There Will Come A Stranger

by Dorothy Rivers

  “C’n I come, Uncle John? I aren’t going to see the nest!” said Sally.

  “I’d stay at home, if I were you!” her mother told her, “Janet’s going to be icing little cakes this morning!”

  “Pink ones?”

  “I expect so. If you’re here she might let you put on some of the cherries.”

  Sally decided to postpone her visit to the mill until another time.

  Presently, when they went up to get their coats, Valerie smiled to herself as she heard Vivian singing softly in the adjoining room, glad that her sister was enjoying this visit so much. She was enjoying it too, although her heartache over Rory hurt as bitterly as ever. No one could have been a more delightful host than John. He had so arranged matters at the mill that after going there for an hour or two to deal with letters and any other pressing matters, he was free for the remainder of the day to entertain his guests. The weather had been kind, unusually mild and sunny for the time of year, and free from even the usual April showers, so most days he had taken them for a long drive. They were enchanted with the Border countryside, lovelier than ever now that the bare trees were softly misted with the first faint green of spring, and larks were soaring over every field and moor. John had added to the pleasure of their expeditions by telling them old legends of feuds and forays and elopements. He knew the history of every peel tower, every ruined castle, every moorland cairn for miles around.

  They had gone several times for picnics with the children by the river and on the moors. Twice John had taken them to tea with friends; two pleasant cousins had come to dinner, other friends to lunch on Sunday, and on Sunday evening Janet had gone out as usual to see her sister and they had banished Lizzie too, and had a cheerful party in the kitchen, cooking sausages and bacon, while a second course produced by Valerie was hailed with loud acclaim: she had soaked a round flat sponge cake in melted jam and sherry, put on top of it an ice bought yesterday in Muirkirk and frozen extra hard in John’s refrigerator, covered the whole in a meringue mixture and popped it for a few minutes in a hot oven.

  “Why in the world you’re going to learn to cook when you can cook like this already, beats me!” John had told her. She had been pleased, of course. But oh, if it had only been for Rory she had made the delicious sweet—Rory who had had a second helping—!

  They spent nearly an hour in going round the mill, while John explained the various processes. Though they followed what he said with interest, their minds went wandering from time to time down side tracks.

  “Rory would choose that for a suit!” thought Valerie, or, “That’s just what Rory would like for an overcoat.”

  “So this is where John spends his days,” thought Vivian—and was more interested in John’s own little office than in all the intricate machinery he showed them.

  When they had seen everything, John told them they must each take home a length of tweed as a memento of their visit. There was so much to choose from that decision was difficult: they were bewildered by the variety of plain tweeds; flecked tweeds, herringbones, innumerable checks; sturdy tweeds for making country coats of ever-lasting wear, tweeds light and fine enough “to be drawn through a curtain ring, if not a wedding ring!” as Valerie put it.

  Vivian finally decided on a suit length in an attractive check of green and brown and beige. Valerie was secretly surprised that she should choose it, for though it would look perfect in a setting of fields and moors and woods or in a garden, and would be ideal for country walks, and point-to-points, and shopping in a country town, she would have small occasion to wear it in the life they would lead in London.

  Valerie’s own choice fell on a lightweight tweed in pale, soft amber that would make a charming frock to wear on sunny days when a cool breeze made something warm desirable. John gave instructions for a length of heavier tweed of the same colour but a different weave to be parcelled up with it, telling her when she protested that they were inseparable, since of course the frock must have its matching coat! Giving them each a pattern of her tweed, he said that he would have the parcels posted off to them in London on the day they left.

  Though they could easily have walked the short way to the baker’s shop where they were going to have coffee, John took them in the car, saw that they had a table, ordered their coffee and a plate of cakes and biscuits before he left them, saying he would be back in half an hour; the post was fortunately small this morning.

  “He is nice, isn’t he!” Valerie exclaimed, as they watched his tall figure, lithe and well-knit, cross the pavement to the car and drive away.

