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Title: Jane's Parlour
Author: Buchan, Anna Masterton [Douglas, O.] (1877-1948)
Date of first publication: 1937
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Thomas Nelson, undated
Date first posted: 12 July 2014
Date last updated: 12 July 2014
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1189

This ebook was produced by Al Haines






  JANE'S PARLOUR



  _by_

  O. DOUGLAS





  TO
  BRIAN




  _The characters in this book are entirely imaginary,
  and have no relation to any living person._




JANE'S PARLOUR



CHAPTER I

  "I'll aye ca' in by yon toun
  And by yon garden green again."
                            ROBERT BURNS.


There was only one spot in the whole rambling length of Eliotstoun
where Katharyn Eliot felt that she could be sure of being left at peace
for any time.  That was the small circular room at the end of the
passage which contained her bedroom and Tim's dressing-room; it was
called for some unknown reason "Jane's Parlour."

No one knew who Jane was.  There was no mention of any Jane in the
family records; Elizabeths in plenty, Elspeths, Susans, Anns,
Carolines, Helens, but never a Jane.  But whoever she was Katharyn
liked to think that she had been a virtuous soul, who had left a
fragrance behind her, for there was always a feeling of peace, a faint,
indefinable scent as of some summer day long dead in that rounded room
with its three narrow windows (each fitted with a seat and a faded
cushion), its satiny white paper, discoloured here and there by
winter's damp, on which hung coloured prints in dark frames.  A faded
Aubusson carpet lay on the floor, and in one corner stood a harp beside
a bureau, and a beautiful walnut settee--these were Jane's.  A
capacious armchair (Tim's) was at one side of the fire, and opposite
it, a large writing-table which was Katharyn's.  There was also an
over-crowded bookcase, and a comfortable sofa: that was all that was in
the room.

Visitors who managed to force their way into this sanctum--Katharyn
only invited tried friends there--would look round the charming shabby
place and say, "Why don't you do up this room?  It's the sweetest
thing."

"No money," Katharyn would reply, but in her heart she knew that though
the riches of the Indies were hers never would she lay sacrilegious
hands on Jane's Parlour.

It was here she worked, for in the infrequent quiet times of a busy
life Katharyn wrote--and published: it was here she read the writers
she loved best, old writers like Donne and Ford and Webster from whom
she was never tired of digging gloomy gems: it was here she sewed, for
she had a talent--too little encouraged her daughters thought--for
designing and making clothes, and it was here that she and Tim had
their fireside talks and councils.

When Caroline was born Katharyn had made a rule that children and dogs
were not to be admitted into Jane's Parlour, and when Tim protested,
replied with steely decision that there must be one peaceful place in
the house.  Before ten years had passed there were five children at
Eliotstoun, and an ever-increasing army of dogs, so that, as Tim
acknowledged, it was well to have one place where one's feet were free
of them.

And, because it was forbidden territory it naturally became the Mecca
of the family, to enter it their most ardent desire.  It was not that
there was anything particularly exciting to see or touch--almost any
one of the other rooms was richer in treasures--but there was something
at once soothing and exciting about being there: and then, think what a
score over the others!

Even now when Caroline was twenty-two, and Rory the baby, fourteen, the
room still held its mysterious attraction for the family.

"It's about the only place they hold in awe, this little backwater of a
room," Katharyn told her husband.  "That's why, if I have to scold
seriously, I send for the culprit to Jane's Parlour," and Tim, who
never scolded, said, "Jolly good idea!"

It had been a great surprise to every one when Katharyn Battye
announced her engagement to John Timothy Eliot.  Beautiful and
accomplished, a brilliant marriage had been expected, and her friends
deplored that she should throw herself away on an obscure Border laird,
while Tim's friends asked each other mournfully what Tim, who seldom
read anything but a newspaper or a magazine, would do with a wife whose
chief delight it was to delve in the dullest tomes, and who actually
wrote herself?  All agreed that early and complete disillusionment must
be the result.  But they were all wrong.  Katharyn made an excellent
mistress of Eliotstoun, a delightful mother to her five children, and a
perfect wife to Tim.  So unlike were they that they were constantly
surprising and amusing each other.  Each respected the other's
enthusiasms and remained aloof from them.  What Katharyn felt for
horses Tim felt for poetry--an amiable tolerance that desired no nearer
acquaintance; but Tim was inordinately proud of his wife's cleverness,
and Katharyn admired everything Tim said or did.

Katharyn was writing in her sanctum this September morning, perched on
one of the window seats, an ink-bottle precariously placed beside her.
She seldom sat at her writing-table, because, in winter she liked to be
close to the fire, and in summer close to the windows, and as she would
not use a fountain pen she often left an inky trail behind her.

It was a warm morning with no autumn tang in the air.  It had been an
extraordinary summer for these parts, a long succession of hot days
that had almost dried up the burns, and had left Tweed a mere shadow of
itself.  Lifting her eyes from her writing Katharyn saw that Caroline
was talking to some one on the lawn--a middle-aged woman in a grey
print dress and shady hat; and at the sight she leapt to her feet,
scattering the pile of papers on her knee, saving the ink-bottle by a
miracle, and leaning out of the window cried:

"_Alison_!  Come up, my dear.  Bring her up, Car."  A couple of minutes
and Katharyn was greeting her old friend with "How glad I am to see
you.  You've been away an age--three months, I believe."

"Well, it's nice to be missed.  And good to see you all again, K.  What
a wonderful summer it has been.  Delicious for cruising, but I found it
scorching in Kent."

"I daresay," said Katharyn.  "Kent is more or less used to being
scorched, but as you see, we've been scorched in the Borders--and we
didn't like it."

"Ungrateful creatures," said Alison Lockhart, settling herself in Tim's
chair and looking round the room with the air of greeting an old
friend.  "You surely get more than enough rain as a rule, can't you be
thankful for good weather when it comes your way?"

Katharyn waved a hand towards the open window and said:

"I ask you, did you ever see Eliotstoun look like that?  The lawn's all
brown and bare and the borders so _disjaskit_--the word is Hogg's."

"And a very good word it is!  I don't think the borders are bad,
considering that everything has been flowering with the greatest
enthusiasm all summer.  You can't expect to have it both ways."

Katharyn laughed and agreed.

"Of course we can't; and it has been splendid in lots of ways.  The
children have enjoyed constant picnics and uninterrupted tennis, so it
follows that I've had more time to myself than usual in the
holidays--but tell me, when did you get back to Fairniehopes?"

"Only last night, and here I am already.  I think I must have missed
you, my dear, for when I woke this morning my first thought was, I'll
see Katharyn to-day!  So off I came the minute I'd had my breakfast,
and heard how things were going.  When I come back I'm amazed at my
folly in ever wanting to leave this adorable countryside."

"Of course," said Katharyn, "because you are a Borderer, born and bred.
I, who labour under the disadvantage of being English, might be
forgiven having a desire to depart to my own country--but the real
truth is I'd rather be here than anywhere."

Alison nodded wisely.  "That's Eliotstoun, and, particularly, Jane's
Parlour.  There's magic in it.  When you came here as a bride--such a
lovely long slip of a girl, accustomed to all that was best and most
interesting in the way of society--I wondered if it were possible that
you could settle down happily in this quiet neighbourhood with Tim....
But settle you did--and Jane's Parlour had something to do with it."

"And the children," Katharyn added, "and my writing, and--most of all,
Tim.  And now I'm so thronged about with duties that I sometimes feel
like the old woman who lived in a shoe!"

"Because," said her friend, "you take on far too much.  You are
President of nearly everything in the district: W.R.I.; Mothers' Union;
County Nursing--it's ridiculous.  With your almost Victorianly large
family--by the way, how are they all?  Car is looking well.  A pretty
girl, though she'll never have the looks you had as a young girl.  Does
she still want to go on the stage?"

Katharyn puckered her brows as she said:

"Oh, determined.  We rather hoped that a term at the Dramatic College
would make her give up the idea, but not a bit of it.  She loved it,
lapped it up like a hungry cat, and means to go back in October and
take her diploma, or whatever you take there, and then try to get a
small part in some play."

"Well, my dear, don't look so dejected.  If she has a talent for
acting----"

Katharyn moved impatiently, and said, "Oh, I know, but acting is like
no other profession.  It breaks up a girl's life so.  She can do
nothing with other people, always rehearsing, and having meals at odd
times, and not free till every one else is going to bed.  For those who
are born to it, who have it in their blood, it must be absorbing, the
only life, though always a most anxious and wearing existence, but for
Car it's simply absurd.  If she were a heaven-born genius one wouldn't
dare put obstacles in her way, but she has only a pretty little talent
which isn't enough.  I've tried to make her see it, but she won't.
Already it's making a barrier between us, she thinks we're trying to
thwart her for our own selfish reasons, grudging the money and so
forth.  I was so far left to myself the other day as to say I wished I
saw her married to some decent man--I've a horror of her producing some
affected posing youth as her future husband--and she said, 'The last
thing in the world I want to marry is a decent man.'--Poor darling!"

Alison laughed.  "Well, you asked for it, didn't you?  She lives with
your mother in London?"

"Yes, and that's funny too.  You know my mother, how unapproachable she
seems to almost every one, how awe-inspiring she can be!  Car's
description of her grandmother's face when some of her friends visited
her in South Street!  All the same, living with her puts a wholesome
restraint on my rebellious little daughter.  Oh, dear, I do so want the
child to be happy."

"And Helen?  Has she leanings towards the theatre?"

Katharyn shook her head.  "Helen is too well amused with life at
present to think seriously about anything.  We rarely see her.  She has
hosts of friends who take her about and give her a wonderful time.  Tim
and I don't much like it, but--what can one do?  The Gordons asked her
to stay with them in London for six weeks, and other people took her to
Cowes, now she has gone to some people called Deeling who have taken
the Gordons' place on Speyside, to attend the Northern meetings.  I
don't wonder people like Helen, she is a poppet--but I wish we knew
more about her friends.  Did you ever hear of Deelings?  Mrs. Gordon
wrote to me about them and said they were particularly nice, but I
don't know.  They seem very noticeable people, much paragraphed and
photographed: we often see Helen in groups reading left to right,
generally quite unrecognizable!"

