by Guy McCrone
Still holding his pony’s head, Mungo stood peering anxiously through the lighted arch of the railway station. People for the village came first, chattering with friends who had come to meet them, looking up unhappily at the falling snow, wrapping themselves closer, then hurrying off on foot. Someone came out, hired the village cab, and drove off. Familiar people, businessmen and gentry, hurried into their carriages and went off to their country houses. Mungo was becoming impatient. It was time his wife appeared. All the conveyances were moving or preparing to move. All except the Greenhead dog-cart. It was waiting, too, with old Tom Rennie perched up impatiently in the driving-seat.
At last Mungo saw the outline of his wife against the light of the station entrance. She was talking with a smaller woman, who seemed to be carrying her things for her. A moment later Margaret had seen him. Both women were coming across.
“Oh, there you are, Mungo. What a terrible night!” Margaret said, coming up. “This is Miss Rennie of Greenhead, who is being very nice to me.” Mungo remembered Lucy Rennie and nodded.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Moorhouse?” Lucy was packing Margaret and her parcels into the trap.
“Quite. Now run away. There’s your father waiting for you. And it’s a promise that you’ll come across and see me when you are here at New Year? Good. Now run. This snow is awful.”
This was no moment for ceremony. A second later the Ruanthorpe-Moorhouses, muffled to their ears, were making their cautious way home.
The road led steeply downhill. They were both of them too much of the country to engage in talk while the driver had the very slippery foothold of his pony to see to. The snow had made the road uncertain, and Mungo, however much he might want to hear her news, must give his mind to the pony and the darkness. But soon they were at the foot of the hill and on the level. The little animal was trotting cautiously on familiar ground.
Margaret broke silence. “I did a silly thing, Mungo. I suddenly fainted right away in the train. The Rennie girl from Greenhead was with me in the carriage. She gave me some brandy.”
“Are ye all right now?” Mungo was crouched over the reins; his intent eyes were trying to pierce the gloom beyond his pony’s ears.
“Yes.”
He drove steadily for a moment. He was waiting for his wife to speak again, but she did not. He was driven to speak himself. “Was that—a good sign?”
“Yes, Mungo. It was a good sign.”
“Fine.” Mungo did not belong to a breed that carries emotion on its sleeve. There was nothing he could do to show his pleasure, here in the snowy darkness. He had no command of words. But a glow was lit within him. He found himself holding the reins in his hands with greater care, straining to use his countryman’s knowledge yet more skilfully. He must give his whole mind now to getting his wife home safely.
V
“Charles, what’s the matter with you?” Old Lady Ruanthorpe looked down the table of the dining-room at Duntrafford. Even when they were alone, this dogged old couple persisted in dining formally.
Sir Charles, a stringy old man with mutton-chop whiskers, a black stock and velvet dinner-jacket, glared back at his wife. “What do you mean, ‘matter’, Meg? I’m all right.”
“You’ve eaten practically no dinner.”
“Surely I can eat as much as I choose to. Remember I am eighty. It’s wrong for old people to eat too much.”
There was something that might have been anxiety in her determined, weather-beaten face. Lady Ruanthorpe peered at her husband over the expanse of white linen, cut-glass, hothouse fern and silver. “Fiddlesticks,” was all she said. Her eyes weren’t too good, and the lights from the candles dazzled them a bit. But Charles had been refusing this dish and that. It was ridiculous.
A man-servant had set the fruit on the table, put the port in front of his master, and was preparing to withdraw.
“Campbell.” The old man’s sharp voice brought him back.
“Yes, Sir Charles?”
“Look through the curtains and tell me what sort of night it is.” Sir Charles poured himself out a glass, got up and, laying one hand on the white mantelpiece for support, sipped his port and warmed himself at the fire.
The man reappeared from the window recess, through the heavy crimson velvet curtains. “It’s deep snow, Sir Charles,” he said.
“Go downstairs and ask if there’s no word from the Dower House, and come back and tell me at once.”