  Vivian made no reply. Somehow she did not feel inclined to speak of John, even to Valerie. Her silence was covered by the arrival of a smiling girl who brought their coffee, followed a moment later by Mrs. McKeggie herself, grey-haired, blue-eyed, and rosy. She came to bring a plate of special biscuits, hot from the oven. “Spicy tarns is what they’re called, although I’m sure I couldn’t tell you why! They’ve aye been favourites with Mr. John, ever since he was a wee boy. He bade me bring you some to try!”

  They thanked her. Valerie said, “He told us that he always spent his pocket money here!”

  “And so he did. Miss Susan too. Peppermint creams were what she fancied, mostly, and she gets them yet, when she comes in! But Edinburgh rock was what he liked the best, though it was butterscotch he got when he was saving up for Christmas. He said it lasted better!”

  Valerie laughed. “Vivian, I’m going to buy a box of rock for John. Yes, now—my coffee’s far too hot to drink yet.”

  “Get peppermints for Susan, too, while you’re about it.”

  Valerie followed Mrs. McKeggie to the counter. Vivian, left alone, sat looking out into the street with absent eyes that did not see the passers-by, the women with their shopping baskets, the farmer striding slow with dog at heel, the children flattening their noses on the toyshop window. She was absorbed by her own thoughts.

  She thought how strange it was that though she had been here so short a time, in a way it seemed as though she had known Muirkirk and its neighbourhood, and above all Bieldside, all her life—so utterly at home she felt here, so content!

  She had known grander country in her travels, places whose beauty was spectacular—but never any place more lovable than this peaceful countryside of rounded hills, and singing streams, and little friendly farms, and lonely moorland.

  She had been a guest in many homes, some of them wealthy and luxurious, some of them outstanding for their pictures, or their sumptuous furnishing, or the originality of their decor. But she had never known a house where she had felt as much at home as at Bieldside: Bieldside, so unpretentious, and in many ways belonging to another era, with its old-fashioned, patterned carpets, and mahogany-encased bath, and mingled furniture of many generations: yet so rich in beauty she had learned to value: beauty of character, serenity of atmosphere.

  She had met many people in her life. Among them had been business magnates, politicians, writers; clever people, cultured people, people who were wealthy and of high position. But she had met none that she liked better, none among whom she had felt more at ease than with the friendly, kindly people of this quiet community in the Borders—the people of John’s world.

  She thought of John himself. She wondered whether he had changed towards her, or whether, in Switzerland, she had imagined he had liked her better than in fact he did, had read more into their relationship than on his side had actually existed?

  That last evening they had spent together in the little inn at Varlet-sur-Montagne, when John, aware that she was feeling guilty of disloyalty to Pete’s memory in being able to find happiness he could not share, had told her that, since Pete had loved her, he would want her happiness above all things, Vivian had fancied that perhaps he said it on his own account as well as hers: that he had hoped they might find happiness together.

  When weeks had passed without a sign from him, she had decided that she must have been mistaken, only to begin wondering afresh with t
he arrival of his invitation to Bieldside. But since they had been here he had shown no particular anxiety to be with her alone. There had been no indication that he preferred her company to Valerie’s, no sign that he liked one sister better than the other, though in Switzerland it had been herself, always, whom he had sought out. But that might well have been because he saw that Valerie was preoccupied with Rory and his circle.

  Just as well, Vivian told herself, that after all she wasn’t going to have to face a difficult decision. And yet—and yet—!

  Valerie slid into the chair opposite her, saying triumphantly, “Rock for John and peppermints for Susan—and French almond rock for you!”

  Vivian smiled at her, glad for her pleasure in the novelty of being able to be generous, now that their brothers had reluctantly agreed to pay a rent determined by their lawyers for Hawthorn Lodge, so that she had a little income of her own. “Let’s get some for the children,” she suggested.

  “Janet, too, and Lizzie. But I thought I’d wait for that till you were there to choose!”

