intense preoccupation with the correct thing. Her nephew Arthur was, somehow, a part of herself. He was the one being on earth, herself not excepted, whom she was unable to see objectively.
Now that the excitement of settling in to Grosvenor Terrace was, at last, beginning to subside, it was Mungo’s coming marriage to Margaret Ruanthorpe that held everybody’s interest.
Bel, dutiful, a little tremulous, but firmly determined to do the honours, asked Miss Ruanthorpe and Mungo to stay. Margaret replied to Bel’s letter with great friendliness, and duly arrived for two nights to see her future husband’s family. Somehow she filled the house. Bel could make little of her, but what little she made she could not dislike. Even though she stamped through the house in boots made by a village shoemaker, wore rough-cut tweeds from a village tailor, and mannish shirts with collars and ties, she had an indefinable quality that Bel recognised and valued beyond rubies, and wondered how Margaret achieved it.
“I can’t tell you what it is,” she said to her mother one afternoon shortly after the future Mrs. Mungo’s visit, as they sat comfortably together over their cups of tea in the Monteith Row parlour. “You know, if I wore the same clothes as Margaret I would be ready for the pantomime. But she seems to manage to carry everything off. And when she puts on her dress for the evening—and, mind you, I wouldn’t give two-pence for it—you would say she was a very nice-looking woman.”
But somehow—perhaps because Miss Ruanthorpe was “English”—Bel could not approach her very closely. She boomed about with her “English” accent, was scrupulously polite, impersonal and cheerful, in a manner that defeated Bel’s burgher understanding.
There was no sitting down with her and having a good heart-to-heart talk. Margaret, Bel felt, did not make conversation. She issued statements. Not unpleasant statements, but statements nevertheless. It never occurred to Bel that Margaret might in her turn be feeling shy and strange too, and showing it by her abrupt behaviour.
Phœbe and Arthur, having the country in their bones, got on much better. Phœbe, indeed, was of real use to Bel, as she consented to be dragged out by Margaret for a long walk into the neighbouring country, thus giving Bel an afternoon of freedom from her baffling guest. Even Mary and Sophia had more in common with Mis
s Ruanthorpe, for there were many old interests, memories of their country days, that they were able to recall with the help of this sister-in-law to be. Margaret, being about Sophia’s age, remembered their own mother well, as a kindly body in the Laigh Farm kitchen, and she was able to remember pleasant things about her that even they did not know.
It was now high June. The wedding was to be in the early autumn, she said. It was to take place in the drawing-room at Duntrafford, for Sir Charles was no longer young, and it would be too much of an effort to get him to church. She was putting the Dower House into order as quickly as possible. They had allowed it to stand empty for some time. There was to be some building, and much putting right. When this was done there would be nothing to wait for. She turned to Mungo with a smile and asked him if there was. It was obvious that she was very fond of him.
And Mungo’s family smiled to themselves. It was clear, Arthur said to David, that he had his young lady well in hand. He was letting her do everything. After all, it was being done with Margaret’s money. But it was not hard to see that what Mungo said went. There was evidence of affection, even a little complacency on his side. On Margaret’s there was evidence of much more. The brothers agreed that, in the circumstances, it was a good thing; and long might it last for his sake.
II
But Margaret Ruanthorpe was very well pleased with her bargain. It had taken a long time—four years indeed—to break down the barriers between herself and this solemn intelligent farmer who was her obsession. During all that time she had known she was following an instinct that was right. The country was in the blood of both of them. They had, fundamentally, common interests, which were bound to make their union, should it come about, successful. And so, without loss of dignity be it said, she had persisted. If Mungo had accepted her enthusiastic friendship slowly, and with extreme caution, at least he had not drawn away from it. Her parents, old and preoccupied with their ailments and each other, let her do as she pleased. She had the sense to move slowly, digging herself in at every new move. He and his little sister had been persuaded to come to Duntrafford to lunch. Later he was induced to come alone. Now that he knew her parents, she consulted him about them—about her father’s health, the management of the estate. His advice was invariably good. When she heard Phœbe was back at the Laigh Farm, she came to see her. She made herself familiar and pleasant with the workers on the farm, who, on the whole, came to like her. She stayed for pleasant simple meals in the glowing firelit kitchen. On the first occasion, when Mungo came and found her sitting with Phœbe, waiting for him, he went to put on his jacket. But she protested. She would take it as very unfriendly of him if he made any difference for her.
Thus things had gone on. So gradually indeed, and over such a space of time, that their closer relationship seemed a natural sequel, a growth rather than a thing of violent feelings. But underneath Margaret was steadily determined.
And thus, some weeks ago, the inevitable had happened.
One of Margaret’s fillies, a very valuable hackney pony that was not thriving as she should, had, on Mungo’s suggestion, been sent over to him at the Laigh Farm. He would keep her in a field nearby and watch over her himself. She would be the finest beast Duntrafford had ever bred, he said, if only he could bring her to a flourishing maturity.
He had had her for some weeks. In addition to improving Margaret’s very elegant little animal, he had given Margaret ample excuse for coming across every day. They were on such terms now, however, that this went without remark.
Suddenly disaster fell. The pony entangled a hoof in a coil of barbed wire lying rusty and hidden in a deep patch of grass. The creature, finding herself caught, had danced in a frenzy, wounding herself terribly before they could free her. Round the top of her hoof the flesh was badly torn.