As the servant went, Lady Ruanthorpe turned to look at her husband. “What do you think you’re up to?”
“I want to know if Margaret’s back.”
“Margaret’s been in Glasgow before and got back safely. She’s quite fit to look after herself.”
Sir Charles grunted. “How do you know?”
His lady went into a peal of cracked laughter. “You’re an old rascal; that’s what you are.”
Sir Charles did not reply. He merely stood his port on the mantelpiece and warmed both his hands, waiting.
In a moment the man came back.
“Well, Campbell?”
“No, Sir Charles. No message.”
“Damn it! They might at least—”
“Charles, what’s the matter with you? It’s a horrid snowy night. You can’t expect—”
But Sir Charles was fidgeting with impatience. “Has the snow stopped falling, Campbell?”
“Yes, Sir Charles.”
“There should be a moon. Was there one?”
“Well, it’s not Campbell’s fault if there wasn’t.”
“Don’t be frivolous, Meg.”
“There was a moon, Sir Charles.”
“Very well, then. Go and tell them to bring round the closed carriage.”
“Charles! You can’t bring Margaret across here after a long day and a cold journey!”
“I have no intention. Do as I tell you, Campbell.”
The man went.
Lady Ruanthorpe was really alarmed now. She got up and crossed to her husband. “Charles, what do you intend to do?”
“I intend to go to the Dower House, and ask Margaret if she is going to have a child.”
“I wondered.” She regarded her husband. He was looking like a stubborn child himself now. She must do what she could with him. She put a hand on his arm. “You know you haven’t been out at night for weeks now. Remember that we had Margaret’s wedding in this house because you weren’t well enough to go to church.”
“I tell you I’m going, Meg.” She wasn’t to be allowed to put him off. Ruanthorpes had always prided themselves in doing what they wanted.
She shook his arm affectionately. “I’m terrified for you, my dear. I’ll go across quickly when the carriage comes, then come back at once and tell you.”
He did not answer, but she could feel his arm trembling. She raised her eyes to his face.
“Good gracious me, Charles! Whatever—?”
“I wouldn’t have been making such a fuss if Charlie had been living.”
Their boy who had been killed in the hunting-field years ago. An old wound that had never healed. She knew now what this meant to him, or he would never have hurt her with this reminder. She summoned the years of bleak self-discipline to steady her.
“All right, Charles. There’s no more to be said. We’ll get you wrapped up and I’ll come with you.”
VI
And so it came about that Mungo had a visit that evening from the most unexpected of guests. This stolid Ayrshire farmer took his parents-in-law on the whole calmly. They had sought him and, by his manner towards them, he never quite allowed them to forget it. Their abrupt patrician ways, so different from the ways of his prim and urban relatives, worried him, usually, not at all. But tonight even he had to admit that their behaviour was unexpected. His wife and he were sitting snugly in the Dower House parlour when the door was thrown open and a bundle of clothes with Sir Charles Ruanthorpe’s head at the top of it pushed itself into the room, followed by Margaret’s mother. They sprang to th
eir feet. Margaret went to him.
“Good gracious, Father! Whatever are you doing here?”
“Are you going to have a baby, Margaret?”
“You needn’t shout so loud, Father. The servants will know soon enough.”
“Then you are?”
“Yes. If all goes well.”
“You had better kiss me.”
Smiling a little sheepishly, Mungo watched his wife embrace her parents. They appeared to him to have forgotten about him, or, indeed, that he had anything to do with it. For a moment he was the farmer of the Laigh Farm again, and here was the laird and his family. They were fond of making a fuss with themselves, the gentry.
“If it’s a boy, his name’s to be Charles,” the old man was saying.
Margaret turned to her husband. She knew there had been a good, peasant line of Mungo Moorhouses.
“What do ye think, my dear?” Mungo asked her.
“Charles has always been the name of the first boy in our family,” her father insisted.
Margaret touched her husband’s arm. “Charlie was the name of my brother, Mungo.”