  They drank their coffee and enjoyed the biscuits, and when John returned he found them chatting with Mrs. McKeggie, while that good lady weighed out chocolates and humbugs for the nursery, fudge for Janet, and for Lizzie fondants, violet and pink and lemon.

  Having, put their parcels in the car, the three of them set off on foot to do some shopping on behalf of Susan, who wanted stamps and a refill for her biro, and for Janet, who had given them a list of groceries. As they were emerging from the grocer’s John was hailed by an elderly man they had noticed earlier, being towed along by a large masterful Labrador from one lamp-post to the next. He was a stocky, sturdy individual wearing a plus four suit of Lovat tweed, a tweed deerstalker with a few trout flies stuck in the crown, and heavy shoes whose tackets clattered on the pavement.

  “Hey, John! Can you spare a moment?”

  “As many as you like!” said John, and introduced him to the girls as Mr. Ogilvie.

  Having exchanged civilities regarding the weather, and listened with a gratified expression when they told him how much they liked Muirkirk and its neighbourhood, he turned to John. “You’re coming to the dance, of course?”

  “What dance?”

  “Surely you’ve seen the bills?”

  John said he was afraid he hadn’t; somehow he never looked at bills, for if he did they were invariably concerned with something that had taken place last week.

  “Huh! Good thing I met you, then! I’m getting up a dance on Monday in the Coronation Hall, to try and raise a bit of money for our local R.S.P.C.A. funds. Ought to be a good show—got that band from Selkirk, and the Clydesmuirs are in Monte Carlo so they’ve very kindly said their cook can do the buffet, and you know what that means! Tickets are only fifteen bob, and that includes a buffet supper, though you have to buy your own drinks, of course. The very thing for you, my boy, with visitors to entertain!” Out of his pocket he pulled a bunch of yellow tickets, held together by an elastic band. “Want yours now? No need to pay me if you haven’t got the money on you now!”

  John took out his note case, “Give me half a dozen.”

  Later, over lunch, recounting all that they had done to Susan, the matter of the dance cropped up. “He’s a most awfully nice old boy,” John explained to Vivian and Valerie, “always helping every good cause, running Punch and Judy at the Church Fete, playing a hurdy-gurdy in the streets to get a little extra for the Guides hut—he’ll turn a hand to anything. So we all rally round, of course, when he gets up something of his own. He does it about once a year. He’s even crazier than most of us about animals, and the R.S.P.C.A. is the apple of his eye. No need to feel we must go to this dance of his, though—having bought the tickets, honour is satisfied!”

  Vivian realized that he was saying this on her account, remembering that in Switzerland she had not cared to dance, because the last time she had danced had been with Pete, and to revive the memory of it had been something that she did not choose to face. She said, “If all the people who buy tickets stay at home, the dance will be a flop. And if that happens poor old Mr. Ogilvie will be horribly disappointed, even if he does make money over it! Do let’s go, and help to make it a success for him!”

  John looked at her. “You’re sure that’s how you feel about it?”

  Vivian said quietly, “Quite sure!”

  For a moment, as their eyes met, it was as though they were alone together, in a sense that had not happened since they were in Switzerland.

  Then Susan said, “Yes—do let’s go, John! Harry will be here, and he was staying till Tuesday morning anyway, to drive us back with him. It would be an opportunity to meet all sorts of people that I haven’t seen for ages! And we might get Jock Henderson, or Peter Douglas, to make us even numbers.”

  John looked at his other guest. “How does Valerie feel about it?”

  Valerie had no feelings on the matter either way. She said she would enjoy it, if the others felt like going.

  So John telephoned to Peter Douglas, and it was settled that he should come to dinner at Bieldside on Monday evening, and they would all go on together to the dance.

  Luckily the sisters, though they had supposed there would be little occasion for a dance frock, had agreed that it would be as well for each of them to bring one, “just in case.” Valerie had packed her white lace. The misty grey that she had worn through the despairing hours when she had waited all in vain for Rory was hung away at the back of her cupboard, hidden beneath a sheet: she could not bear to see it, and far less to wear it.

