by Guy McCrone
“There’s naebody tae meet ye, sir.” This was strange, the man thought. Surely the Dermott household, even on this sad morning, must know the movements of so close a friend and send a carriage to fetch him from the station.
“It’s all right, thanks. They didn’t quite know when I would come.”
David set off towards Aucheneame. He let his legs take him in the direction of his duty. Disjointed scraps of thought passed through his mind as he walked. The obituary notice in the morning paper. “Mr. Dermott’s sudden death would be a severe loss to the shipping world.” “A man of great ability, and a staunch supporter of the City’s charities.” Discreet, unstressed details of Robert Dermott’s humble beginnings. “Mr. Dermott’s daughter and only child is engaged to Mr. David Moorhouse, a young Glasgow businessman, who, it is understood, has quite recently entered the firm of Dermott Ships Limited.” Scraps from the music-hall performance of last night. His hurrying footsteps were pattering out the rhythm of “Clementina Angelina Margarita Green”. The absurd, tripping ballet. Lucy’s face. “Well, David, I didn’t expect to find you here, in a frivolous place like this.” The visit to Lucy’s rooms. “Goodbye, David. And God bless you.” No; events had arranged themselves wrong. Nothing made sense. Perhaps sometime in the future the knots would come out of their tangle, and he would find rest.
There was Aucheneame now, with its blinds lowered in mourning. He gazed up at the great house as it stood up stark among its low shrubberies. He felt as though he wanted to ask it a question. But the lowered blinds made it look like a face with closed eyes; impassive and refusing to respond. He hurried on, his feet crushing the new-raked gravel of the drive. In another moment he had ascended the short flight of steps to the front door and was ringing the bell.
He has received by a man-servant with discreet surprise and pleasure. “We didn’t know when you would get here, sir.”
“I got back very late last night. I only got the message to come, then.”
At David’s request the man followed him into a room while he asked him questions. Robert Dermott had died in the early evening, while Sir Hamish was in the house. It had been too late to find David at Dermott Ships Limited, and he was not to be found at his rooms. The ladies, as was natural, were stunned by the event, but Miss Grace had left word that she was to be told at once of his arrival. She was now in her room, but there was no doubt that she would want to see him. She had been awaiting his arrival with impatience. The man went, leaving David alone.
The lowered blinds with the sun upon them made a strange yellow twilight in the room, giving the appearance of things an unreality. David stood in front of the new-lit fire waiting, listening intently. This house of mourning seemed strangely silent: a muffled whisper; the crack of a floor-board now and then. That was all. A sparrow chirped outside in the shrubbery. Now he was aware of his own heart-beats, beating out the rhythm “Clementina Angelina Margarita Green”. No. It was preposterous. He would think about all that later—later, when he was not a mere mechanism, here to do what was expected of him.
Presently the door opened softly and Grace came to him. Now that she was here, it seemed natural that he should have come to help her. There were traces of fatigue and weeping, but her pleasure at seeing him had made her almost radiant. Her dress, even, was familiar, for she had not yet had time to secure mourning.
“David, darling. There you are. We’ve been trying to find you.” She was sobbing with relief as he held her in his arms.
Now she was sitting beside him possessively holding his hand and giving him a controlled account of her father’s last hours; of Sir Hamish’s arrival, and of his inability to do anything in the face of Robert Dermott’s condition.
Presently she was leading David to her father’s room. The old Highlander lay under a white sheet, his arms crossed on his breast. Grace’s mother rose from a chair by the bedside, and embraced David, weeping. Her daughter scolded her gently for not resting and led her away.
Left alone with this man who had accomplished so much, who, for once, would deserve the formal words that would be spoken and printed in his praise, David was surprised to find himself invaded by a sense of calmness. In the quiet immensity of death, his own confusions seemed to recede from him, to fall into proportion. Here, too, it was so still that, as he stood at the foot of Robert Dermott’s bed, he could again feel his tired pulses throbbing. But this time the throbbing did not beat out the words of a song. Now Grace, her hand in his own, was standing looking with him at her father. It was almost with a feeling of reluctance that he allowed her at last to draw him away.
