Family Gathering

by Elizabeth Cadell

  Natalie, without being able to detect anything especially complimentary in this speech, nevertheless felt very grateful to her stepdaughter. “I don’t think I’m very much use to you in a situation like this,” she said, “but you do agree, don’t you, that Duncan ought to go?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Lucille. “I agree like anything. But then I don’t see what use it is telling him—though I have told him lots of times—because after all, he knows himself, without anybody telling him, that he ought to go. And if a person won’t go when they know a thing themselves, why should they go just because someone else tells them about it?”

  “It’s very difficult,” agreed Natalie.

  “I can talk to you,” said Lucille, “because you and I are the same—but don’t you find how impossible it is to talk to other people? Not Jeremy, of course, because he’s like you—he doesn’t go on and on. But what does talking do? I promise you—honestly, Natalie, I promise you, that when I came home from London I told everybody that I was engaged to Duncan. I told Granny and Grandfather and they were awfully pleased because Jeremy said Duncan was so nice. Then I told Philip and he didn’t take the slightest notice—I mean, he said nobody could possibly go away for such a short time and meet perfect strangers and come back and say they were engaged to them. He said it was—was fantastic and that he simply wouldn’t listen. And his mother said the same. She said that for years everybody had known that Philip and I were going to get married and I couldn’t forget all the years Philip had waited for me, just to marry some man that nobody had ever heard of. You see, Natalie, talking is no use. She and Philip simply told everybody that I was being silly, and they went on insisting that the best way to clear the whole thing up was for us to get engaged. And so— so that was how it happened.”

  “But you could have asked your grandmother—well, perhaps your grandfather—”

  “The wallflowers,” said Lucille dejectedly, “hadn’t happened then. If they had, I think Grandfather would have said something to Mrs. Bellamy. But you know how Granny says that one shouldn’t fuss?—well, we never have, all my life, and somehow, if you’re brought up by Granny, you do get the idea that if you keep quiet and don’t fuss, everything will be all right. Everything always has, until now. And now I find that I feel dreadful if I have to go on and on just arguing. It seems to me that unless people want to believe what you say, they just don’t listen—they only wait until you stop, and then they go on. I know Granny says I’m silly, and I must be, because I can’t talk. I think it’s so dreadful the way everybody has to say something all the time—if you don’t want to, everybody thinks you’ve got nothing to talk about. And you see,” ended Lucille, “in my case it’s true—I mostly haven’t. So if it means talking to make Duncan go away—then I don’t know how to do it.”

  Silence fell once more, this time one of complete agreement. There was nothing in Lucille’s speech that was not perfectly clear to Natalie, since it was exactly how she felt herself.

  The matter was now settled. She had talked to Lucille and she had found that Lucille had talked to Duncan without any result whatsoever. William would realize that everything possible had been done.

  A little doubt as to William’s entire approval of the way in which the affair had been conducted crept into Natalie’s mind. Perhaps he would expect…it was a dreadful thought, but if William…

  “Do you think,” she asked Lucille fearfully, “that I ought to talk to Duncan myself?”

  To her infinite relief, Lucille shook her head.

  “I don’t think it would make any difference,” she said. “You see, he says the matter isn’t in our hands at all now. He and Philip have always been enemies and—”

  “But,” asked Natalie, “have they met before?”

  “Not really,” said Lucille, “but Duncan is a Macdonald and he still feels very strongly about sixteen ninety-two.”

  “Sixteen?”

  “Ninety-two,” said Lucille. “Don’t you remember about Glencoe?”

  “Glencoe?” repeated the bewildered Natalie.

  “Yes,” said Lucille. “That was in sixteen ninety-two. Ever since then the Macdonalds have hated the Campbells.”

  “But—”

  “Perhaps I didn’t tell you,” said Lucille, “but Philip’s mother’s name was Campbell before she was married. And when Duncan heard that, he got into a terrible state and said that now he understands why he felt that—that antipathy at once.”

  “But—oh, but surely,” protested Natalie, “all that’s over. You can’t seriously—I mean, who thinks about that now?”

