Near Neighbours

by Molly Clavering

  Then she remembered, and was suddenly hot with anger again. That Angus should be such a fool as to imagine she was in love with Martin Tinker was bad enough, she thought, an insult both to her taste and her morals. But that he should actually cut a class to hang about outside the Tinkers’ house, spying on her, was unforgivable.

  “I’ve stood a lot from Angus because I am sorry for him,” she said to herself. “But this is the finish. He must find another dancing partner, someone who will think he’s wonderful all round. I shall write to him in the morning. It isn’t fair to either of us to go on any longer. We don’t seem able to be friends, and I certainly can never be anything else to him.”

  It is not easy for a girl deliberately to throw away her most constant escort and admirer, no matter how tiresome he may be, and Rowan did not enjoy writing her letter. But she was too straightforward to let things remain as they were between her and Angus, now that she had discovered to what lengths his jealous possessiveness could carry him. So the letter was written, and she posted it at the top of the Crescent when she took Orlando out with her to do the shopping for her mother.

  A family conclave had been held the evening before, while Rowan was helping her charge with his bath, and though the Lenoxes all agreed that Rowan was mad, none of them was willing to say outright that Orlando must be banished to an institution of any kind.

  Mrs. Lenox had a scribbled note from Mrs. Tinker, which she read out to Murray, Willow and Hazel—Holly, having fortunately elected to make Orlando’s supper and take it upstairs, was also absent.

  “I don’t suppose there’s anywhere the poor little brute could be dumped,” said Murray. “He isn’t an orphan, and I imagine that as Mrs. Tinker accepted him, he’d count legally as one of her children. But what’s to become of him beats me.”

  Mrs. Lenox sighed. “He is a dear little boy,” she said. “I don’t know when I have seen a child I liked so much. And he really would be very little trouble here—”

  “Can you afford to keep him, Mummy?” asked Willow, bluntly.

  “Not really, unless Mrs. Tinker is able to send money from time to time,” Mrs. Lenox admitted. “But you heard what she said in her letter—that she would do her very best, and she hoped her husband might—”

  “From what Rowan says about him, you may as well give up that idea at once,” said Murray.

  “Couldn’t we all give just a very little more towards the housekeeping?” suggested Hazel. “I know Rowan says she’s going to do it all, but honestly I don’t see how she can.”

  “Poor old Rowan!” said Murray. “She’s on the rocks, thanks to sticking to these people. Doesn’t Mrs. Tinker say she hasn’t had a penny the whole of this term?”

  “If only Rowan wouldn’t embroil herself with such odd people!” mourned Mrs. Lenox. “There she is, poor child, her clothes in rags and her savings all gone, and Orlando on her hands into the bargain!”

  “I’m going to give Rowan some of my things. In a month or two I won’t be able to get into them, so she may as well have them now,” said Willow.

  “Well, that’s good of you, Willow, but we’re no nearer settling what is to be done with the child!” said Mrs. Lenox.

  “Why don’t you ask Miss Dorothea what she thinks?” said Hazel, suddenly. “She often has good ideas. You’ll probably have a chance when we dine with her and Mr. Milner tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Lenox protested that it was ridiculous to bother Miss Dorothea with all their problems, but her family were pretty sure that she would consult their neighbour about Orlando, and left it at that.

  Miss Balfour knew a little already about Orlando, for she met Rowan and him hand in hand, as she came round the corner of Linden Terrace into the Crescent, and stopped to speak to them.

  “This is Orlando Tinker, Miss Dorothea. He has come to stay with us,” said Rowan.

  Orlando put out his hand with grave politeness and Miss Balfour shook it, equally courteously.

  Orlando said to Rowan when they were walking on again:

  “That’s a nice little lady. I’ll make a picksher of her. Her face is like a sheep-dog.”

  “Is it? I hadn’t noticed,” said Rowan, surprised, but realizing that there was a faint resemblance between Miss Balfour and a wise elderly collie.

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” Orlando said, anxiously.

