Mrs. Smith nodded sympathetically.
“The stair isn’t the same since you left,” continued Mrs. Hogg, making the tea and setting the big brown teapot on the hob to draw. “People called Regan in your old ’ouse. She’s a nice little thing, but ’e drinks something awful. Comes ’ome drunk every Friday like clockwork, and goes for ’er with the poker. Bert ’ad to go in the other night—I thought ’e was killing ’er by the screams—”
Mrs. Smith nodded. She knew what it was like to have your night’s rest disturbed by screams, and to argue with your husband and try to persuade him to interfere. Husbands never liked interfering, of course, and they were usually right. But it was difficult to settle down to sleep when you didn’t know what had happened—somebody might be dead or dying, or, again, it might be nothing at all.
“Did he really go in?” enquired Mrs. Smith with interest.
“I made ’im go,” replied Mrs. Hogg. “It’s been better since.”
“Poor soul!” said Mrs. Smith easily. “Are the Wilkes still here?”
“Yes, Mrs. Wilke ’ad ’er sixth last night. I didn’t ’arf ’ave a time with ’er. Bert ’ad to go for the doctor—but she’s all right, and the baby’s sweet.”
Mrs. Smith leaned forward, drinking it all in. This was life. This was what she wanted. She asked about all the people who had lived on the stair, and she heard all about their lives at first hand. Mrs. Hogg was only too pleased to have such an attentive audience. They pulled their chairs in to the table and had tea while Mrs. Hogg gave a long and detailed account of everything that had happened—who had gone and why they found it necessary, and who had come in their stead. She told of the babies and the diseases, the accidents and the quarrels—it was all vitally interesting to her listener.
Mrs. Hogg began to feel sorry for her old friend. She thought shrewdly: Pore Soul, she must be lonely or she wouldn’t take so much interest! It’s a shame, that’s what it is.
“Look ’ere,” she said suddenly. “Why don’t you pop in oftener, Mary? Come an’ ’ave a cup o’ tea an’ a nice chat often. It’s nice seeing old friends.”
Mrs. Smith blinked her eyes. “Well, you see, we live a long way from here,” she said. “I’d have been back to see you before, but it’s a long way—”
“Shepherd’s Bush, is it?” suggested Mrs. Hogg, who had been there once to see a married friend’s baby and had formed the opinion that Shepherd’s Bush was at the ends of the earth.
“That sort of direction,” agreed Mrs. Smith uncomfortably.
“Well, it was friendly of you to come so far. I’m glad I wasn’t out.”
“So am I.”
The children came in at this moment, so there was no more chance of quiet. Mrs. Smith distributed her parcels. It was a little disappointing to find that the children didn’t remember her—she remembered them so well—but three years was a long time in their short lives. They were not used to visitors who brought parcels, and the elder ones looked at their mother rather anxiously to see whether they might open them at once, or whether they must possess their fouls in patience until the visitor was gone. Mary was less severely disciplined and had already started to tear hers open.
“Oh, you didn’t ought to ’ave brought them presents!” cried Mrs. Hogg. “Yes, Annie, you can open them if Mrs. Smith says you may. Now, Mary, what are you going to say to Mrs. Smith—she’s just dazed, Mary is—she ’asn’t ever seen a doll like that before, far less ’ad one. What a beauty—oh, Mary, you didn’t ought to ’ave done it!”
“Done what?” enquired the child.
“Nothing,” her mother replied. “I was talking to Mrs. Smith. ’Er name’s Mary and that’s why you were named Mary—she’s your godmother, see?”
The child scarcely heard the explanation—she was holding the doll gingerly in her skinny arms—it was so beautiful she was almost afraid. “Can I keep it, Ma?” she enquired.
“Keep it? Of course you can keep it, silly. Mrs. Smith gave it you. You ’aven’t even said thank you to ’er, yet.”
She was far beyond saying thank you. “Oo!” she said, gazing at her new acquisition with starry eyes. “Oo my! I’ll call ’er Princess Mar’gret Rose—that’s wot I’ll call ’er.”