  “The Macdonalds do,” said Lucille.

  “Oh—no!” said Natalie. “It’s—why, there wasn’t anything to choose between all those Highland clans. They were all terribly fierce and wild—savage, all of them. The Campbells may have murdered the Macdonalds, but the Macdonalds murdered the Macleods, the—they all murdered each other. If you try to read about it you get quite confused because they were always murdering everybody. But it all took place so very long ago, and it’s quite over now.”

  “Duncan says it isn’t over in Glencoe,” said Lucille. “He says that if you want to prove it, you can walk up Glencoe any day in a Campbell kilt and see what happens.”

  “But—”

  “So that’s why he’s staying,” ended Lucille. “He can’t let a Campbell—”

  “But Philip,” pointed out Natalie, “is only half a Campbell.”

  Lucille nodded. “Yes,” she agreed, “but it isn’t as though you could separate the other half. I really don’t think there’s anything we can do,” she ended. “By just talking, I mean.”

  Natalie agreed, feeling more at a loss than ever. William had only mentioned talking, and had issued no instructions regarding action. She mused for some time and then put a question to her stepdaughter.

  “Lucille,” she said, “if he doesn’t go away, will you go on with the wedding? What I mean is, you must know yourself, inside you, which one you’d like to marry—which one of them you really love. It would be”—she hesitated and felt her way—“it would be doing a dreadfully wrong thing to marry a man you didn’t care for.”

  “I do care for Philip,” Lucille assured her. “I’ve liked him all my life—he’s really very nice. I wish he’d listen a little more, even if I don’t say things very well, but I’m used to him and it’s quite true that it always was a sort of unspoken arrangement that we’d get married one day.”

  “And Duncan?” asked Natalie.

  Lucille stared thoughtfully out of the window and was so long in answering that Natalie wondered whether she had forgotten the question.

  “Duncan?” she said slowly at last. “I don’t know. It all seemed so easy, when we arranged it. Now—”

  “Do you love him?” asked Natalie.

  “Well, yes,” replied Lucille. “I wouldn’t say this to anybody but you, because people who aren’t like us couldn’t understand. I do love Duncan very much— inside. And I know that in books—and cinemas and things, girls always do these things differently. But I— I can’t bring myself to—well, to do anything.” She leaned forward and put a hand into her stepmother’s, speaking very quietly. “If I were like Helen,” she said, “everything would be all right. But I can’t do it—I can’t live at all if I can’t live nicely and quietly and without fuss. I know it’s weak, but I can’t stand up to people. I can’t face a terrible scene with Philip and then another with his mother, and explanations to Granny and Grandfather, and sending back presents with letters to say why, and—and turning our nice quiet life into something dreadfully upset, just because I think I like Duncan better than Philip.” She pressed Natalie’s hand and added an earnest little plea. “Please don’t think me awfully stupid,” she said, “but I’d really rather leave things the way they are.”

  “You can’t leave things the way they are,” said Natalie, “if you really love Duncan. If one only knew, Lucille—I mean, if one could be really sure that you l
oved him, there wouldn’t be anything for you to do. I could speak—I think I could speak to Mrs. Bellamy, and Jeremy and I could tell Philip, and I would send the presents back for you. If you would tell me—”

  Lucille shook her head slowly.

  “Please leave it,” she begged. “When I think about changing things, I feel honestly quite ill and terribly frightened, but when I decide to let things remain as they are, I feel calm and well again. Please leave it.”

  Natalie could think of nothing to say. She took the hand lying in hers and looked at it with a feeling of helplessness. Philip’s engagement ring was on the third finger. It would be easy to slip the ring off, but that would not be all that was needed to bring the engagement to an end. She knew that Lucille’s arguments were weak and foolish, but she could see, better than most people, what lay behind the hesitating phrases. It was all very well to say what should be done—if one had the strength to do it. She and Lucille were one of a kind —they were helpless against those who, strong and assured, could argue and browbeat and force their opinions on to weaker natures. Natalie knew that she loved William dearly, but she could not imagine herself putting up any kind of struggle in order to win him. If she had been in Lucille’s place, she would, she knew, have submitted, as Lucille was submitting, to those stronger than herself.