  “You aren’t rude,” Rowan assured him. “Now, you must help me to choose a nice big cabbage for dinner. And then, if we’ve time, we might buy some Christmas presents for you to send to the girls.”

  “I do like living with you,” said Orlando, contentedly. “I hope I can stay for years an’ years.”

  “So do I,” answered Rowan, her hold on his woollen-gloved fingers tightening, as she wondered how her mother would agree with this sentiment.

  Mrs. Lenox was pleased to have a boy in the house again, but it was quite absurd, she knew, to take Orlando into their household in this haphazard way, without his father’s consent and with only a vague grateful letter from the woman he thought of as his mother.

  She said this to Miss Balfour when, after an excellent dinner with wine from the cellar of Number Four, the whole party had gone upstairs to the drawing-room, and she had an opportunity of talking to her hostess aside.

  “I really don’t know quite what to do,” she ended. “It would be simple if we could just adopt him outright, even though we can’t afford it.”

  Miss Balfour said: “I don’t suppose his father will trouble about him, poor little boy. And Mrs. Tinker would probably be thankful to leave him to you. I think you should make an arrangement with her, in writing, that she undertakes to send you what she can towards his keep, and you are given a free hand to look after him and his education until he is eighteen and can decide his future for himself. Of course, she should be allowed to see him if she wishes, and have him for visits, but you ought to insist that if you have the responsibility of his up-bringing, you must not be interfered with. Would you like me to ask Mr. Ferrier about it?”

  “I think I’ll get Murray to speak to Charles Ferrier about drafting a suitable letter,” said Mrs. Lenox, thoughtfully. And added: “You didn’t make any suggestions about what should be done if we didn’t keep him, Miss Dorothea.”

  Miss Balfour smiled. “I knew you meant to keep him, my dear,” she said.

  “Rowan does, at any rate,” said Mrs. Lenox, ruefully.

  “Dear Rowan. There’s something—something splendid about her,” said Miss Balfour. “I can’t describe it any other way, but, of course, you know, better than I do, what I mean.”

  “Yes, I know, and extremely awkward and uncomfortable it makes things at times,” responded Rowan’s mother, with feeling.

  “All the same, you wouldn’t change her.”

  “No,” agreed Mrs. Lenox. “I wouldn’t change her.”

  They both looked across the room, so pleasant now with its new covers of warm ivory, its gay cushions and dark blue curtains, to a small sofa where Rowan and Charles Ferrier were sitting side by side. They did not seem to be talking much; they looked contented and at ease.

  Rowan was wearing the old green taffeta, but Charles did not see that it was old. All he knew was that its rich dark sheen made her colouring clearer and more brilliant than ever, and that he had never met any girl before, and never would again, who was so absolutely in tune with him. No doubt they might disagree in small things, but essentially they were at one.

  “Dine with me to-morrow and dance afterwards,” he said.

  Rowan frowned, then turned to him and said: “I’ve lost my job. Martin Tinker has gone off into the blue, Mrs. Tinker has left for London to find work, the little girls are with their great-aunt, and—I’ve brought Orlando next door to live with us. I’m going to look after him.”

  Charles looked soberly back at her face, now sparkling with defiance, and said: “I see. It’s a big responsibility, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. An awfully big responsibility.”

 
“Why did you tell me about it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” The defiance gave place to a puzzled look. “Somehow I seemed to have to tell you, Charles.”

  (“Her face changes like water in a hill-burn, it’s all clear and sparkling, and yet deep,” he thought, dazzled.)

  “Come and dine and dance with me, just the same,” he said, aloud. “Orlando will be in bed by then, won’t he?”

  “Yes, of course. But—but—”

  “But nothing. Say yes, Rowan.”

  “All right. I’d love to come—just this once,” said Rowan.