"Those photographs in papers often are," said Alison.  "But I suppose
they must amuse some people, and they help the men who take them to
make a living.  But imagine little Helen being so conspicuous.  No, I
don't think I know any Deelings, but my circle isn't large.  If Mrs.
Gordon vouches for them they'll be all right--what about my friend
Sandy?"

"You'll see him at lunch, and Tom and Rory too.  You will stay, won't
you?  After all these months it would be too cruel to cheat us with a
morning call.  I'll ring up Fairniehopes and tell them you won't be
back till evening."

"And that," said Alison Lockhart, "is how you defeat yourself.  You
plan out a morning's work, a casual friend turns up whom your kind
heart won't allow you to send away, and the day is lost to you."

"A casual friend hardly describes you, my dear, or you wouldn't be
sitting in Jane's Parlour, listening to my worries about the children,
which I'd tell to no one else.  I count a day well lost that brings
you.  As a matter of fact, I'm afraid I'm only too pleased to be
disturbed!  I constantly find myself making errands downstairs, simply
to get away from the task of writing.  Why do I do it?  Mostly for
money, I fear, though there is a certain amount of pleasure in it if
things go well.  And I have a small but faithful public.  I used to
write simply for the love of it, but if the money weren't so welcome I
doubt if I'd attempt another book.  Perhaps, since it has grown so
mechanical it would be honester to give it up; I don't know.  Things
get worse and worse, Alison.  Times are so bad that some of the farmers
simply can't pay their rents.  And we have a lot to keep up, as you
know, with two boys at Eton, one at Oxford, two girls who need endless
help over and above their allowances.  Tim says hopefully that things
show signs of beginning to improve, but I've precious little hope of it
myself....  Tim spends next to nothing on himself, and he let most of
the shooting this year--a thing he simply hates having to do.  I try to
do with as little as possible, though what I get must be good for I
hate cheap clothes.  Happily, tweeds last practically for ever."

"Everybody," said Alison, "is more or less in the same box.  You're
better off than many, you can still live in a dignified way in your own
house.  I went to see the Armstrongs when I was passing through
London----"

"Oh, tell me about them!  I've been feeling wretchedly guilty about not
making more of an effort to hear of them.  Is it true that Alice has
started a boarding-house?"

"Yes, in Bayswater.  She had the furniture from Armstrong, except some
fine pieces that had to be sold, and, it seemed the only thing she
could do.  She has got the place very nice, and is prepared to do her
utmost.  Immensely plucky of her, I think."

"A boarding-house!" said Katharyn.  "I'd almost rather keep a hen-farm.
Hens can't complain about how you feed them, and boarders can--and do."

"Armstrong has been bought for a hotel, some one said."

"Yes, furnished, I hear, regardless of cost, with the very latest in
bedroom suites, carpets your feet sink into, and running water in every
room.  Armstrong!  What about the boys?  I've thought of them so often."

"Ralph's finished with Oxford, you know, and is trying to find a job.
Poor Phil has had to leave school--he's seventeen--and he, too, has to
find something to do.  I saw them both.  And sorry I was for them,
country boys cooped up in Bayswater in the height of summer.  I think
the thought of them is their mother's heaviest burden at the moment."

"It can't be allowed," said Katharyn.  "They must come here at once.
Two boys make no difference to speak of, and our boys will like having
them.  Everybody must set to and try to find them suitable jobs.  What
are old friends for? ... I'll address an envelope this very minute and
that will remind me to get it away by the afternoon's post.  What's the
address?"

"10 Cambridge Gardens.  I confess I'll be glad to think of those boys
having some fun.  It's bad enough for older people, but the young have
such large expectations, I hate to see them cheated.  I'll write too,
and send them some money for fares and so forth.  As you say, what are
old friends for....  Funny, it never occurred to me to ask them to
Fairniehopes, and at once it seemed the natural thing to you to ask
them here."

"That," said Katharyn, "is because of Sandy and Tim and Rory.  I know
their passion for their own country-side and what it would mean to them
to be shut up in London.  Besides, my dear, in spite of my grumbles I
have much to be grateful for, and this is a way of saying a small
'Thank you.'"




CHAPTER II

  "We can weel do the thing when we're young
  That use canna do weel when we're auld."
                              JOHN CLUNIE.


Alison Lockhart looked round the Eliotstoun luncheon-table with a
satisfied smile as she said, "After all there is no place like home."

"Be it ever so humble," added her host.  "Does that mean that for the
moment you've had enough of 'pleasures and palaces'?  You've been
yachting with a millionaire, haven't you?"

Miss Lockhart helped herself to curried eggs, and said:

"Well, hardly that.  There can't be many young millionaires in these
days, what with death-duties and one thing and another, but my host was
certainly comfortably off.  Young Leonard Mathieson, son of the late
Sir Eric Mathieson--_you_ know?"

Tim nodded.  "I don't know anything about the son, but old Sir Eric was
a marvel.  Began life as a poor boy without a particle of influence,
made every penny he possessed, and held the strings of half a dozen big
concerns when he died lately at seventy odd."

"But, Aunt Alison," Car's clear voice asked, "how did you come to be
with such a party?"

"You mean, how did a dowdy, oldish female come to be among a lot of gay
young people on a pleasure cruise?  I'll tell you.  Sir Eric didn't
marry till fairly late in life, and then he married a cousin of my own,
Maud Gough.  They had this one son, who is my godson.  He and I are
very good friends, and he begged me--yes, _begged_ me--to go and
support his mother in this cruise, and I who love the sea, and am not
above a taste of luxury when I can get it, was very pleased to accept.
It was all very delightful, and I found the company of eight young
people most inspiriting.  They certainly know how to give themselves a
good time, these boys and girls, and manage to squeeze every drop of
juice out of the orange of pleasure.  And they've a great deal more in
their heads than I gave them credit for.  We went to the most heavenly
places, and they were really keen and appreciative.  But in spite,
perhaps because of my enjoyment, I had an uneasy feeling that it was
all wrong that any one should have enough money to take his own party
in his own luxurious yacht--(I don't mind the people in the
Cruises--most of them work hard and deserve their holiday)--to sail on
those halcyon seas, and drink deep of beauty when in Britain--I say
Britain for it's the place that matters most to me, but other countries
are as bad, if not worse--decent men by the thousand are all losing
their self-respect and seeing their wives and children live as no one
ought to be asked to live at this time of day, because there isn't work
for them to do.  When I thought of them I lost appetite for the yacht's
delicacies."

Tim grunted, and Katharyn said, "Yes, I sometimes wonder how one can
ever think of anything else.  But knowing you, Alison, I'm pretty sure
that a good many schemes for giving poor children a country holiday
were the richer because of your good time."

"Oh, well"--Alison finished her curried eggs and laid down her
fork--"one must salve one's conscience somehow.  Sandy, you're laughing
at me.  'All persons over twelve feet will leave the Court.'  I
believe, boy, you're as tall as your mother."

"He has me beaten by a head," said Tim, while Katharyn remarked that
she saw no use in being tall.

"I like you tall, Mother," Sandy said.

"On the principle that we can't have too much of a good thing?" Tim
asked.

"Impudence!" said Katharyn.  "Alison, d'you know I've taken to
spectacles?  Large tortoise-shell specs.  The other day I looked at my
face in a mirror through them and got a horrid shock.  I had no idea my
face was like that--a positive network of wrinkles."

"Only your forehead, Mummy," said Car kindly.  "You're always frowning
over your writing, or raising your eyebrows at our iniquities, and then
you crinkle up your eyes when you laugh, but except for those lines and
wrinkles, I think you're very well preserved."

"Car," said her father, "I'll thank you not to talk of your mother as
if she were some sort of tinned food," and turning to Alison he
asked--"Can you cope with the young generation, Alison?"

"I never attempt to," said that lady.  "If they're civil to me I'm
civil to them, but otherwise I don't meddle with them.  Sandy, haven't
you been away somewhere sailing?"

"He signed on as a deck-hand in a whaler," said his mother.

"A trawler, Mother," Tom corrected.

"A trawler, then.  Can you imagine anything nastier?  Fish and filth
and tumbling seas!"

"It was fine," said Sandy in his slow gentle voice.  "I enjoyed it,
though I was sick most of the time."

"I wish I'd been there," Roy said enviously.

"I don't," said Tim.  "I shouldn't mind a luxury yacht, but I draw the
line at a trawler.  I like my comforts."

"What were the other 'hands' like?" Miss Lockhart asked.

"One was a burglar," said Sandy, and added, with the air of one not
wishing to boast, "he took rather a fancy to me and said he wouldn't
mind coming home with me for a fortnight if he might bring his aged
mother."

"He might have taught us how to earn an honest livelihood," Tom put in.

"Was he in hiding, Sandy?" Tim asked.  "Or was it merely the off-season
with burglars?"

Tom turned to Miss Lockhart and said, "As a matter of fact, I believe
Sandy's merely pulling our legs over the whole thing.  He tells us,
too, that when these men aren't engaged in their dangerous and dirty
occupation, their chief recreation is discussing society tattle out of
the picture papers."

Alison grinned broadly.  "That's delightful," she said.  "the nicest
thing I've heard for a long time.  It's the desire for something apart
from the sphere of our sorrow--is that Keats, Tom?"

"Shelley, I believe," said that youth.

"Well, anyway, the poet was right.  It must be so cheering when
standing knee-deep in fish to remember that the Earl of X is to wed on
Saturday the daughter of the Marquis of Z, with five pages, twelve
bridesmaids, and a service fully choral!  Dear me, one is always
hearing something to cheer one.  I'll often think now of trawler men
and their pastimes.  I must tell George."

"How is George?" Katharyn asked.  "It seems ages since he was here.
You saw him when you were in London, Car?"