  She felt that there was nothing to be done now but to tell William what Lucille had said, and ask his advice. If she told him that she was sure Lucille loved Duncan, perhaps William would write to Philip and his mother, and she could take Lucille away until everything had blown over…

  It seemed a very sound plan. Feeling a little happier, Natalie rose and prepared to go downstairs.

  “You’ve been sweet,” said Lucille, “and thank you very much. Anybody else would have gone on and on

  Natalie went downstairs composing the sentences of her letter to William. There was really nothing to worry about—the wedding was not to take place until his return and she knew that William, to ensure his daughter’s happiness, would have no hesitation in stopping the marriage, no matter how far preparations for it had advanced. It was a pity that he had not been at home to deal with the situation when Duncan first arrived at the house.

  The drawing-room was empty, but Natalie had scarcely closed the door behind her when it opened to admit Jeremy.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” he said. “Banging on your door and yelling outside bathrooms and so on. You weren’t anywhere.”

  “I went to see Lucille,” said Natalie. “Your father said I was to talk to her and—and so I did.”

  “What about?” asked Jeremy. “Young Lochinvar?”

  “Well, yes,” said Natalie. “It isn’t easy to know what to do.”

  “What did you decide?” asked Jeremy.

  “I didn’t decide anything,” said Natalie.

  “Ah! Just as I thought,” said Jeremy. “I had a letter from the old man, too—yes, William—who did you think I meant? He said that it was your job to tackle Lucille and I said to myself ‘Ah! now something will get done at last.’ ”

  Natalie regarded him with something like displeasure.

  “It isn’t,” she said, “a joking matter.”

  “Who said it was, funny little Natalie?” asked Jeremy. “I know even better than you do that there’s no joke about it, because I know old Canny much better than you do. How Philip sleeps at night—wherever he is now—I don’t know. I think myself that this Scotsman has bloody intentions.”

  “I—I don’t know how you can say a thing like that,” protested Natalie. “If you really thought that Duncan was being—was going to be foolish, then you ought to— to talk to him seriously, for Lucille’s sake.”

  “I did talk to him,” said Jeremy. “I’ve done nothing but talk to him. I talk to him all the time. Talking is a fat lot of use.”

  “I know,” acknowledged Natalie dejectedly. “People don’t listen.”

  “They listen, but they don’t learn,” said Jeremy. “Canny has only one idea, and he’s sticking to it.”

  “What’s that?” asked Natalie.

  “He’s sticking,” said Jeremy. “That’s all he’s thought out so far—he’s just sticking. In another week or so he’ll hit on a notion for doing something—something more productive of results, that is.”

  “What sort of something?” asked Natalie fearfully.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Jeremy. “He’ll waylay Philip one day and attack him with a—a—”

  “A what?”

  “Well, I don’t really know,” said Jeremy. “You never know what these Scots characters carry about with them. They’ve been known to use poleaxes, bows and arrows, and sometimes daggers or nice handy boulders. As to Canny, I fancy he’d brandish a pretty claymore.”

  “I’m going to write to your father,” said Natalie with dignity, “and put the matter to him.”

  “Do,” said Jeremy. “And leave a bit of space at the end so’s we can describe how Philip met his end. “Don’t get cross now,” he entreated, “because I’m not really joking. I can’t give my mind to Lucille’s problem because I’ve got one of my own.”

  “What problem?” asked Natalie.

  “Helen,” said Jeremy. “I brought her home from that damn silly fête and we were both a bit on edge and we got arguing and we—we said more than we meant, I think. I don’t,” he added magnanimously, “hold it against her, mind you.”

  “You quarrelled!” said Natalie in distress.