Meanwhile the other children had opened their parcels—sweets and cakes and oranges were piled up upon the table with cries of astonishment and delight. (Mrs. Smith had intended to take small presents for the Hogg family, but once let loose in Harrod’s Stores she had been completely carried away by her generous impulses. Her presents were on the Hetherington Smith scale, nothing like it had been seen in the Hogg home before.)
Mrs. Hogg was speechless with amazement. Mary must be rich, she thought, Mary must be rich. Why, these things must ’ave cost pounds and pounds. Those ’ampers at Christmas that we couldn’t think where on earth they came from—well, they must ’ave been her. Mary’s ’er godchild, of course. Goodness me! Goodness me, it’s like Aladdin’s lamp! She stole a glance at Mary’s fairy godmother and saw her sitting forward in her chair with beaming eyes fixed upon the children. (She was thoroughly enjoying herself, enjoying their pleasure, the babble of talk, the squeaks of delight as each new wonder was revealed) and she thought a very curious thought indeed: Pore Soul, she thought.
Mrs. Smith came away very soon after that. She felt a subtle difference in her hostess’s manner. It was not exactly that Mrs. Hogg was less friendly, but there was something—her words suddenly ceased to pour out in the old careless friendly way—there was a difference in her attitude to her guest. I’ve spoilt it, thought Mrs. Smith sadly—I meant well bringing all those things for the children, but they’ve made a sort of wall between us. She knows I must be rich—that’s what it is, I suppose. We can’t ever be real friends again. I can help her, and do things for her, but we can’t ever be friends.
Before she came away she stuffed a fat envelope down the back of the chair where she was sitting. Not so far down that it wouldn’t be found, but far enough for it to remain hidden until the cushion was shaken up in the morning when Mrs. Hogg did the room. The fat envelope contained money for the holiday at Southend-on-Sea. She cheered up a little when she had done that—it was nice to be able to help people and give them pleasure, even if they couldn’t be real friends with you any more—and when she came away she was nearly as happy as she had been before the parcels were opened—but not quite.
ARDFALLOCH IN AUGUST
CHAPTER VIII
ARDFALLOCH HOUSE
Iain MacAslan stood on the steps of his house and watched the car lurch off down the rutty drive and disappear into the shadow of the trees. His mother and Janet were going to Edinburgh and he was remaining as he had arranged. His mother had been excited like a child over their departure, and Janet was looking forward to “seeing life”—so they were both pleased. But, just at the last, Janet’s heart had failed her. She had turned to him with eyes, suddenly wet, and had said in a queer husky voice, “Eh, MacAslan, I’m sweir to leave Ardfalloch!”
It had brought them very close together, that impulsive cry. Iain could understand it so well. Ardfalloch was hard to leave. He thought that Ardfalloch was particularly beautiful to-day. The sky was pale blue, not a cloud marred its brightness. The atmosphere was clear, and crisp, the line of hills clear cut against the blue vault of the heavens. Beneath the dark trees were cool shadows, sharply cut. A film of dew hung upon every leaf and masked the verdant green of the grass, but the sun was gaining strength every moment and sucking up the moisture in a dazzling golden mist. Soon, now, the moisture would be gone—it was going to be very hot to-day.
Iain was alone in the house. It was what he had wanted, and he had made the arrangement himself. He wanted to go through the house, through every room, quietly, by himself, before the tenants arrived. For three months he would not have the right to set foot in his own house—he had sold the right.
Iain sighed. He saw quite clearly that he was going to hate being here in the glen, with strang
ers in his house. He was putting himself in an invidious position by staying. There was no actual law against a landlord remaining on his land when he had let the place to tenants, but the thing was not done. The Finlays had been horrified at the idea. They had tried to persuade him to stay at Cluan, and, when they had failed in that, had besought him to go away. He realised that they were right, but he couldn’t go. Something bound him here, something stronger than his pride. He could not leave his home.
As far as the tenants were concerned there was no need for Iain to go. It would make no difference to them whether he were here or not. They would never know, because nobody in the glen would tell them. The ghillies were all his own men and their loyalty was unquestionable. Donald had let it be known that MacAslan was staying on, but the London people were not to know. That was all that was necessary. Not a creature in the glen would breathe a word on the subject. There was no difficulty about that. No, the only difficulty was Iain’s own pride—that he should be staying here—practically in hiding—while strangers lived in his house.