“Come, David. We’ve got things to see about.”
III
In the little room where Robert Dermott had been used to conduct his personal business, Grace gave David his keys.
“But, Grace, is it right that I should know about your father’s affairs?”
“He wanted it. He said so yesterday. There’s a letter for you, in his desk.”
David turned the key in the great office desk, and slid back its heavy top. As he had expected, everything was arranged in order. Papers relating to the house, the garden and the stables were neatly docketed and carefully classified. There were receipts and personal correspondence. Together they sought out and found Robert Dermott’s letter, the sealed envelope, addressed in a careful, almost copperplate hand: a hand that had been acquired with much diligence by an ambitious Highland boy, whose dream it had been to come out of the mountains and seek his fortune in the City. It bore the words: “To my son-in-law, David Moorhouse. To be opened in the event of my death”, and was dated 1st January, 1879. The letter ran as follows:
“MY DEAR DAVID,
“I am sitting in the quiet of the New Year’s morning thinking of my family. I am not a young man now, and in times past I have worried about my wife and daughter. I just want to tell you that your engagement to Grace, and everything I have come to know of you since, has lifted a weight from my mind. It is a great relief for me to know that I now have a son in whom I can have full confidence. I need not recommend my dear ones to your care and your affection. The cashier of Dermott Ships Limited has my will and all instructions locked up in my private drawer in his safe at the office. The key is with the others on my ring. May God bless you all. I hope I shall have lived to see a grandchild, before you open this letter.
“Yours affectionately,
“ROBERT DERMOTT.”
David put the letter down. Grace, who had been reading it over his shoulder as he sat, picked it up, and carrying it to a window, re-read it tearfully. With hands clasped on the desk in front of him, David sat staring vacantly at the row of pigeon-holes before him. He was conscious of a great weariness now, conscious that last night his unhappiness had allowed him little sleep. Yet, as he thought of the generous message to him set down in the old man’s letter, he could not feel the shackles it was laying upon him, as he might have done yesterday. Something had changed within him. Perhaps, if he did what he conceived to be his duty, his perplexities would begin to fade away and leave him at peace.
There was an early meal, in order that David should get back to the office in the afternoon to seek help in making funeral arrangements. In the evening he promised to be with Grace and her mother once more.
As he made his way back to Glasgow, David lay back in the empty carriage and closed his eyes. The wheels were beating steadily beneath him. There would be wheels beating steadily beneath Lucy Rennie at this moment as the day train to London hammered out the long miles. Yesterday, after he had left her in Hill Street, he had felt certain that, before long, he would be in the train too, following her, seeking her out. But now he was not sure.
He hadn’t Lucy Rennie’s courage. Her ability to throw away the substance for the shadow. He would never understand that for the Lucy Rennies the shadows are everything.
As he passed up the street to the offices of Dermott Ships Limited, he stopped to buy himself a new black cravat, asking permission
to tie it in the shop. Was his vanity stirring to life? Did he feel that he, David Moorhouse, could not escape a gratifying importance in the eyes of the staff as he made his first entrance as a mourner.
At the great swing-doorway of the offices, a senior clerk who chanced to be coming out stood aside, holding it open to let him pass, and giving him a greeting pregnant with condolence and respect. As he passed through to the chairman’s room, Stephen Hayburn came forward, gave him his hand, said he was sorry to hear the news, and withdrew tactfully.
The elder men of the staff, some of whom had shared Robert Dermott’s struggles, came to shake his hand. He could see that their sorrow was sincere. It had not been difficult to like the old man. David, as he returned their handshakes, was full of understanding, earnest solemnity and dignified regret. He unbent sympathetically and gave them such details of the chairman’s death as they might want to have, and told them that the condition of the chairman’s wife and daughter was what might be expected. As the seniors of the firm went back to their desks, they agreed that Mr. Moorhouse was feeling this death in a way that did him credit; that he was a fine young man, even if he hadn’t anything like the brains and drive of the old man; and they felt, with some confidence, that there was no reason why, with such excellent support as themselves, Mr. Moorhouse and the firm of Dermott Ships Limited should not continue together on their prosperous way.