  Vivian’s was one that she had bought in one of New York’s most exclusive stores. It was of net, in a strange, deep, glowing shade of green, with flowing bouffant skirt. The colour was the most becoming that she could have chosen, bringing out the green lights in her hazel eyes, stressing the pearly whiteness of her arms and neck and shoulders, deepening the rich brown of her satiny curls. The way she wore her hair brushed up revealed the lovely lines of neck and shoulder now that they were uncovered, save for the fragile folds of tulle that partly swathed her shoulders. When she was dressed she looked a long time at her reflection. She looked lovely, and she knew it, and was glad: this would be the first time John had seen her in an evening dress. Yet with her happiness a sense of guilt was mingled, tarnishing its radiance with the nagging consciousness of disloyalty to Pete.

  Turing from her mirror, she took up the photograph that stood, as always, by her bed.

  “But I do love you still—I do, my dear—you know I do!” she whispered to the pictured face that smiled back at her. “It’s just that—oh, I don’t know—I don’t know what’s happening to me—”

  There was no sign of her inner turmoil when presently she and Valerie went down to join the others; no trace, in the younger sister’s smiling face, of the pain that she had felt on putting on the dress that she had worn on happy evenings when she danced with Rory.

  They found the others in the room that had been called the drawing-room by Ainslies of an older generation. John and Susan, searching for a name for it that sounded less archaic, had found none that seemed to fit it better, so the drawing-room it had remained. It was a peaceful, friendly place. Blue damask curtains and flowered chintzes, all a trifle faded, made a gentle harmony of colour. Pastels of Victorian Ainslie children, and another of two sisters, arms entwined round one another’s waists, sleek ringlets framing innocent oval faces, hung upon the creamy walls. Gleaming mahogany gave back the bright reflection of the dancing firelight.

  Peter Douglas had already arrived. He was a pleasant-looking young man of about thirty, who farmed a few miles up the valley and was weather-beaten from a life spent in dipping sheep, driving tractors, working in the hayfield and the harvest. He was at first inclined to shyness on meeting the two pretty girls from London, for strangers seldom came his way. But their friendliness, as they all enjoyed a glass of sherry round the fire, soon made him feel at home with them, and dinner was a cheerful meal.
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br />   They lingered for a little over coffee, then set out, three of them in John’s car, three in Peter’s, for the Coronation Hall in Muirkirk.

  Vivian and Valerie and Susan, as they left the cloakroom, found the three men waiting for them by the door of the big room where dancing was already in full swing. The room was crowded; Mr. Ogilvie, chatting with a few members of the older generation who had turned up to join the fun, was beaming; evidently he was going to make a lot of money for the cause so near his heart.

  Susan danced away with Harry. Peter said to Valerie, “May I have this dance?”

  John smiled down into Vivian’s eyes.

  “Will you dance this with me? And many more, I hope!”

  So for the first time she felt his arm about her waist, the gentle guidance of his hand against her back, the muscles of his arm wiry and strong beneath her left hand.

  The band from Selkirk was playing an old waltz: “Some day I’ll find you ... It seemed to Vivian that the lilting music had woven its haunting rhythm about the two of them, so that although they were surrounded by a throng of other dancers, she felt more alone with John than she had done at any time since the days in Switzerland when they had been so much together. John felt it too. He murmured, bending his head so that his lips were near her ear, “This is the first time since you came here that I’ve had you to myself.”

  Her eyes were lowered so that he could only see the creamy crescents of her lids, the dark fan of her lashes on the smooth curve of her cheek. She spoke so softly that he barely caught her answering murmur: “Yes ... I’ve wondered...”

  John’s arm took her in a tighter grip as urgently he asked her, “Wondered, have you? Didn’t you understand—?”

  She had said more than she intended. Fearful of betraying herself, she made no answer.

  John said, “But my darling, don’t you see—? If I allowed myself to be alone with you, I’d say too much. I’d make it difficult for you, staying in my house, if you should feel that you’re not ready yet for what I have to say to you.”