But Iain had gone over all that before and had told himself that he must be sensible, and had reminded himself of the money that he was getting, and of all the improvements that he was going to carry out . . .
He started off on his tour of the house, opening every door and taking a farewell glance at every room. The rooms were all ready now, of course, the furniture was uncovered and the windows were flung wide to admit the sunshine and the sweet morning air. It was delightful to see all the rooms open again—all the old, well-remembered furniture and pictures. It looks very nice, Iain thought; rather shabby perhaps, but that can’t be helped. Janet has done her part well. He lingered for a little in his mother’s room, opening and shutting the drawers in the big old-fashioned wardrobe where she kept her small stock of jewellery and the little treasures which meant so much to her. He had seen her sitting here so often with a drawer open, fingering a pretty scarf or a string of coloured beads. They were all gone now, these treasures, Janet had seen to that—the drawers were empty and freshly papered. Iain went out of the room and along the passage to the gallery which ran round the top part of the house. There was a railing of fumed oak round the gallery and you could look down into the big square hall below. The sunlight streamed through the staircase window, showing up the worn places on the carpet, gilding the tarnished frames of the pictures, shining on the polished horns of the royal stag that Iain had shot when he was seventeen. It was his first stag. He remembered the day very well—he would never forget that day. It was a day of sunshine, with sudden misty clouds that appeared from nowhere, and clung to the mountains for a little while until they were swept away by a fitful breeze. He and Donald had gone out together—the two of them. He could see them climbing up the bare face of Ben Falloch, striking off across his jutting shoulder, crawling down the narrow corrie on the farther side. What a stalk it was—the blazing sun, and then, all at once, the cloud, wet and misty all about them so that they could scarcely see three yards before them. They had lain by a rock and waited until it should clear—there was nothing else to be done, and then, just as suddenly, it had cleared, and there was the stag—a sixteen pointer—the very one that they had pursued all day, standing in all his pride and glory within easy range. It was an ineffable moment. He could scarcely believe his eyes. He remembered how his hands had trembled as he moved his rifle very carefully to take a sight, and how Donald had whispered, “Do not be hurrying yourself—there is time and to spare.” He remembered the deafening report—the fear that he had missed, and how the proud creature had bounded high into the air and fallen dead in a crumpled heap. He remembered Donald’s wild shout of triumph as he rushed down the hillside to gralloch the kill. Those were the days, thought Iain with a little sigh—all the happiness of Ardfalloch and none of its responsibilities, all the joy and none of the pain.
He went slowly down the stairs and across the polished floor of the hall, and opened the drawing-room door. He had left the drawing-room to the last. The long, beautifully-proportioned room was full of sunshine, the furniture shone. The china in the cabinets glistened in the bright light. A fire of peats flickered on the hearth. On the mantelpiece was the gilt ormolu clock which his father had bought in Paris on his honeymoon. It struck twelve in thin silvery tones. The little boudoir off the drawing-room had been his grandmother’s room. It was full of her presence. The bureau where she wrote long letters to her Southern relations in a thin flowing hand, the chair by the fire where she sat and read or knitted—her old-fashioned work-table with its little drawers, these things all spoke to Iain of his grandmother and spoke with no uncertain voice. There was a picture of her hanging on the wall, a picture of her as a young woman with a child—Iain’s father—standing at her knee. Iain had never known her as a young woman, but she had not changed fundamentally—the contours of her face had remained the same to the day of her death, and the eyes . . .
Iain looked at the calm face with its wide-set eyes and high cheek-bones and large, firm, well-shaped mouth and he thought: She would understand and approve of what I am doing—none of the others would understand—my father would have gone on until everything crashed about his ears. I suppose I must have a little of grandmother in me—I wish I had more. Sometimes he could feel the two strains battling within him—the Highland or Celtic strain that had come down to him through long centuries, and the Lowland strain from his grandmother. He thought: The Celt wears himself out by mistaking dreams for realities, but the Lowland folk will never do that; they see more clearly, they are more balanced, they have a better grip of life. It ought to be a perfect blend—sense and romance—but the two are not blended in me; they are there, side by side, distinct, irreconcilable. (I see sense, but I can’t accomplish it. If I could accomplish sense I would marry Meg and be happy.) Perhaps these two strains are like oil and water and could never mix—west and east, Highland and Lowland, Donald and Janet. He smiled a little as he thought of those two that loved him—they could never mix, there was armed neutrality between them which was only preserved with difficulty by Iain’s tact. Donald and Janet lived in different worlds, and Iain shared both their worlds. They spoke to different parts of him, and different parts of him spoke to each of them. There were things in Iain’s life that Janet would never understand—and these were the things that Donald knew without words. And there were things beyond Donald’s mentality which Janet could share. . . .