Late in the afternoon Arthur paid a visit. As he entered the chairman’s room, hat in hand, David caught himself wondering if even his downright brother was not now showing him some slight deference. But he was glad to see Arthur, and stepped forward to greet him.
“I came in to see if there was anything we could do for ye, David.”
David thanked him, but thought not. Everything, with the help of the excellent people here, had been put in train.
“You’ll be going back to Aucheneame tonight?” Arthur asked.
“Oh yes. They need me down there.”
“Bel was just saying she hoped this wouldna keep back yer marriage for too long.”
“I don’t think it will, Arthur. I’m ready when Grace is. It would be best now—for everybody.”
Chapter Twenty-One
IN the first days of June, Charles Mungo Ruanthorpe-Moorhouse was born. The event occurred in the morning, and in the evening, before dinner, the baby’s grandfather, Sir Charles, despite his eighty years and his indifferent health, eluded the vigilance of his lady, marched across to the Dower House of Duntrafford in pouring rain, broke through the ring of Margaret’s attendants, and shook his exhausted daughter triumphantly by the hand. He told her she was a good girl, a credit to her parents, and reminded her with satisfaction that there was nothing the Ruanthorpes couldn’t accomplish if they set their minds to it, the little red creature in the cradle before the fire being proof positive of this contention. He assured her that his life’s wish had been fulfilled, and that now he was ready to die. Margaret opened her tired eyes for a moment, contemplated her father as he stood over her, saw his jacket dripping with rain, and decided it was very probable that he would not have long to wait. Sir Charles, however, turned on his heel, marched back home through the summer downpour, had a hot sitz-bath before his dressing-room fire, drank his grandson’s health in champagne and Napoleon brandy, and settled down to a hilarious evening, declaring he had never felt so well in his life.
On the last Saturday of June the official celebrations were to take place. Tenantry and servants were to have sports in the Duntrafford park and receive a liberal meal in a large marquee set up for the occasion; while relatives of the family and such neighbouring gentry as came to pay their respects were to be given entertainment in Duntrafford House itself. In the evening there were to be fireworks.
The Glasgow members of the Moorhouse family looked to this event, each in a different fashion. On the surface, of course, everyone must appear delighted. But Bel, for one, couldn’t help the feeling that a deal too much fuss was being made about the Duntrafford baby. After all, she had safely brought three of her own into the world, sound in wind and limb, without as much as a single match being put to a single squib on the occasion of their arrival. Margaret, of course, was forty, which was a hazardous age to be having a first child, but even so, surely one could be thankful for dangers past without marquees and gunpowder.
In addition, it was the end of June—just the time when most Glasgow matrons were in the throes of packing knives and forks, bedsheets and table-linen, and preparing to transfer their households to some seaside place on the Clyde for the months of July and August. To have to key oneself, one’s husband and one’s children up to garden-party pitch was altogether too much. Bel decided to have a sister-in-laws’ tea-party to feel the family pulse.
“I just wanted to know what you all felt about this Duntrafford visit next Saturday, dears,” Bel said, smiling around her with an affectionate assurance, born of the conscious possession of fine eggshell china and the heaviest solid silver. “I wondered if we couldn’t just slip down some other day, and see Margaret and take the new baby a present. You see, we ourselves are going off to Brodick on the first of the month, and although, of course, it would be lovely to go to Duntrafford, it would be a dreadful rush.”
Sophia’s ideas chimed with Bel’s. “Just what I was thinking, dear. William was just saying this morning he didn’t know how in the world we were going to manage to get to Saltcoats this summer. The new girl I have has turned out so stupid. This year I have to do the actual packing as well as all the brainwork. But I just said to William, ‘Well, my dear boy, another year I’ve no intention …”
It took Mary to stem the flood. She looked at Sophia severely. “We can’t be disrespectful to Sir Charles.” And not for the first time, Bel’s town upbringing was at a loss before the almost feudal respect that these farmer’s daughters still bore to someone who had been their father’s landlord.
“I want to go,” Phœbe said shortly. She had, indeed, just returned from Duntrafford that morning.