"Once or twice," said Car.

"George is very well," Alison said, "and not entirely briefless, you'll
be glad to hear.  He's been climbing in the Dolomites for the last
fortnight and comes here on Saturday.  I'm looking forward to having
him for three weeks at least."

Luncheon over, the boys did not wait for coffee, but went off on
business of their own, followed in a minute or two by Car, and the
older people were left sitting.

Alison Lockhart, studying her host's cheerful weather-beaten face,
said, "Anyway, you're looking well, Tim.  Bad times don't age you.
D'you notice the improvement that they say exists?"

"Well, agriculture isn't exactly booming yet, but lamb prices have been
a little better, and wool is slightly dearer--that's supposed to be a
good sign.  But cattle are still very bad.  And in the Border towns the
tweed-mills are doing very little, and not much in prospect, I'm
afraid.  Still, there does seem to be more activity in certain
quarters--so we hope!"

"Tim," said his wife, "Alison has been telling me about the Armstrongs.
Mrs. Armstrong has started a boarding-house.  Did you ever know
anything more pathetic?  My conscience isn't clear.  I went over after
her husband died but was told she was seeing no one, and I happened to
be particularly busy at the time so did nothing for a little, and when
I made another attempt she had gone to London and the place was up for
sale.  Somehow I thought she had gone to her own people."

"But what could you have done?" Miss Lockhart asked.  "Want of money is
a fell disease."

"Oh, I don't suppose I could have been of any use, but at least I could
have stood by, offered them hospitality, behaved in a neighbourly
manner.  Tim, Alison says both the boys are looking for jobs.  They're
in London in this house in Bayswater.  Can you imagine Sandy's despair
shut up in London?"

"Ask them here," said Tim.

"I have--at least, I'm going to write this very minute; there's an
envelope lying addressed on my desk.  But what _more_ can we do?  Alice
has put herself so out of reach by going away to London.  You remember,
when Lady Jane and Nicole had to leave Ruthurfurd they went to a nice
old house in Fife and settled down comfortably?"

"That," her husband reminded her, "was quite a different thing.
Ruthurfurd had to be sold, it's true, but Lady Jane was left with a
respectable income, and Nicole has something of her own as well.  Bob
Armstrong was deep in debt, the place was mortgaged to the hilt.  I
really can't see what the widow has to live on.  It's a mercy the boys
are as far on as they are."

Tim smoked in silence while his wife stared out at the lawn where her
three boys stood, their heads together, intent over some _ferlie_.  In
a minute or two she roused herself.

"Come up with me, Alison," she said, "and I'll write that letter.  Then
we might have a look at things outside.  What--" as a servant came in
with a telephone message.  "Oh, will you say that I'm engaged this
afternoon, but I shall try to be at the Home to-morrow morning at ten
o'clock?  Thank you."

"Trouble in the Nursing," she said, as the two friends went upstairs
together.  "I rather think Barbara Jackson's at the bottom of it.  You
remember she was elected President and resigned in a pet--not expecting
for a minute that her resignation would be accepted.  It was, however,
and I was appointed in her place (I confess to you that I accepted with
no loftier motive than because I thought Barbara needed a lesson) and
she has hated me heartily ever since."

Alison shook her head.  "No, K., you won't get me to believe that that
was your motive.  You've always worked hard for the Nursing.  How long
were you President before?"

"About five years.  All the same, I'm afraid I wanted to annoy Barbara,
and catty-ness always brings its own reward.  Now, Barbara does
everything she can to make things difficult on the Committee, and she
has rather a horrid trick, when it's her turn to visit the Home, of
listening to tattle and tales.  As you know, the matron is particularly
efficient, and good in every way, but Barbara has a dislike to her, and
anything against her from a disgruntled nurse or dissatisfied patient
is listened to with avidity.  And of course Barbara has her following.
Mrs. Jackson of Ruthurfurd can make life much pleasanter for some of
her neighbours, and she likes the adulation they give her."

Alison looked thoughtful as she said, "It's odd that with prosperity
Barbara should have become a smaller, much less pleasant person.  There
was a time when she first grew up at Ruthurfurd (Lady Jane made
absolutely no difference between this niece of her husband and her own
Nicole) that I thought there was something fine about her.  She was
handsome, but Nicole had a charm she entirely lacked, and Barbara knew
it, yet did not seem to feel jealous.  It's since she married Andy
Jackson that she seems to have developed a sort of jealousy complex.
One would think she had got everything--the old place (how Lady Jane
and Nicole loved Ruthurfurd!), the best of husbands, a fine little
boy--and yet she seems to envy Nicole for something it has got--and it
poisons life for her."

"Then," said Katharyn, "I should pity rather than dislike her; but,
somehow, every time we meet she upsets me.  She and Andy are happy
together, aren't they?"

"I think so.  Andy's very proud of Barbara and devoted to the boy; and
she is immensely fond of him, there's no possible doubt about that.  By
the way, talking of Nicole Ruthurfurd, how is Jean Douglas?"

"Very well.  I saw her the other day when Tilly Kilpatrick was showing
her garden.  Mrs. Douglas, in her outspoken way, said it wasn't worth a
shilling.  It wasn't, but we weren't supposed to say so.  She was
amusing about her own garden, said it had cost her untold gold hiring
extra help to make the place look its best, and when the day came she
only made nine shillings."

"Well," said Alison, "what did Jean expect?  Kingshouse is far from a
town, and quite away from a main road where buses pass."

"She said she had depended on her friends, and they had failed her.  I
always enjoy meeting Mrs. Douglas, she's so refreshingly honest."

"She is.  I must see her to-morrow.  Jean is almost my oldest friend,
one of the unchanging kind....  Get on with your letter now, and I'll
have a look at _The Queen_."

As Miss Lockhart opened the magazine she said, "What a handsome boy
Sandy has grown!  And so simple and young."

"Yes, I'm very proud of Sandy.  I wish he hadn't made up his mind for
the farthest outposts.  He has the oddest desire to live hard.  So
unlike Tom, who loves the fleshpots, poor pet."

"Tom is very interesting, so very much the man of the world.  Sixteen,
is he, or seventeen?  Anyway, he'll never be as old again no matter how
long he lives."

"I know," said Tom's mother.  "It irritates Tim, but I assure him it's
only a passing phase.  Rory, anyway, is still as natural as a puppy.
Now I wonder how I could put it to Alice to make it look a favour to
ourselves?  Company for Sandy and Tom?  They used to fight terribly
when they were all small.  I remember Ralph and Phil starting to walk
away home because they had come to blows with Sandy and Tom in the
garden.  Tim had to take the car and go after them and make our boys
apologize."

There was a silence while Katharyn wrote rapidly, then handing the
sheet of paper to her friend, she said, "Will that do?"

Alison read it, and handing it back said, "Very tactful and nice.  I am
sure Alice will be only too thankful to think of the boys happy in the
country for a little....  She did look so worried, poor thing."

"Has she efficient help?"

"I doubt it.  I was in hopes that some of her old servants at Armstrong
would have stuck to her, but I fear that sort of thing only happens in
story-books, at least Alice Armstrong has had to be content with maids
from a registry office."

"I might write to my mother about her," Katharyn said, still with her
pen in hand.  "I don't know if she could be of any use sending
boarders, but it's lonely struggling for a living in London, and if my
mother likes she can be a tower of strength.  Come out to the garden
now, if you don't mind a walk in the heat.  Can you tell me why nearly
all Scots gardens are so far from the house, hidden away as if we were
ashamed of them?"

"I don't know," said Alison as they went downstairs together, "unless
it may have been to give the ladies of the house an object for a walk,
in days when violent exercise was not indulged in."

"Perhaps.  Anyway, I'm afraid ours isn't worth seeing when we do reach
it.  We had to part with the two under-gardeners lately--found them
places I'm thankful to say--and Hogg is struggling away with two youths
who would be working in the mill if things were different, and who have
everything to learn.  Fortunately they are willing to be taught, but
when I think of the show we used to be able to make I feel sorry for
Hogg.  It matters so much more to him than to us.  He was here with
Tim's father and feels as if he owned the place.  He was telling me
yesterday--more in sorrow than in anger--what Cruickshanks, the
Ruthurfurd gardener, had put in, and I said, by way of keeping my end
up--'But you know, Hogg, I liked the Ruthurfurd gardens much better in
Lady Jane's time.'  'Oh ay,' he said, 'of course there wasna the same
profusion, but it was her ladyship's ain garden.'  So I'm trying to
comfort myself that the same may be said about our poor plot."

Alison Lockhart twisted her fascinating, wicked mouth, as she asked,
"Have you taken to posing, Katharyn?  As if you didn't believe
Eliotstoun garden to be the most perfect thing of its kind!  It's the
way it lies, surrounded by that lovely wall and the woods and hills
beyond....  But oh! what a trickle the burn is!"




CHAPTER III

"The cup of life is surely bitter enough without squeezing in the
hateful rind of resentment."  DR. JOHNSON.


Barbara Jackson was seated at breakfast in the dining-room at
Ruthurfurd.  She had poured herself out some coffee and was nibbling a
piece of dry toast--denying herself a solid breakfast in the interests
of slimming--while she opened her morning letters.

Once or twice she glanced impatiently at the clock, and when at last
her husband came in she said irritably, "Andy, I do wish you'd be more
punctual.  What is the use of my insisting that meals should be there
on the stroke, when you saunter in any old time.  It's such a bad
example for the servants."

"But, Barbara," Andy protested, "surely breakfast ought to be a movable
meal.  And these September mornings are so glorious to ride in."

"Why not start half an hour earlier?"

"Oh well, I daresay I might do that," Andy said peaceably, helping
himself to porridge and cream which he ate standing.

This, too, was a subject for criticism.  "Why not sit down, dear?"
Barbara asked.  "It looks so absurd to stand straddling in riding
breeches, eating porridge."