“Very well, my dear, if yer baby’s a boy we’ll call him for yer brother Charlie.”
Mungo Moorhouse had given Sir Charles Ruanthorpe of Duntrafford his permission.
Chapter Ten
AT St. Enoch’s Station, Bel said goodbye to her sister-in-law Margaret with the most affectionate smile she could muster, then trudged wearily down the platform feeling she hated everybody, particularly everybody who was called, or likely to be called, Moorhouse. Yesterday, Margaret Ruanthorpe-Moorhouse had descended upon her suddenly. Then, claiming the intimacy of a married relative, she had asked Bel to accompany her upon her visit to the doctor. Bel wished Phœbe could have gone with Margaret. Phœbe knew more of the Ruanthorpes. She had often been to Duntrafford from the Laigh Farm. But the errand to the specialist was a particular one. A young, unmarried girl couldn’t be expected to understand Margaret’s hopes and fears. So Bel had had to go with Margaret, and duly express her genteel and knowing pleasure at the coming happy but unmentionable event.
Today was Friday of the first week in December. That meant Christmas looming, with all the fuss of presents and entertainment. Tomorrow she had promised to drag herself down to the warehouse to see that poor Highland woman whose husband had lost his foot. On Tuesday of next week she had invited David’s newly affianced bride and her mother to tea at Grosvenor Terrace to be introduced to David’s sisters. That meant sweeping and garnishing the house on Monday. No. She had too much to worry her.
She stood at the entrance of the station for a moment grimly wondering how best she could get home. A sudden gust of icy wind made her shiver and draw her furs about her. All at once a thought came to her. She would indulge herself a little. She would call a cab and visit her mother in Monteith Row. From there she could easily get a message to her husband telling him to fetch her later. Tea and a little maternal petting was what she was needing.
The cab was chill and musty and smelt inside of leather, sawdust and horse, but Bel didn’t mind. She closed her eyes and thrust her hands deeper into her muff. It was a relief merely to be sitting still. They jolted down the ramp leading from St. Enoch’s Station into Argyle Street. Already, gas-flares were lighted in most of the shops. Christmas decorations were appearing everywhere. Windows were brighter and more tempting than ever. There was tinsel and coloured paper everywhere. The very badness of the times seemed to be forcing the shops to make their wares appear more desirable.
As the cab threaded its way through the traffic, Bel, in spite of her weariness, could not help craning forward to see what it was they were exhibiting in this window and that. Presently she was paying off the cab in front of the entrance to her mother’s flat in Monteith Row.
Mrs. Barrowfield, who had been feeling dull, was delighted to see Bel. It had been cold this morning, and Maggie her elderly housemaid had, on being commanded to deliver an opinion, duly delivered the opinion expected of her, and advised the old lady to stay in. This may have been safe advice, but a day at home was not entertaining. Mrs. Barrowfield therefore received her daughter with great energy and affection, and sat her down on the other side of the fire.
Almost at once Bel began to be sorry she had come. Her mother, having finished her own tea, was sitting bolt upright in front of her preparing to fire off reproofs, questions and advice.
“Well, my dear, where have ye been? Ye look as if ye have been running yerself off yer feet.”
“So I have, Mother, but I can’t help it.”
“Well, you should help it. Nobody’ll thank you for doing it. Where were ye today?”
Bel had to go through the entire story of Mrs. Mungo’s visit and the probability of her having a baby. The old lady didn’t take this news particularly well. She had hoped that the Ruanthorpe-Moorhouses would remain childless. Her daughter’s children might then in time have become, in some part, their legatees.
“And what’s all this about David?”
That had to be gone through, too. Then Bel had to listen carefully to the story of the rise of Robert Dermott’s fortunes. A story that was common knowledge in Glasgow, and had already been recounted to her many times—usually, as now, with the purpose of impressing upon her that her husband’s brother was marrying no one of any real consequence after all.
“Grace Dermott and her mother are coming to tea on Tuesday. That means polishing and cleaning the house.”