Sophia laughed. “Oh, you! We all know you. Young birds or beasts or babies. You can’t keep away from them.” It was on the tip of her tongue to add: “It’s time that boy of yours married you and you had some of your own,” but she stopped herself in time, fearful of reproving looks from Bel or Mary.
Bel turned to her newest sister-in-law, Mrs. David Moorhouse. “What do you think about it, dear?”
Grace had been looking at Phœbe. This beautiful, restless child had been the most difficult for her to understand of all the Moorhouse family. Good to the point of simplicity herself, Grace had been collecting evidence in Phœbe’s favour, seeking to find reasons for liking her. Now it pleased her to hear Sophia say that the girl had a mania for the young and the helpless. Bel’s question brought her back.
“I had a very kind letter from Lady Ruanthorpe. She asked mother and David and myself to stay at Duntrafford for the weekend. But you see mother doesn’t much feel like being away from home just yet. Still, I feel David and I should go. I dare say we’ll get back on Saturday night. The carriage can meet us in Glasgow and drive us back late to Aucheneame.”
Bel had to acknowledge herself defeated. Grace, although she was not yet married to David more than three months, was already her favourite sister-in-law. But this daughter of luxury could not be expected to understand the magnitude of an expedition such as the one proposed for Saturday. To see three children dressed in the best of everything, a husband looking suitably dignified, prosperous and impeccable, and oneself in the height of fashion; and to keep everyone, including oneself, looking their best for a long and tiring summer’s day—this was an undertaking to tax the wit and purpose of any woman. But she had both wit and purpose. And she knew it. Very well. She would take her family to Duntrafford on Saturday. And she would see to it that they, the Arthur Moorhouses, were the best-dressed and most presentable family there.
II
The day of rejoicing was hot. Sir Charles had spent an anx
ious week, looking a hundred times a day from the windows of Duntrafford at threatening clouds or actually falling rain. But suddenly on Saturday morning the old man, as he sat up in bed breakfasting, saw that the weather had cleared, and that a hot June sun already high in the summer heavens was causing a steamy mist to rise from the parklands beyond the lawn, and was beginning to dry the sodden canvas of the great marquee. This was better. Sir Charles ordered his man to fetch him the tussore suit he had worn last when he was in India, chose a bright tie, and put them on with much satisfaction. His lady, wearing black spotted foulard and a large leghorn hat, wagged her ebony stick at him and went off into peals of eldritch laughter. Her husband merely growled, muttered something about her not being fit to have a grandchild, and marched out of the house to inspect the preparations, heedless of her cries that he should remember that the grass must still be very wet.
The morning was delicious. In the late Ayrshire June the spring still lingered. The foliage was become rich and deep, but it had not yet taken to itself the dark, glossy green of midsummer. Followed by his two old house spaniels, Sir Charles, his hands clasped behind his back, stumped about enjoying himself. Trestle-tables were being set up in the marquee by caterers’ men. He told them that he thought it was ridiculous to be arranging them in this way; that they should be arranging them in that other way; then walked off, feeling he had shown these fellows who was in authority.
At the finely wrought-iron gates of his walled garden, he commanded his spaniels to sit and wait for him, peering back through the ornamental iron tracery at two despondent pairs of bloodshot eyes that looked up as though they had been excluded from Paradise; told them to be good doggies, and went on down the damp scented turf alleys to see that his gardeners had carried out his instructions. Even Sir Charles had little to complain of. This Ayrshire garden was a miracle of luxuriance refreshed. The herbaceous borders were lavishly splashing their colours against the sombre green of the old yew-trees. Early roses, the raindrops still upon them, were sparkling in the sun. Tubs of geraniums and hydrangeas had been brought out from under glass and set about to add to the riot. Fruit was beginning to shape itself on the apple-trees, trained against the south wall. Sir Charles went, exchanging greetings with his gardeners, examining the trimmed edges, and pulling up the odd weed that seems to appear from nowhere after a warm, wet night. With a parting word that the men had better keep their eyes open while the mob walked round this afternoon, he turned and left the garden.