"I don't seem to be very popular this morning," said her husband,
peering into two hot dishes, and then cutting himself a slice of ham.

It had been the desire of Andy's father--Andrew Jackson, of Jackson,
Thorn, and Crichton, Glasgow--that his only son should be what he
described as "a country gentleman," and Andy seemed to be making a
success in the rle.  He had always been simple and unassuming, and
realizing his ignorance of many things, showed himself most willing to
be taught, so that "Andy," as he was always called, soon became popular
in the country-side.  He loved a country life, and was happy at
Ruthurfurd, though he never entirely got over the feeling that he was a
usurper there.  It was a foolish fancy and he knew it, and never
mentioned it to his wife, who was rather sensitive about her position
as mistress of the house that had belonged to the aunt who had brought
her up.  She disliked the way people had of recalling Lady Jane's
sayings, her gentle ways, her charming hospitality.  And as for her
cousin Nicole, it was well that she was over the Forth, in the Fife
village of Kirkmeikle, and that she seldom visited the old home, for
Nicole, quite innocently, was a disturbing element in Barbara's life.
Over and over she told herself that it was absurd to be jealous of
Nicole.  She who had everything--Ruthurfurd, Andy, the boy, and Nicole
nothing; and yet, there it was.  She was jealous of something Nicole
had, some secret of happiness that gave her contentment in a somewhat
circumscribed life, something that drew people to her like an
enchantment.

"Anything interesting in your post?" Andy asked.

Barbara turned over a small pile of opened letters.  "Nothing much.
Alison Lockhart's back.  She's been cruising on a yacht belonging to
that very rich young Mathieson.  Tilly Kilpatrick was telling me about
him--all the mothers with daughters are after him."

"Oh!  Does he intend then to keep a harem?

"Don't be silly!"

"A poor jest," Andy agreed; "and in doubtful taste.  D'you know if
George Lockhart is at Fairniehopes?  I must ask him to shoot."

"We're asked to lunch at Fairniehopes on Thursday, so probably he is
there.  Alison Lockhart never asks me when she is alone: she doesn't
like me."

"Nonsense, Barbara, Miss Lockhart's always very civil."

"Civil, yes; nothing more.  All the _warmth_ is kept for Nicole.  She
and Jean Douglas have been devoted to her since she was a child.
They've never forgiven me for coming back to Ruthurfurd."

Andy mumbled something, and buried himself in a legal looking document,
while his wife continued: "It seems to me such a pity that people who
are trying to do good work don't do it peaceably.  You know how hard
I've worked for the success of the Nursing Home, spent money like water
when I was President, gave entertainments, got up bridge-tournaments
and treasure-hunts?  Well, that's all forgotten, and Katharyn Eliot is
hailed as the ideal President.  Why, she would never have been there
had I not stepped down, and having been President for nearly five years
already she should never have taken it again.  The honours should go
round.  And she hasn't the time to devote to it; writing as she does,
and a big family, and altogether.  Things are slipped.  I'm all for
peace, as you know, but I can't keep still when things are being
allowed to go wrong.  I must protest sometimes, and I'm well supported
by several loyal members of Committee who think as I do.  This morning
I hear that a really valuable suggestion of mine has been turned down
simply because I wasn't there to fight for it--you remember I had to go
to Edinburgh yesterday? ... Katharyn Eliot may be clever, but she
doesn't understand the needs of the people as I do, I who have lived
nearly all my life at Ruthurfurd."

"Perhaps not," said Andy.

"There's a letter from Nicole," Barbara went on, then stopped, noticing
that her husband raised his head at the name, and promising herself
that he would ask before he heard any more.

After a pause, "I hope she and Lady Jane are well," Andy said.

"They seem to be.  They're back already at the Harbour House."

"Oh!  I thought they generally stayed away till October."

"They do as a rule, but Althea--you remember the girl who was pushed on
to them by a relative, and whom they married off to young
Walkinshaw?--has had a baby, and they came back early for that.  Nicole
really is the perfect maiden aunt!  This isn't even the first, there's
a girl, but Nicole is as proud about the boy, and as pleased, as if she
had ordained the whole thing.  She was always terribly given to
applauding people's efforts."

"Well, isn't that rather a lovable trait?  By the way, I saw John
Dalrymple yesterday."

Barbara's face showed eager interest.

"Is he here for long?  We must ask him to dine.  I'll write at once and
tell him to name his own day."

"I'm afraid you needn't trouble.  He had to come to see about something
at Newby Place, but he told me he was leaving again almost immediately.
He didn't say anything, and of course I didn't, but I don't think he's
well.  He looked changed--aged, I thought--and out of spirits."

"I don't wonder," said Barbara.  "What he needs is a wife and a
comfortable home, and if Nicole hadn't been so full of absurd highflown
notions she would have married him years ago.  He has cared for her
always, and she has ruined his life.  He, too, is one of those
ridiculously constant people."

"My dear," said Andy, "you can't dictate to people about where they
should place their affections.  Dalrymple could no more help caring for
Nicole, than Nicole could help caring for some one else----"

"Of course not!" Barbara said impatiently; "but when Simon Beckett was
killed what was to hinder Nicole--after a decent interval--marrying
John?"

"Something hindered her; constancy perhaps."

"Well, to me it seems simply silly and affected.  Why should Nicole be
more constant than the rest of the world?  How many women have had to
stifle such feelings and take the second best?  She might have thought
of other people--of her mother.  It would have been more unselfish to
have made John and her mother happy, than to sit in the Harbour House
and cherish thoughts about a dead man.  Most morbid, I call it."

Andy took a large spoonful of marmalade on his plate, as he said
mildly, "I don't think any one would call Nicole morbid.  She never
looks as if she were grieving, and if she's sad she makes no one mourn
with her.  There's no sweet sad pose about her, as of one smiling at
grief!"

Barbara looked at her husband.  "All the same," she said, and there was
almost a sullen note in her voice, "All the same, I think Nicole has
shown herself very selfish.  Just think what pleasure it would have
given.  Aunt Jane to be back in the Borders, and it would have been so
nice for me to have Newby Place to run over to constantly.  I sometimes
find it rather lonely, I confess; there are so few of our kind left,
and I don't very much care for the new people who have come."

Andy seemed in an argumentative mood.  "I think we're very well off for
neighbours," he said.  "The Kilpatricks are all right if you don't have
to see too much of them, and I like Colonel Douglas and Mistress Jean
immensely.  As for Tim Eliot, there's only one opinion about him, and
his wife seems to me quite charming."

Barbara would have been much annoyed had she been told she tossed her
head, but she did something very like it when she said, "How like a
man!  If a woman takes trouble to be nice to him, he's prepared to
believe her everything that's delightful.  You only know Katharyn Eliot
socially, when, I do admit, she's charming; but if you had to sit on
Committees with her you would realize what an overbearing woman she
is....  I don't care much for Car either--a minx, I think, seems to
consider it a favour if she's civil to me.  Helen is much more
forthcoming, but I'm told that she's in a very fast set in London.  I
expect the Eliots will have trouble with both those girls."

There was a satisfaction in Barbara's tone that made her husband say
quite violently, "I don't believe it.  Car's all right, she's terribly
keen to go on the stage, like a hundred other girls, and naturally her
parents are anxious about the wisdom of it, but she will probably marry
soon and that will finish it.  As for Helen, she was always a pet, and
if she's in a fast set she will do it good and probably take no harm.
But it can't be much fun bringing up a family in these days.  Perhaps
it's a good thing we've only one, though Samson's a host in himself.
What are you doing to-day?"

"Nothing much.  Will you be in to lunch?"

"I've a County Council meeting."

"Oh, then, you won't.  I'll have a long day alone."

"You don't call it being alone when you've Samson, do you?  Let him
take you round the garden.  He knows the name of nearly every flower
and loves to show off his knowledge.  By the way, isn't it about time
the parents came out for a week-end?"

"Why, Andy, they were here in August for ten whole days!"

"Oh, I know, but they're back in Glasgow now, and this is such an
unusually beautiful September, and mother does enjoy a week-end with
Samson."

Barbara gave a patient sigh.  "Of course we'll have them if you say so,
but we have the Spencers and the Balfours next week-end, and I don't
think your mother would care much for _them_.  I thought of asking the
Cuthberts for the week-end after next."

"But if you haven't asked them it's all right.  They can come another
time, can't they?  You might write to mother yourself: it's not the
same when it come from me....  Hullo!  There's Samson, the little
ruffian.  He's run away from Nannie again.  Hi, old man!  I'm coming
after you...."

Andy opened the window, and in a minute had young Andrew--Andrew the
third--on his shoulder.

Barbara stood watching the scene, smouldering resentment in her heart.
Andy really was tiresome.  He thought well of every one simply because
he was so indiscriminating, and when she, clearer-sighted, criticized,
he thought her captious and ill to please.  With the servants, too, it
was difficult, for Andy was so easy-going that she was made to seem
hard and domineering in contrast.

Life was very difficult, Barbara decided, and often it seemed as if the
Fates were against her.  It had been a gorgeous summer, there was no
denying it, and yet the two open-air entertainments she had given--a
large garden-party and a children's gymkhana--had got indifferent
weather: it had drizzled on the garden-party and blown coldly on the
children's day.

Then, she had had a head housemaid who was a treasure, in spite of a
difficult temper, and, against Andy's advice, she had dismissed the
woman, and the new one was most disappointing, neither efficient nor
mannerly, and a distinctly disturbing influence among the other
servants.

Again, the question of the Nursing Association was worrying.  Her
position as President had been an immense satisfaction to her, she had
never meant her resignation in a pettish moment to be taken seriously.
Surely the least they could have done would have been to ask her to
reconsider it--but no!  They had accepted it with alacrity and had
proceeded without delay to elect Mrs. Eliot in her place, Mrs. Eliot,
who had only retired two years ago after being President for an age!

Thinking it over, Barbara told herself that it would have been more
dignified on her part to withdraw altogether.  But that would have
meant relinquishing everything, more than she could bear to do, so she
had stayed on as an influential member of Committee, ready, if an
opportunity offered, to put a spoke in the new President's wheel!