Iain thought: Is it a strength or a weakness in me that I see both sides, that I face both ways? Or is it neither a strength nor a weakness itself, but only strength or weakness according to how I use it?
His reflections were interrupted by a sound of footsteps In the quiet house, and, turning quickly, he found Donald at the door.
“I was saying good-bye to my grandmother,” Iain told him. This was one of the things that could be said to Donald—but not to Janet.
“She wass a great lady,” Donald said gravely. “Sometimes I think there is much of her in MacAslan, and sometimes I think there is not any of her at all. It is a strange thing.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Iain said.
There was a little silence, and together they looked at the picture of old Mrs. MacAslan, resurrecting her in their thoughts.
“Did you want me for something?” Iain asked at last.
“What time would you be expecting the London people to come?” Donald enquired, answering Iain’s question with one of his own.
“About three, I suppose. They were staying the night at Fort William. I’m waiting to hand over the house.”
“I was wondering—could I not be doing that? Morag is getting your dinner at the cottage—”
“Morag shouldn’t have bothered.”
“Och, it wass no bother at all. It wass Morag thought maybe I would do to be here for the London people when they arrive.”
They looked at each other gravely. Iain saw that there was more in this than met the eye.
&nb
sp; “Tell me what you are thinking, Donald,” he said.
“It wass Morag,” Donald said, looking down at the pattern on the carpet. “Morag wass saying this—if MacAslan does not want the London people to be knowing he is in the glen, it would be better for them not to be seeing MacAslan when they come. For then they would not know it wass MacAslan, if they would be seeing him in the glen.”
Iain considered this, and he saw that there was a good deal in it. If his tenants did not know him by sight he would be free to come and go about the place as he chose—not to come near the house, of course, that was far from his mind—but to move about the moors, or visit the village. If he were seen, his tenants would merely think he was one of the men on the estate. He would not have to hide. . . .
“Morag’s right,” he said at last.
The big man chuckled. “It is a way she is after having,” he said slyly.
CHAPTER IX
MORAG
Iain walked down to the cottage by the loch, carrying a small suitcase containing a few odds and ends that he had collected in his last tour of the house. As he got near he saw a thin spiral of smoke rising from the chimney. He opened the door softly, and looked in. The door opened directly into the living-room; it was a good-sized room. The floor was stained with dark varnish and a couple of old blue mats had been laid upon it, the walls were distempered in cream. There were a few odd pieces of furniture which Janet had retrieved from the attics of the big house—an old sofa, a couple of comfortable but exceedingly shabby basket chairs, a book-case, a solid table with a blue-checked cloth and a cupboard of fumed oak—rather roughly finished—with a vase of roses on the top of it. Iain put his suitcase on the floor and looked round. It was a comfortable room now, marvellously transformed from a dull frowsty apartment into a home. Janet and Morag had done it between them, sinking their racial prejudices and animosity for Iain’s sake. They had become almost friendly over the shared task. “Yon Morag’s got some sense in her heid,” Janet said, qualifying the praise with the grudging addenda, “for a heiland body, I mean.” Morag was less open in her speech, and Iain had no means of knowing what Morag thought of Janet, save by an occasional ghost of a smile that lingered round her lips when the older woman was more than usually trying and dictatorial. Iain had watched the transformation of the cottage with something very like awe. He had bought nothing save an oil cooking-stove for the kitchen and a few kitchen utensils. Everything else that was needful for his comfort had been “found” in some marvellous manner by his helpers. The little house had been scrubbed and polished till it shone with cleanliness. Donald had mended the roof, and knocked up cupboards and shelves, and distempered the walls under his wife’s competent supervision.
Smouldering Fire Page 9