  She was very quiet for the remainder of the evening, very quiet going home. A bigger problem even than that of Orlando had suddenly presented itself to her, and she did not know how to deal with it. She was fond of Charles, and she thought that he was fond of her. But she had pledged herself to look after Orlando, and could not fail him, and she had known that she must let Charles understand that she was not a free agent. One could hardly expect a man to fall in love with one seriously and have to include a small boy, who was no relation, in his affections. Charles ought to consider this before his feelings were too deeply involved, so that he could withdraw and look about for another girl, one not so encumbered.

  “I’ve tried to let him know. I think he did know what I meant,” Rowan said to herself. “It was the only fair thing to do, and the only sensible thing, too.”

  As if to provide further proof of how sensible she was, she let several tears fall on the ill-used old green taffeta before she stepped out of it, shook it, and hung it up in her cupboard.

  CHAPTER 22

  Now that the stabbing pain in his side had eased up a bit, Angus was surprised and pleased to find that he was not uncomfortable, as long as he didn’t try to take a deep breath. Even more surprising was the fact that he felt warm, though he was lying in snow. He had always supposed that snow was cold, yet here he was, cosy as if he were tucked up in bed, and sleepy too.

  He wondered vaguely if he ought to shout and let the others know where he was, but decided against it. After all, when the rope broke and he went over, they could hardly help knowing that he had gone. And it seemed so unimportant that it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the soft snow blanketing him. He tried to think of Rowan, whose letter had enraged him so much that he had rashly joined the climbing party to avoid spending the Christmas vacation in Edinburgh, but her face and figure, even her voice, eluded his tired memory.

  Funny, he thought drowsily, that he couldn’t remember Rowan; but he had behaved so badly, he admitted it now to himself. . . . And all the time he had known in his heart that she would never have given a thought to Martin Tinker. He had fallen far from the heights where he had meant to content himself with her friendship, and it was no fault of hers. Rowan, the person who counted most in his life, he couldn’t remember at all, and yet he could picture the pointed pale face, the soft straight hair like a field-mouse’s coat, of little Morag McDonald, the girl from Skye. He had only to shut his eyes to see her. From the moment when she and the other girl had joined them at Fort William, Morag and he had been friends.

  To hear her call him “Angus” in her soft lilting voice gave a new charm to his name. He must be Highland, she insisted. He looked and thought and felt like a Highlander, and—her big eyes kindling—he danced like one. Only a Highlander could dance like that. And when he told her his story, she was sure of it. He must take his degree and do his National Service, she said, and then come and farm on one of the islands; but before that, in the Easter vacation, he must come and stay with her people in Skye.

  It was true. He felt a kinship with this land of wild high mountains quite apart from Morag; he had felt it as soon as he got out of the train after the long tiresome journey, and he felt it now, lying under the snow-covered, ice-bound crag that had cast him off.

  Dreamily he began to think of the islands Morag loved, and back to his wayward memory came the sound of Hazel singing in an Edinburgh drawing-room.

  “Land of Heart’s desire,

  Isle of Youth

  Dear Western Isle,

  Gleaming in sunlight. . . .”

  And suddenly, instead of the twilight thickening on snowy wastes, he saw the Isle, the silver-white sands, the long blue and green seas breaking gently on them in creaming foam, the flowery meadows behind, the golden sky. He could hear the soft crash of the waves, and smell bog-myrtle and heather mingling with sea-salt . . . and there was someone coming down the beach towards him.

  “Rowan?” he muttered, questioningly, only to realize with a pang of unbearable anguish that it was not Rowan. He knew then that it would never be Rowan for him. For a moment the vision faded, and then the pain passed and the Isle was there again, and it was Morag whom he saw holding out her hands to him. Morag’s soft voice sounded in his ears.

  “Oh, Angus! Angus!”

  He opened his dim eyes, the lovely Island vanished, but Morag was still there, bending over him.

  Angus smiled at her in sudden complete content, and slid away into unconsciousness.

  * * *

  It was the twenty-second of January. The Lenoxes were having a small evening party, and Miss Balfour, as she dressed for it, remembered that it was her birthday.