Barbara's thoughts went back to the conversation at the breakfast
table.  Nicole and John Dalrymple, how she wished those two would
marry.  She had told Andy it would be pleasant for her to have Nicole
at Newby Place, but what she had not told him was that with Nicole
belonging to John, she would feel more securely that Andy belonged to
her.  Not that by word or look he had ever made her uneasy, indeed he
rather avoided Nicole than sought her company, but she, his wife, was
aware of a different note in his voice when he said Nicole's name, an
almost strained attention when people spoke of her....  And Lady
Jackson--that was another annoyance....  It was no time since the
grandparents had been at Ruthurfurd, and their visits were rather a
strain.  Sir Andrew was quite harmless, and beyond looking completely
bored--you knew he was bored when he tapped his front teeth with the
nail of his middle finger--gave no trouble.  But Lady Jackson--she was
inordinately proud of her title--needed to be entertained, and insisted
on seeing all the people she had made friends with in the short time
she had reigned at Ruthurfurd, before her son's marriage to Barbara.
And people like Jean Douglas at Kingshouse, and Alison Lockhart, played
up to her and made much of her, and then Lady Jackson threw restraint
to the winds, and, Barbara told herself resentfully, simply played the
buffoon.  If it had been any one else, Barbara acknowledged, it might
have been amusing, but Andy's mother should keep up the dignity of
Ruthurfurd.  And Andy couldn't, or would not, see it.  He was delighted
when his mother told stories of the early days when she and her husband
had been young and struggling--squalid stories, Barbara thought they
were.  He laughed with the utmost enjoyment when she quoted, in
broadest Glasgow, a conversation she had overheard when visiting in the
Gorbals.  Barbara was ashamed of Lady Jackson, and ashamed of being
ashamed.  But, as she told herself, trying to be philosophic, in this
life one must put one thing against another.  Had she not married Andy
very probably she would still have been with Lady Jane and Nicole in a
stupid little Fife village.  And now she reigned at Ruthurfurd.




CHAPTER IV

"Love is only one of many passions, and it has no great influence in
the sum of life."  DR. JOHNSON.


Fairniehopes, Alison Lockhart's home, was a barer, bleaker place than
Eliotstoun or Ruthurfurd, lying high up on the moorlands, where, as R.
L. Stevenson says, the wind blows as it blows in the rigging of a ship,
hard and clear and cold.

Though possessed of a restless spirit that periodically sent her
wandering over the earth, Alison Lockhart dearly loved her home, and
looked forward to ending her days there in tranquillity.

The last of her branch of the family, the question of who should follow
her had been an anxiety.  The choice was small as the Lockhart
connection was not a large one, and the most likely candidate was a
second cousin's son, young George Lockhart.  Alison had invited him, as
a schoolboy, to spend most of his holidays at Fairniehopes, and had
seen with pleasure his affection for the place grow.  He had taken a
First in Greats at Oxford, and was now in London doing fairly well at
the Bar; but he was essentially a country lover, and was never so happy
as when setting out for the Borders, with the prospect of spending
several weeks with his cousin-twice-removed.

From his first visit as a schoolboy he had called her Alison, though
she had protested that it was a great liberty on his part, and
suggested Aunt as a suitable addition.  But George would have none of
it.  "'Aunt' doesn't mean anything pleasant to me," he told her.  "I
have aunts--three, two married and one not, and I don't much like any
of them.  You say you're old, but how can you be when you ride and fish
and walk miles and miles and laugh at jokes?"

Alison had left it at that, and a friendship began that had
strengthened with the years, until now Alison would have been lost
without her good comrade.

This September morning the two were standing outside the front door,
George with all his fishing gear laid out, inspecting reels and tackle.

"What a morning," he said, sniffing appreciatively; "there's nothing
like a September morning, when the mist lies low like a white belt, and
the tops of the hills stand out above it shining blue.  And
Fairniehopes is at its best in autumn, I always think, though it's hard
to beat at any time."  He bent again over his tackle, saying, "Nothing
happening to-day?"

"Nothing," said Alison, then, "Oh, indeed, there is!  Why, I've invited
a crowd of people to luncheon!  There's no doubt about it, my mind is
going.  I'd completely forgotten my party....  I'm afraid our fishing
expedition's off.  Just as well perhaps, the water is so low, and the
rain we had yesterday wouldn't help much."

"Who's coming?" George asked, speaking with a bit of gut between his
teeth.

Miss Lockhart ticked the guests off on her fingers.

"The Ruthurfurd people, and Tom and Jean Douglas, and Tim and
Katharyn--perhaps Car.  That was left indefinite, but probably she is
coming or K. would have made her send a telephone message.  She does
try to insist on decent manners."

George looked up from what he was doing.  "D'you think Car's manners
are bad?" he asked.  "I don't.  She seems to me much more punctilious
than most young women I know."

"And you must know a few," said Alison.  "Do you see much of Car in
London?"

"A certain amount.  We've a good many friends in common, and I've been
once or twice to that Dramatic College to see her act in plays."

"Is she really any good?"

"Well--I'm not much of a judge.  She always looks delightful, and her
movements are graceful: she has talent, no doubt of that, but I'm
afraid that doesn't satisfy her--she wants to reach the top."

"And you don't think she will?"

"I think there's more than a chance that she will be disappointed."

Alison nodded, and after a moment said, "And meantime K. is worrying
herself haggard, and the girl is spending more than they can afford to
give her, and all for nothing.  My goodness, I often ask myself who
would have a family!  While they're children you rarely know a placid
moment in case they take some illness, or drown, or get themselves run
over.  When they grow up they either get into scrapes and disgrace you,
or take up wild projects.  If they do happen to be quite satisfactory,
they generally depart for the outposts of the Empire and you get no
more good of them."

George chuckled.  "As bad as that?  Surely parents get a little more
kick out of it than you allow!  You and I know lots of happy homes.  I
always think the Eliotstoun household, for instance, a very united one,
and I know Car thinks the world of her father and mother."

"She has need," Alison said grimly.  "I've known Tim Eliot all his
life, and he always was the very best.  When I heard he was, going to
marry a young girl, beautiful and brilliant--the _brilliant_ was very
much insisted on--I was afraid for him.  I went to the wedding (a very
smart affair) in deep gloom, but when I saw Katharyn coming down the
aisle, a lovely creature blazing with happiness, holding tight to the
hand of her commonplace-looking bridegroom--no one ever accused Tim of
being either handsome or distinguished--I knew it was all right.  And
it has gone on getting more and more right in spite of hard times and
worries of every kind.  Nothing can really touch them, for in each
other they find their greatest happiness."

"Yes," said George, "one can see that.  It must give the family a
different chance."

"If they have the sense to take it," said Alison.  "I could shake
Car----"  She stopped, for something in her companion's face pulled her
up short.  "George," she said, after a pause, "does Car mean anything
to you?"

The young man let his hands fall to his sides as he looked his cousin
in the face.

"She means everything," he said.

"So," said Alison Lockhart....  "I'd better see cook now.  I did tell
her yesterday about the party, and we arranged things, but----"

"Wait a minute, Alison, please....  I needn't ask you not to mention
this.  Car knows nothing of my feelings, may never know.  I don't
suppose I have the slightest chance."

He turned away, and Alison, with difficulty repressing the words that
rose to her lips, went into the house.

She felt as if she had had a blow, heard a piece of shattering news.
George and Car.  Odd that she had never suspected such a thing.  She
had known, of course, that George would be likely to marry, indeed,
ought to marry, but his future bride had hitherto been the vaguest
figure, a dim wraith who interfered in no way with life at
Fairniehopes.  But now, in a moment, at a word, she had become
solid--solid and threatening.

Alison had grown to like the idea of George at Fairniehopes when she
was gone, George who was kind and considerate, who loved the place, and
had such a pleasant way with the people.  But Car was a different
matter.  In her mind's eye she saw her, a tall slim girl, with her
mother's golden-brown hair but with nothing of her mother's gentleness,
her eager desire to please people and make them happy.  An intent,
rather hard young woman she seemed to Alison, pressing forward to the
goal she had set before her, with no particular care whether she
crushed or hurt any one as she went....

After all, it was quite a successful party.  George, with Katharyn
Eliot and Jean Douglas at either side, found it easy going.  Barbara
Jackson, conscious of a new and highly successful autumn outfit, was
very gracious to Colonel Douglas, Car seemed to find lots to say to
Andy Jackson.  The hostess, still feeling oddly shaken, watched the
girl attentively.  Very pretty, certainly, in a soft green tweed coat
and skirt.  And cleverly made up.  Absurd, thought Alison, for a girl
of that age.  She did not object so much to reddened lips in the
middle-aged; they "went," she thought, with a rather raddled face, but
in the young they were ugly and meaningless.  She had a gay laugh, the
child, and seemed to be amusing her companion.  There was probably
something in her pretty head, and after all, she was Tim's girl and
Katharyn's, so she must have a good heart.  Alison looked round the
table.  Tim was now talking to Barbara, at least he was listening while
she prattled brightly of gardens, flower shows, shoots, and people.
George seemed to be enjoying Katharyn and Jean Douglas: there was
always laughter where Jean was.

"Alison," she cried down the table, "I've been hearing from George some
of your cantrips with the millionaire.  You may imagine my surprise
when looking at a photograph in the _Tatler_ of a lot of rather unclad
young people on board a yacht, I suddenly recognized your thoughtful
cast of countenance!  Oh yes, you were decently covered.  Didn't you go
in for sun-bathing when you had such a splendid opportunity?"

"I did not," said Miss Lockhart, "having no desire to look more like an
old gangrel-body than I do.  The young girls were like mulattoes, and
one poor thing started too impulsively and had to go to bed quite ill
and feverish, her skin coming off in strips!  I quite fail to see where
the fun comes in, but then I fail to see the fun in so much that amuses
the present generation.  Age, I suppose.  But I'm bound to say the
young people on the yacht were nice creatures, very tolerant to the
foibles of their elders."