  “I wouldn’t call it that,” said Jeremy. “She was a little harsh, but I kept a check on my tongue. Only she’s a touchy wench, is Helen, and I wondered how I could sort of—how do I mean?—win her round. She’s going off in a couple of days and it’s no use our sitting and glaring at each other like a couple of—”

  He came to an abrupt stop as the door opened and Helen came into the room.

  “Hello, Mother,” she said.

  “Oh, hello,” said Jeremy. “I was just telling Natalie how we—about our little argument, and we agreed that as you’re going away so soon we ought to—to—”

  “Well?” prompted Helen coldly.

  “To wash it out,” went on Jeremy. “I mean, I will if you will. I’ll forget everything you said and we can start again.”

  “I didn’t,” Helen reminded him, “say anything. You—”

  “We can’t really sit through dinner looking like a sick cow, can we?” asked Jeremy. “And besides, it puts me off my food. So if you’ll—”

  “If you want me to go on choking back my opinion of you,” offered Helen, “then I will.”

  “That’s grand,” said Jeremy gratefully. “Then I will, too. Don’t forget you’re coming out to my farm tomorrow. Well, that’s two things settled,” he ended with satisfaction. “Now I can go and put the last touches to my toilet.”

  He went out and Helen looked at her mother.

  “What was the other thing?” she asked.

  “It wasn’t really settled at all,” said Natalie. “It was Lucille and her engagement. William asked me to talk to her and I did, but—well, we didn’t seem to settle anything. I told Jeremy that I would write to William and tell him what I think.”

  “And what’s that?” asked Helen.

  Natalie looked at her doubtfully. It was not the sort of argument Helen would understand very well.

  “I think,” she said, “that Lucille is in love with Duncan.”

  “Then why,” demanded Helen, “doesn’t she say so and clear up this silly mess she’s got herself into?”

  Natalie made an effort.

  “I can’t explain,” she said, “except by saying that Lucille is just like me—she knows she ought to make a stand, but she can’t bring herself to do it. I wish,” she added wistfully, “that we could be like you. You’re very fortunate, Helen—you just think out something clearly, make up your mind and then do it—you don’t get yourself into these hopeless situations—and even if you did—”

  She paused.r />
  “Even if I did?” asked Helen.

  “Well, then,” said Natalie, “you’d just admit that you were wrong, and straighten things out at once. You’re strong and sensible, and so you wouldn’t let yourself get into a sort of—of trap, like Lucille.”

  She waited, a little fearfully, for Helen’s opinions which, however, she knew only too well already. It was all very well for Helen to say—

  Helen, however, was not saying anything. She had walked over to the fireplace and was running the toe of one shoe thoughtfully along the edge of the fender. Natalie, looking at her face, thought it very pale, and wondered if the fête had been a little overpowering. She was about to put a timid question when Helen spoke.

  “No,” she said slowly and almost absently. “I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let myself get into a—a trap.”

  Chapter 14

  The weather on the following day settled, after a doubtful beginning, into a perfect early spring morning, and everyone showed a strong desire to be outside to enjoy it.

  Lucille and Duncan were to go walking, and were on the point of starting off when Lady Rome passed them. By her side was Alexander with something, as usual, held carefully between his hands.

  “How nice, how nice,” she exclaimed. “You’re going off on this beautiful morning—that’s quite right. You must take Alexander—he hasn’t had a walk for some time. He likes that pretty way over the bridge, Lucille —he loves to throw stones in the water. Alexander, go along, my dear fellow—no, I wouldn’t take that snail with you if I were you—they’re very slow creatures— slower, I imagine, than tortoises, and you’d find yourself getting impatient before you got to the bridge. Find a nice big leaf and put him on it and he’ll be very happy. No, you can’t have one out of my hat, my dear fellow—they’re not real leaves—they’re made of velvet, you see, and the snail wouldn’t enjoy them very much. Yes, leave him there. Now go along, all of you, and enjoy yourselves. He likes that walk by the bridge, Lucille—he does so enjoy throwing stones. Good-bye—I wish I were coming too, but I’m very busy. Goodbye, good-bye—how jolly you all look.”