  There was nothing surprising in her having forgotten that she was sixty-nine to-day, for many years had passed since anyone had noticed her birthday. Belle had always ignored it and her own, as if, by refusing to acknowledge the inexorable march of the years, she could stay their passing.

  Poor Belle, thought Miss Balfour, she had missed everything that made life sweet, from the small pleasure of exchanging gifts and greetings on an anniversary to the married happiness she could have found with Montagu!

  Had Belle been other than she was, the old house would have been a cheerful happy home long ago, instead of only during the past half year. Happy, certainly, it was now, as was everyone living under its roof, from Willow, content as a nesting-bird on the top floor, to Edna, tunelessly chanting the latest songs from the films in the basement.

  The new light paper and paint had helped, of course, as had the fresh coverings on chairs and sofas, and her own pretty clothes and softly waved hair; but besides these aids to cheerfulness there was something more.

  The atmosphere of Number Four Kirkaldy Crescent had altered, its former heavy gloom was entirely dispersed, and Dorothea Balfour knew that this had only come about because Belle was no longer there to cast a blight over it. Dorothea could not wish her sister back. She felt wicked about it, but unrepentant, for in the meantime several people were much happier than they could have been if Belle were still living.

  As for the party given by Montagu and herself at Christmas for some of their neighbours and their children from Linden Terrace, Miss Balfour could not even begin to imagine what Belle would have said about that.

  No, things were as they were, and better so, and Miss Balfour hoped that if she and Belle met when her own turn came to leave this world, and if they still bothered about its affairs, she would be able to talk on equal terms to her sister, and explain everything.

  In the meantime, it was delightful to be going to a party on one’s birthday, squired by an amiable brother-in-law, wearing a new and becoming gown, and with one’s hair nicely arranged.

  A knock at the door brought her round from the mirror in which she was admiring the reflection of her festive self.

  “Come in!” she called, with a last glance at the soft fall of the long velvet skirt of rich dark brown—“Like the wallflowers in the garden at Kersland,” she thought.

  Edna came in, dressed in a thick coat over her black and white afternoon uniform, a lace cap perched on her head.

  “If you please’m, I’m ready. Will I just go round?” she asked.

  It was an understood thing by this time that Edna should help at any party given by the Lenoxes, and she enjoyed them all at least as much as any of their guests.

  “Yes, of course, Edna. I expe
ct Mrs. Lenox will be very pleased to have you there early, you are such a help,” said Miss Balfour.

  Instead of going, Edna took a step farther into the room, drew a long breath, and said very rapidly: “Miss Dorothea, you look just beautiful to-night! Sort of—sort of regal!”

  Then she bolted like a rabbit.

  “Regal!” murmured Miss Balfour. “How absurd! But it was nice of Edna to say so, for all that.”

  She picked up the fur coat which Montagu had insisted on giving her for Christmas, and made her way down to the drawing-room floor.

  Her brother-in-law was hovering on the landing, waiting for her.

  “Come into the drawing-room for a minute, Dorothea,” he said. “We have plenty of time. Willow and Archie have only just gone next door.”

  He sounded embarrassed, and for an instant Miss Balfour wondered uneasily if he had some confession to make, then she felt embarrassed herself, and very much ashamed of her suspicions, for he had opened an old-fashioned jeweller’s case of rubbed velvet, and was saying:

  “For your birthday, my dear. A small offering with my love. It isn’t anything much, but I saw it and thought it looked like you.”

  On its faded green bed lay a necklace of topazes set in elaborately worked pale gold, as delicate as flowers.

  Miss Balfour touched the pretty thing with one finger, but made no attempt to take the case from Mr. Milner.

  “Don’t you like it?” he asked, disappointed.

  “It’s—beautiful, Montagu. I can’t believe it’s for me,” said Miss Balfour. “How good of you! How very, very kind! I haven’t had a birthday present since Mamma died—and how did you know it was my birthday?”

  “There was an old birthday book away at the hack of a pigeon-hole in the writing-desk,” he said. “I found it when I tried to push some papers in . . . Put on the necklace, Dorothea. It is exactly right for your dress.”