Car shot her a glance as she said, "I expect it made all the difference
to them having you.  Entirely young parties are so boring--at least I
think so."

"I quite agree," said George; "like a meal composed of nothing but
cocktails and sweets!"

"Am I the soup or the savoury?" asked Mrs. Douglas "either comparison
is unflattering."

"Not at all," Tim pointed out, "the one is strengthening and the other
appetizing--I'm afraid I'm the heavy joint."

"And Alison the salted almonds," said George.

"More bitter than salt," Alison responded.

The talk drifted from one topic of common interest to another, as it
does in a company where all are friends and neighbours.

"Has any one seen Armstrong since it was made into a hotel?" Colonel
Douglas asked, and added, "Sad business that."

Barbara Jackson replied to him, saying that she had gone to see and
report on it for some people who thought of taking rooms.

"It seemed quite comfortable," she said; "the very latest of
everything, and they say the food is good, but it has rather the feel
of a showroom in a furniture warehouse still.  Everything is so new you
expect to see the price tickets still attached."

"Untamed," said George, "hasn't been smoked in, or lain about in, or
tramped over with muddy boots.  But it'll mellow.  It's a jolly
situation and very convenient for fishing--they've a good stretch of
Tweed."

"Where is Mrs. Armstrong?" Andy Jackson asked.

"Trying to run a boarding-house in Bayswater," said his hostess briefly.

"But how terrible!" said Barbara.  "Poor Mrs. Armstrong!  She was so
unlike anything of the kind."

"And the boys?" Andy asked.

"Looking for jobs," said Alison.  "But at the moment they're at
Eliotstoun."

"Yes," said Katharyn, "they arrived yesterday accompanied by Buster,
their old cocker-spaniel.  Phil wrote and asked if I'd mind if they
brought him, explaining that the poor dear was so unhappy in London;
and a dog more or less in our house makes little or no difference."

"Buster is a darling," said Car, "very old and fat and high-minded.
Phil says he can't bear to live in a house that hasn't a park--it
mortifies him terribly!  When Phil has to leave him tears roll down his
face and he gives long sighs; you never heard anything so
pitiful--Mother, you know we _must_ keep him at Eliotstoun.  Phil says
he'd be glad to leave him there because he knows the poor old thing
would be happy with us; in London he is absolutely miserable."

Katharyn sighed resignedly.  "Well, in that case you really must get
rid of the puppies: at least only keep one.  Colonel Douglas, I wish
you'd have a talk with Ralph Armstrong, and advise him about a job.
Tim and I are very much struck with him, he seems such a modest,
sensible fellow.  He says he doesn't mind where he goes, he'd take
anything so long as it meant earning something.  The thought of living
on his mother a day longer than he can help appals him."

Colonel Douglas wiped his mouth with his napkin, and was preparing to
reply when his wife broke in:

"Of _course_ you will find him a job, Thomas.  His father was a friend
and a neighbour--you can't do less.  It only needs a little effort on
your part.  What was that man in who spent a couple of days with us
last week?  The Hudson's Bay something.  I thought it sounded rather
attractive.  Yes, K., send Ralph over to luncheon to-morrow--and as
many more as you like.  Thomas will do his best for him."

Thomas Douglas looked helplessly at his wife, then said to Mrs. Eliot,
"Certainly send the boy over to Kingshouse, but I'm afraid Jean speaks
wildly.  I shall do my best, but I can't promise anything.  Andy, your
father might know of an opening."

"Yes," said Andy Jackson, helping himself to cheese, "my father is
rather good about finding jobs for likely men, only I'm afraid he
doesn't care much for college-bred men, says they have to forget so
much before they're any use."

"You can't expect Oxford to give people a business training," Jean
pointed out, while Katharyn said, "Phil has never got the length of
Oxford so he will have less to forget, poor child.  He thinks he'd like
to be a journalist--he and Tom helped to run some sort of magazine at
Eton--but he says he doesn't much care what his job is if it keeps him
in Scotland."

Andy nodded.  "He's an easier proposition than Ralph; we might get him
into something.  But if he's fond of books it's a pity he can't go on
to college.  Isn't there any relative that could help?"

"I'm afraid not," said Katharyn.  "They're all suffering from the same
thing--lack of funds."

"Perhaps Sandy would bring the Armstrong boys to lunch with us on
Sunday," Andy suggested.  "My father and mother will be there, and I'd
like my father to meet them.  That would be all right, Barbara?"

"Oh, quite," said Barbara, while Jean Douglas cried, "Is Lady Jackson
coming?  Oh, I must see her.  Bring her to luncheon, Barbara, on
Saturday, or tea, if it suits you better.  How long is she to be with
you?"

"Only the week-end," said Barbara shortly.  "I don't really know what
our engagements are.  May I ring up?"

"Do.  I'd love to see Lady Jackson.  We only got the merest glimpse of
her when she visited you in August.  Besides, I'm going very soon--next
week probably--to spend a day or two at the Harbour House, and Nicole
will want to hear the latest news of all her friends."

"Jean," said her husband in outraged tones, "I never heard you were
thinking of going away from home next week."

"What a man!" said Jean to the table at large.  "He never listens to
what I say, and then complains that he's left in the dark!  Thomas, my
dear, you yourself suggested next week as being most convenient."

"Only vaguely," said Thomas.  "I didn't know you'd actually decided to
go.  _How_ long did you say you were going to stay?"




CHAPTER V

  "The honourable lady of the house, which is she?"
                                        _Twelfth Night._


It was very seldom that Jean Douglas left her Thomas, and as he hated
nothing so much as going from home, it meant that most of her time was
spent at Kingshouse.  A week or so in London in May was almost the only
holiday she permitted herself, so that it seemed quite an adventure to
her to take the journey across the Forth Bridge to the seaside town
that held the Harbour House, and spend a day or two with her greatest
friends, Lady Jane Ruthurfurd and her daughter Nicole, who had been
settled there since Ruthurfurd was sold to the Jacksons.

Nicole was meeting her, and bore her in triumph in her little car down
the steep cobbled street that led to the Harbour House.

"We'd lost hope of you," she said, as she cautiously avoided a
fox-terrier and two small boys playing with a soap-box on wheels in the
middle of the street, "when you didn't come before we left in June, but
this is really nicer.  Autumn is a more sociable time than high summer,
and we're looking forward to having fine talks by the fire....  Now
we've arrived.  Martha will take your things.  Come up to the
drawing-room.  Mother!  Mother!  Here she is.  Here's Mistress Jean, as
tidy as if she had this moment left her dressing-table and smarter than
ever."

Nicole stood in the middle of the room and surveyed her guest.

"Will you tell me," she said, "how it is that you seem always to have
the exactly right thing to put on?  In September, we are mostly coldly
furnished forth with summer frocks we are making do till it's time to
get winter things, but 'between seasons' never finds you wanting."

"Nonsense," said Jean, "you're trying to imply that I spend an
inordinate amount on clothes.  I don't.  But I'm very much interested
in clothes (and not ashamed to confess it) and I enjoy planning my
wardrobe.  It's the most economical way in the end.  I expect you buy
haphazard," she added.

Nicole laughed, and confessed that she did.  "I see a hat I like, and
buy it without thinking what it will go with, and then I look patchy.
But never mind, nothing matters except that we've got you here for
three whole days."

"Come and sit by me," said Lady Jane, "and tell me about Tom, and all
at Kingshouse."

"May I sit on this side?  I like to look out at the sea."

"And the fire is rather large for a September day," said Nicole.
"Mother, to show her joy at your arrival, has heaped it up."

"I thought it was cold," said Lady Jane, "and I always like to arrive
to a good fire myself."

"So do I," said Jean promptly, "there's nothing so welcoming.  And it's
colder, here at the sea than with us....  To think that winter will
soon be upon us!"

Lady Jane drew her embroidery frame to her as she said:

"It seems almost wicked to say it, but I honestly like winter better
than summer.  I like it when the curtains are drawn at four o'clock--or
not drawn, for Nicole likes to see the dark night outside--and we can
look forward to a long peaceful evening with work and books."

"I enjoy that too," said Nicole; "but, oh, Mother, think of early
mornings in summer, when the sea is like mother-of-pearl!  Think of the
moon on the loch at Kinbervie!  Think of long hot days in the heather!"

"Think of the midges!" said Jean Douglas.  "I agree with your mother
that winter is the nicest time, but my poor Thomas doesn't.  He revels
in the long days, and is sadly bored by the winter evenings, though
this flood of crime novels has been a great help to him.  He can get
through a novel in an evening, but I'm going to stop such excess this
winter by making him listen for an hour every night to Jane Austen."

"A good idea," said Nicole.  "I should think an hour of Jane would give
piquancy to the crime."

Jean Douglas looked round the room with great interest.  "This," she
said, "is what I've been looking forward to for long; getting you two
people all to myself.  I hope you've warned off all the Kirkmeikle
people."

Nicole said that she had.  "Not that they needed warning off," she
added.  "They seldom come unless invited--even Mrs. Heggie.  And all
the people in Kirkmeikle--the calling people, I mean--wouldn't make a
crowd.  How many families in all, Mother?  Five....  Of course there
are the people round, but they are so much away.  Mother and I would be
a lot alone, if it weren't that Althea is always out and in.  It's nice
to have her so comparatively near."

"There was a time," said Jean, "when you wouldn't have considered it
luck."

"Indeed, yes.  Did I write you dreadful letters about her?  When Aunt
Blanche threw her on us to start with we thought (at least I thought)
that she was going to be an unbearable nuisance.  She wrecked our peace
at first, because she herself was so unhappy, poor child; but mother,
and the spirit of the Harbour House and Charles Walkinshaw combined,
healed her, and now----"

"How is the son and heir?" asked Jean.

"Oh, splendid--we're all terribly pleased.  To hear Charles talk of
'the children'!"