The man who had seen this happen and had eventually succeeded in freeing the pony, was afraid to tell Mungo. The farmer of Laigh Farm was slow tempered, but they, all of them, knew his temper was there. But told he must be. Mungo went white with rage. It touched his honour, that this animal he had taken into his care, to bring her to her full beauty, should be ruined by mere stupid carelessness. That the beast was not his own made it worse. And that it was Margaret Ruanthorpe’s made it worse still. In addition, the idea of the creature’s agony tormented him.
For a moment he lost control. Was this a place to look after horses, if the louts about couldn’t keep their eyes open for rubbish like a bit of wire? It must have lain there all winter. Surely someone could have seen to it. The man, knowing his master, let him storm; and at last, with a grunt meant to be an apology, Mungo turned and ran.
The pony’s condition was as bad as possible. He sent one man for the vet, another to Duntrafford. Margaret and the vet arrived from different directions almost at the same time.
Margaret greeted Mungo. She had never seen him so much moved before.
The hysterical pony, soothed a little by Margaret’s voice, allowed some kind of examination. The vet shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Miss. She would ’a’ been worth a lot.”
When Margaret was excited her voice went high and harsh. “You mean she’ll have to be shot, Mr. Johnstone?”
He nodded.
“Is it no use fighting?”
“The beast’s in terrible pain, Miss! An’ I doubt—a rusty wire. There’ll be poison.”
“Couldn’t we try?”
“Well, Miss—” Again he shook his head.
She turned abruptly to Mungo. “Mr. Moorhouse, couldn’t we fight with her? For tonight at least?”
Mungo looked at Margaret sorrowfully.
“The beastie will not let ye touch her.”
“She’ll let me touch her.” She crossed the box, and standing beside the trembling pony, ran her hand part way down the injured leg. The movement was womanly and gentle. It was not lost on Mungo. The creature threw back its head, its nostrils were wild, but it stood quiet. She held the injured hoof up, painfully tipping the puddle made by the blood that was dripping steadily to the floor.
“Mr. Moorhouse, we must try.” Margaret’s voice was trembling.
Mungo turned to Johnstone. “What is it first then? Get it clean? Plenty of rags and boiling water? You stay with her, Miss Ruanthorpe; I’ll go an’ tell the lassies.”
And thus the battle had begun. All through the first night, Margaret and Mungo—fanatics for horseflesh, both of them—stayed in the box together, scarcely leaving it, dressing the terrible gash, striving to calm the pain-stretched nerves of the high-strung animal and keeping her from doing herself harm. What devotion could do, that they did. Sleep hardly occurred to either of them.
In the late evening Margaret sent a scribbled note back to Duntrafford, telling them briefly what had happened, saying she could not come home. In reply the old woman who had been her nurse arrived with clothing and instructions from Lady Ruanthorpe that if Margaret stayed at the Laigh Farm, she, her nurse, must stay too. And so, propriety having been upheld, the fight for the pony’s life went on.
For the first days they did not know if the wound had been poisoned. With expert help they did everything in their power to get it clean. But gradually, as time went on and healing showed itself, their fears began to diminish. They would not be able to tell for long, however, if she would be permanently lame. The two discussed the chances endlessly. If the animal had been a brilliant child whose intellect might be permanently injured, and they had been its parents, they could scarcely have been more intense. Whatever happened now, Margaret was determined not to have the filly destroyed. Even if she could never be broken in she might hand down her elegant proportions as a brood mare.
But the leg would be stiff for weeks. How long would it be before they could tell? There was consultation. Endless talks. Animals that have been nursed become affectionate and petted like delicate children. And they tend to forge a bond between those who have struggled with them.
At last there came a day when there w
as no further chance of the pony losing its life through poisoning. There was no possible reason, therefore, why Margaret should stay longer. She left the Laigh Farm. But she left it as the promised wife of Mungo Moorhouse.
So it had come. And neither of them knew in the end how it had happened.
Margaret had returned to her own home tired out, but satisfied. It was the fulfilment of a long hope.
And Mungo, too, was pleased. Long familiarity with the Ruanthorpes had broken down his timidity and doubt. He would be at home with this woman he was to marry. For a long time now he had been well aware that Margaret wanted him. But, emotionally slow as he was and uncertain of the wisdom of the step, he had let things take their course. Now their course was taken, and he was content. He could look forward to companionship with a wife of whom he would be genuinely fond.
III
As she said goodbye, Margaret Ruanthorpe invited Arthur and Bel to come for a weekend to Duntrafford. Bel, she said, must get to know her parents, and Arthur must renew an old acquaintance. Bel, curious “to see how people like that did things”, was sorely tempted to accept, but even with her spirit the battle of getting there, going to the trouble of having the right clothes, and being on her P’s and Q’s for more than two solid days was too much for her, and she was forced to decline. The labour of getting herself and everybody else into Grosvenor Terrace had been enough for a time.
And now it was nearly July, which meant, if you were a proper matron of the City of Glasgow, that you collected your forks and knives, table and bed linen, the entire supply of old clothes belonging to the household, and heaven knew what else, and locked or corded them into trunks or hampers. Then, on the first of the month, you (and whoever you could get to help you—in Bel’s case, Sarah and a man sent along from the warehouse, and at the last moment, a porter) got everything on to the deck of the Bute steamer, or the Arran steamer, or the Kintyre steamer, at the seething Broomielaw. You then sat upon it stoically watching your children, eating sandwiches and listening to the German band until you reached your destination. Whereat you disembarked and lived in extreme primitiveness—and usually, for your children at least, in extreme rapture—for the months of July and August.