“Ye’ll kill yerself,” Mrs. Barrowfield said with every evidence of satisfaction. “And you’ll only have yerself to thank.”
“I won’t be able to thank myself, if I’m dead,” Bel smiled bleakly.
But Mrs. Barrowfield only fixed her through her steel spectacles and said, “Find out what David wants me to give him for a wedding-present. He’s a friend o’ mine, is David.” Like many old ladies, she was pleased to imagine she had a special understanding of young men.
Bel sighed. She had come hoping to find the old lady sympathetic. She had wanted to confide in her about the Rennie concert, and about her worries over the slum people that Arthur was proposing to put into the coach-house. But it was no use today. She would merely be scolded for everything. Such was her mother’s mood.
Presently Mrs. Barrowfield rose and fetched a pencil and paper. “And just when I have ye, my dear, I want ye to tell me what I’m to get for all the bairns’ Christmas presents. Let me see, there’s your three, and Mary McNairn’s four, and Sophia’s two. Then I aye give Phœbe something, and there’s you and Arthur. I’ll not bother with David this year, seeing he’s getting a good wedding-present. But there’s the minister and the usual folk in the church.”
Bel put up a beaten protest. How could her mother feel so well and strong? “Oh, not this evening, Mother! I can’t think. I’ve had a busy day.”
“Get away with ye! It’ll not take a minute.” She got down in front of Bel and began writing, her hard grey curls dangling on either side of her energetic head.
It was no good. Bel had to go through the list, and there were several more that occurred to her mother as she went along. Each had to be considered and argued about, and she had to suffer not a little exhausting contradiction.
Arthur’s arrival was as a straw to a drowning woman. Mrs. Barrowfield greeted her son-in-law in high good-humour, pressed a glass of wine upon him, and tried to make them stay for a meal. But by hidden signs Bel indicated to her husband that at all costs they must go.
So Arthur, like a dutiful husband, much regretted. Everybody would be anxious about them at home. It was a pity, he said waggishly, that they all hadn’t these strange American things called Bell telephones that some of the more progressive doctors were said to be getting in this winter, so that they could consult each other in dire emergency without leaving their own houses. But until such a time it was kinder to arrive home when you were expected, or people would jump to the conclusion that you were under the hoofs of a tramway
horse.
Mrs. Barrowfield said she didn’t believe a word about these distant speaking things, and what would people be up to next? She embraced Bel with energy, thanked her almost pathetically for her visit, and told her to remember that her mother was a worn-out, lonely old woman, who was always grateful when she could spare the time to come and see her.
Well aware that all this last was for Arthur’s benefit, Bel kissed her mother affectionately enough, and went off on her husband’s arm. She turned to him at the end of the Row. “Would it be terribly extravagant to take a cab home, Arthur?”
“It’s a long way. Do ye feel ye need it, my dear?”
“I do.” How comforting of him not to ask any more questions! She wouldn’t tell him she had wasted money on one today already.
Once settled in the cab, Bel affectionately propped herself against her husband’s shoulder and sentimentally held his hand. The regular trotting of the horse made her sleepy. For the first time today she was contented and happy. There was something soothing about Arthur. He wasn’t really a bad old thing. Perhaps, after all, she concluded to herself dreamily, Moorhouses did have their uses.
II
On the following morning Bel had all the symptoms of a bad cold. There was nothing for it but bed. This was a nuisance. She had the arrangements for the weekend to see to. And, in addition, she had promised to go down town to see the Highland woman and to arrange, if the woman looked civilised enough, for her charitable sojourn in the coachman’s quarters in Grosvenor Terrace Lane. Now Arthur said she would have to allow Phœbe to go in her stead.
Bel was not sure about this. Phœbe was so impulsive. She had no balance when it came to lame ducks. The sight of one was quite enough to rob her of all common sense. There was always some rescued mongrel or kitten in the empty stable at the back being fed and tended by Phœbe. Much to the delight of Bel’s own children, of course. But it was all very well. Phœbe did not stop to remember that such animals might carry disease.