"That is a very happy marriage," Lady Jane said in her quiet way.
"Althea took a lot in hand when she began her married life in the house
of her parents-in-law.  But there must have been much tact and good
feeling on both sides, for there has never been the slightest
appearance of a jar, and Elspeth is the light of her grandmother's
eyes.  She is three and a half and a clever little thing.  She seems to
realize that Lady Walkinshaw is crippled and helpless, she is so sweet
with her, and in her baby way tries to help her."

"It's the oddest thing," said Nicole.  "Elspeth has a very quick temper
which she shows frequently to every one else, but never to her
grandmother.  Lady Walkinshaw would be less than human if she didn't
assume that she alone knows how to manage Elspeth....  But our news
such as it is can wait.  Tell us everything you can think of about
Tweedside.  Here comes tea!  That is as it should be: tea and talk go
well together.  Now then, begin!"

"Not till I've had my first cup and eaten one of those scones with some
of that delicious-looking bramble jelly.  I had only time for a bite of
lunch in Edinburgh and I'm hungry."

Nicole handed her the jelly.  "Kinbervie brambles," she said.  "It's
neither sugar nor cream for you, I think."

"Tom is well?" said Lady Jane.

"In rude health.  He has most thoroughly enjoyed this hot summer.  It's
been the sort of year that suits Kingshouse: we don't burn up readily
and the garden has been a dream.  The roses!  And accompanied by his
faithful henchman, Daniel, he has pottered out of doors from morning
till night.  And he's been shooting well, too, and is altogether very
pleased with himself."

"I'm glad.  Are you sure you like bramble jelly?  Try the heather
honey."

"What of Barbara?" Nicole asked.  "Her letters have been rather scrappy
lately, probably because her time is so much taken up with visitors.
We haven't seen any of them since May, when we spent a week-end at
Ruthurfurd--you were in London.  The place must have been marvellous
this lovely summer.  And now, in these September nights, the great moon
coming over the Lammerlaw----"

She stopped, and Jean Douglas said, "You haven't forgotten."

"I'll never forget--but I'm not regretting.  We have great
compensations where we are, haven't we, Mother? ... But please go on
about Ruthurfurd."

"I was there last Sunday," said Jean.  "The parent Jacksons were
spending the week-end, and I was bidden to meet them.  It was looking
beautiful.  I went round the garden with Lady Jackson and the small
Andrew--Samson, they call him--and enjoyed myself.  There's a great
friendship between the boy and his grandmother, and he told us all
about the flowers, and she said, 'My! isn't that wonderful?' with much
content.  Barbara did the honours with dignity, and tried to hold Lady
Jackson in check, but that lady isn't in the least afraid of her
daughter-in-law and has no intention of being suppressed.  Andy listens
to his mother with a pleased smile--I like to see them together.  I'm
glad Andy insists on being head of his own house.  I'm sure it isn't
Barbara's wish that the parents pay such frequent visits.  Her ladyship
is getting very stout, and is more than ever inclined to let herself go
over colours, but both her husband and her son admire her enormously,
and it isn't every woman of whom that can be said....  I'm trying to
remember if she said anything particularly funny.  She was greatly
excited when she heard I'd be seeing you soon, and poured out messages
which I'm sorry to say I've forgotten.  You are to let her know when
you'd like her to pay you a visit....  Yes, please, I'd like some more
tea."

"And Alison Lockhart's back," Nicole said, as she handed Jean her cup.
"Where has she been all summer?"

"Part of the time frivolling on a millionaire's yacht.  George is with
her now at Fairniehopes.  Thomas and I lunched with them one day
lately.  Barbara and Andy were there, and the Eliotstoun people."

"How are they?" Lady Jane asked.  "The children must be quite grown up
now.  Car was a charming child."

"She's twenty-two now, and a budding actress.  Katharyn Eliot has her
own worries, what with the difficulty of keeping up a place on a much
reduced income, and children all needing money spent on them.  But with
it all I believe she's a thoroughly happy woman.  And a kind one.  Did
you hear about the Armstrongs?"

"I saw Mr. Armstrong's death in the papers," said Lady Jane, "and wrote
to his wife, but we never heard any particulars."

"Armstrong had to be sold, and Mrs. Armstrong is trying to run a
boarding-house in London.  She was the most taken-care-of woman I know;
poor Bob Armstrong couldn't bear the wind to blow on her roughly, and
now to think of her left with two boys and practically no money,
struggling with people who want to be warmed and fed and housed for the
smallest sum possible."

"It's tragic," said Nicole.  "Have you the address?  We might be able
to send some people to her, Mother."

"But if it isn't comfortable," said Lady Jane.

"Then they needn't go back.  But it probably is comfortable.  What were
you going to tell us, Mistress Jean, about Mrs. Eliot?"

"Oh, just that she has the Armstrong boys staying at Eliotstoun, and is
moving heaven and earth (and in the passing Thomas and Sir Andrew
Jackson and many more) to get Ralph a job.  He's a sensible boy, and
realizes that in these days a job is a job, and one can't pick and
choose.  Phil is only seventeen, but he will have to do something too.
He has a passion for his native country, and Thomas thinks he should go
to Edinburgh University for his Arts course and then go in for the
Scots Bar."

"But," said Lady Jane, "I thought there was no money."

"There isn't.  But I think Tom's idea is that having no sons of our
own, it's up to us to do what we can for the son of an old friend."

Nicole nodded.  "Your Thomas was always one of the best."

"Oh, he has his good points," said Jean, "but he's provoking, very, and
so am I, of course, so we lead a cat and dog life."

Nicole laughed as she said, "Then I ask nothing better.  And you know
very well that your man can't bear you out of his sight."

"Well," said Jean, "I thought he saw me off to-day with something of
relief.  I believe he and Daniel have some nefarious scheme in their
heads about the bridge over the Law burn.  But let's leave Tweedside
for the moment.  I want to hear all about you people.  Oh, yes, you
write, Nicole, most faithfully and well, but it's only the bare facts
one gets in letters; I want the trimmings.  Tell me about your time up
north.  Who were there besides Blanche and Florence and their families?
Is there any truth in the rumour I heard about Florence's girl and
young Dugdale?  And how is Alastair?  I'm sorry to miss him."

"Alastair," said Nicole, "is huge, but still the same dear boy.  If
Phil Armstrong is anything like him..."

They talked until it was time to dress.  And when they came upstairs
after dinner they found the curtains undrawn that they might see the
harvest moon ride in glory.

Jean Douglas stood looking out of one of the four long windows that
faced the sea.  "Seeing you had to leave Ruthurfurd," she said, "I
don't think you could have found a better place to come to.  It's
different, that's the main thing: and there's something very lovable
about it....  Are those the lights of Edinburgh over there?  That
lighthouse, it's like a giant waving a lantern: there it goes
black--then round again."

Nicole knelt on a window-seat.  "It's always lovely looking out here,
but loveliest when 'red comes up the moon.'  Yes, we were in luck to
find the Harbour House."

Presently Jean Douglas turned away from the window and sat down beside
Lady Jane who had gone back to her embroidery frame, and was busily
sorting out silks and wools.

"Here you sit, my dear, in your parlour, sewing a fine seam, with your
treasures round you."

As she spoke Jean looked at the row of miniatures behind the bureau.
There was a silence, broken by Lady Jane, who said, as she threaded a
needle:

"Yes, dear Jean, we are happy here, Nicole and I.  You'd be surprised
when we are away from it, how lovingly we think of this little house,
and the sea, and the lights.  And though we shall always love
Ruthurfurd we don't want to go back, for our Ruthurfurd went with the
boys and their father."

"I feel that," said Jean, "every time I go there.  Some virtue has gone
out of it.  It used to be, above everything, a home; now it is only a
lovely pathetic old house in the hands of strangers.  I sometimes think
that Andy feels that too.  He has a heart, that young man, and
imagination--I wonder why he married Barbara."

"Jean, my dear, you mustn't say that.  Barbara makes a good wife, and
does her best for her husband and her boy."

"I'm thankful Andy has the boy," said Jean, quite unrepentant.
"Nicole, what about your friend Mrs. Heggie?  Is she as hospitable as
ever?"

Nicole came and sat on the fender-stool, very willing to talk of her
Kirkmeikle friends.  "Yes, indeed," she said, "more so, if possible.
For three years now, ever since her daughter left her to live her own
life in Chelsea, Mrs. Heggie has had a really glorious time.  She has
'compelled them to come in,' and having gone once all but the most
surly want to go back.  And she entertains from no ulterior motive,
she's out to get nothing--neither social advancement nor anything
else--but simply to satisfy her desire to be kind to every one.  But--a
sad blow has fallen on Mrs. Heggie....  Joan, her daughter (whom she
loves, I am sure, but prefers to love at a distance) wired the other
day announcing that she had been married that very day at a register
office and proposed to bring her husband at once to Knebworth (Mrs.
Heggie's villa)!!  Poor Mrs. Heggie came at once to us, though what she
expected us to do about it I don't know.  We sympathized and tried to
tell her it would be all right, our great hope being that a young man
from Chelsea would find Kirkmeikle so past words dull that he would
return from whence he came almost at once."

"And he has gone?" Jean asked.

"Alas! no.  We'd forgotten the comfort of Knebworth.  This young
man--his name is Nol Mortimer--didn't know (we suppose) what comfort
was till he arrived at his mother-in-law's house, and it looks as if
his stay might be indefinitely prolonged.  And if it weren't for Joan,
I believe Mrs. Heggie would be rather pleased to have him."

"Why?  Is he nice?"

"Very.  Pleasant manners, easy to look at; utterly lazy I should think;
probably married Joan as a means of livelihood.  I don't think there's
much harm in him, and he likes his mother-in-law and she likes him.
But Joan is always there, snubbing her mother at every turn, making the
house untidy, upsetting arrangements and getting altogether on Mrs.
Heggie's nerves.  Joan a spinster, was an uncomfortable inmate of
Knebworth, but Joan married, is a sort of Frankenstein monster."

"But," said Jean, "what could have made her marry the man?"

"Love.  She adores him, obviously.  He's an actor by profession, with
beguiling ways and good looks.  And Joan is a poet and adores beauty; I
think it's the greatest satisfaction to her just to look at her
husband.  And that would have been all right if she hadn't come and
planted herself and him on her poor mother.  Knebworth, the pride of
Mrs. Heggie's housewifely heart, that always looked as if it had been
washed with scented soap and dusted with a silk duster, now reeks with
tobacco; the baser sort of sporting-papers lie scattered about, for Mr.
Mortimer is one of the people who can't read a paper without
dismembering it; syphons and bottles are much in evidence, as he needs
pretty constant refreshing (he has actually taught the douce
parlourmaid to mix cocktails!), but Mrs. Heggie would forgive all
that--and probably even enjoy it, for she is very tolerant where a man
is concerned--if Joan wouldn't behave as if the house were a hotel, and
the mother rather an inferior sort of housekeeper."

"But--why does Mrs. Heggie stand it?" Jean asked impatiently.

Nicole threw up her hands.  "Why, indeed!  Because she is Mrs. Heggie,
and the kindest of easy-going women!  She could never by word or look
hint that any visitor was unwelcome, and she would need to come down
like a sledge-hammer before Joan would take the hint....  The worst
thing about it to Mrs. Heggie is that she feels the door is at present
barred against every one else, for Joan is not at all polite to her
mother's friends.  She always did look down on all of us at Kirkmeikle,
as being sunk in bottomless depths of stupidity, and after her time in
Chelsea I expect we seem to her more sunk than ever.  Poor Joan!  I
can't see much happiness before her.  She is such a possessive creature
she is bound to suffer tortures every time she sees her husband appear
interested in any one else.  I believe myself that she brought him up
here to get him away from the studio sirens."

Lady Jane, who had been stitching away placidly during this recital,
now raised her head and said:

"My dear, aren't you rather imagining things?  It was surely only
natural that Joan Heggie should bring her husband at once to her
mother's house?"

But Nicole shook her head.  "To my mind there's nothing natural about
it at all.  But I'm going to take Mistress Jean to call at Knebworth,
at a time when they are likely to be in (that's most of the day for
neither of them care much for fresh air) and we'll hear what she
thinks."  She turned to the guest.  "Mother has little regard for my
judgment, but she considers you a monument of good sense, Mistress
Jean."

"And so I am," said that lady modestly.  "I'd like to see Mrs. Heggie
again, and I'll be interested to meet her son-in-law.  Shall we go
to-morrow?"

"Yes, Althea is coming to lunch with you.  Then we might have a walk,
and call in at Knebworth on the way home--will that do?"




CHAPTER VI

  "My father had a daughter loved a man...."
                                  _Twelfth Night._


Mrs. Heggie was utterly bewildered by the way Providence was treating
her.  She had been so happy for four years, so grateful, with Knebworth
to herself, inviting whom she pleased, arranging cleanings at her own
discretion, introducing decorations into the drawing-room that would
never have been allowed had her daughter been at home, reading 'nice'
books without hearing Jean sniff, "How you can read such trashy
stuff!"--in short being her own mistress.

Then suddenly came her daughter's telegram, and peace was a thing of
the past in Knebworth.

To begin with, Joan was an untidy woman.  The moment she entered a
house it took on a comfortless air.  She left out-door garments lying
about, her correspondence strayed from the bureau on to chairs and
tables, she put her cigarette ash on to well-brushed carpets, and
rumpled rugs by carelessly pulling about chairs.  In appearance as well
as in habits she was untidy.  Her hair was lank and lustreless, her
complexion inclined to be muddy, her clothes never seemed to belong to
her.  Her mother, looking hopelessly at her, often wondered how she had
happened to have such a daughter, for she herself was big and
fresh-coloured, and her husband had been a good-looking man.

Not that Mrs. Heggie did not admire Joan in many ways, she did, and
felt her own inferiority when she thought of her daughter's cleverness,
of the poems she had published, the really good books that she read
voraciously.  It had been delightful to think of her in London, in
Chelsea, enjoying the companionship of people like herself, saying
clever things all day long, finding inspiration for more poems.  But,
oh! she had not wanted her back in Kirkmeikle.  And with a husband too!

It had always seemed a most unlikely thing that Joan would marry.  She
had never shown the slightest interest in men, and having her own
pursuits, and money enough to live on, there did not seem much point in
her marrying.

But Joan had arrived home as Mrs. Nol Mortimer.  And it might have
been worse, Mrs. Heggie confessed to herself.

After the telegram came announcing the marriage and saying the couple
would arrive the next evening, she had put in some very anxious hours.
What was she going to see?

Her thoughts had leapt about confusedly, and hardly knowing what she
was doing she had set off for the Harbour House, and there had found a
measure of comfort.  People in Chelsea, Nicole assured her, frequently
got married in that unpremeditated way; it meant no disrespect on the
part of Joan or her husband that they had not apprised her beforehand.
The man was probably an author or an actor or an artist----

Here Mrs. Heggie had interjected, "Bohemian?"

"Well, you may call him that," said Nicole, "and easy to get on with,
I'm sure you'll find."

"I hope Joan will be happy," said Lady Jane.  "Don't you think it's a
compliment that she brings her husband straight to you?"

Mrs. Heggie looked doubtful, but said, "Perhaps it is, and I'm sure
I'll do my best to like him, but I do think Joan needn't have been so
secretive about it.  They must have been engaged for some time, and
never a word to me."

"Perhaps not," said Nicole.  "They may have made up their minds quite
suddenly.  'A lovely morning, let's go and get married' sort of thing.
Anyhow, it's no use speculating for you'll hear all about it to-morrow."

Mrs. Heggie relapsed again into deep gloom.

"To think," she said, "that I don't even know my daughter's married
name!  And what Mrs. McCallum at the Post office must have thought I
dare not try to imagine....  '_Married to-day arriving with husband
to-morrow evening!_' ... I suppose she'll mean the 6.45?  My mind's in
a creel.  I can't think what to order for dinner.  Joan was always
difficult about her food, and goodness knows what her husband will
like....  It's so queer to think of Joan as Mrs. Something or Other.
He'll be English likely--if he's not foreign.  Oh, won't it be awful if
he turns out to be French?  Or German?"

"Or Italian," said Nicole.  "Wait and see.  I prophesy that you will
soon be devoted to your son-in-law, and he to you."

Mrs. Heggie shook her head unbelievingly.  "That's not likely I'm
afraid, but you never can tell.  Think on me to-morrow night about
seven o'clock!"

And at that hour, when Joan walked into Knebworth, trailing a
travelling-rug, dropping a glove here, a magazine there, and, having
kissed her mother said, "Here's Nol," Mrs. Heggie found herself being
kissed by a tall slim young man who said in a most charming voice, "I
am so glad to meet Joan's mother," and experiencing a distinct feeling
of pleasure.

Nol Mortimer was to his mother-in-law "a likeable fellow."  He was
what she called "mannerly"; he jumped up when she came into or went out
of a room, he fetched cushions for her back, and looked into her face
in a most interested way when she told him (Joan being out of the room)
anecdotes of Joan's childhood, and laughed appreciatively when she
related an anecdote that was meant to be amusing.

Of course, she admitted, he had his faults.  There was no getting him
to his bed at night or out of it in the morning.  He drank a lot and
smoked a lot, and lay on the drawing-room sofa reading sporting papers,
which made it rather awkward for callers, also he paid very little
attention to his wife's wishes.  Mrs. Heggie did not know what to make
of it at all.  That Joan was in love with her good-looking, attractive
husband was obvious, but what was also obvious was that she was far
from happy.  She wanted him to herself, and was jealous of any person
or anything that came between them.  Nol liked to talk to Mrs. Heggie,
to chaff her about things like her preoccupation with household
matters, her old-fashioned ideas, her love for Kirkmeikle and its
inhabitants, and this displeased Joan, who accused her mother of trying
to monopolize her husband.

Golf was another irritation.  Nol enjoyed a round, once he had
summoned up energy to begin, but Joan not only did not play herself but
hated watching other people play, and resented his interest and
pleasure in the game.

They were sitting, the mother and daughter, one afternoon in the
drawing-room.  Joan was in a bad humour, Nol having teased her over
some trifle at luncheon, and was inclined to be impatient of her
mother's well-meant remarks, delivered rather drowsily, for Mrs. Heggie
had lunched well, and, had she been alone, would have been snoozing
peacefully.

"It's a blessing to think of Nol out in the open air getting exercise
and enjoying himself.  He's too fond of lounging about in the house,
poor fellow.  It's always difficult to amuse an idle man; women are
different, they have a hundred ways of employing their fingers, but if
a man hasn't a business or profession that keeps him occupied five or
six days in the week he's apt to be a perfect nuisance.  I was always
glad your father didn't care much for holidays, for idleness didn't
suit him.  It was no treat to go on a holiday with him, he was always
thinking he ought to be at home in case things were going wrong at the
warehouse....  I must say Nol's not like that, he seems perfectly
contented, but----"

Joan broke in impatiently.  "Mother, you mustn't judge every one by the
men you have known.  Poor slaves to routine!  I see them by the
thousand in London in the evenings, hurrying back to their little
suburban homes after their day's work.  Such miserable narrow lives!  I
pity them, poor rabbits!"

"You needn't do that," said her mother with spirit.  "They want
nobody's pity.  They do an honest day's work and go back thankfully to
the wives and children and the little homes and gardens they're so
proud of.  If their position is fairly secure, I can't imagine a
happier life."

"With no aspirations," Joan protested.

"Plenty of aspirations," said Mrs. Heggie shortly, and presently began
on what was troubling her.  "Will Nol not be losing chances of getting
a job coming up here?  I don't know much about it, but I'd have thought
it would be necessary to be on the spot in case of anything turning up."

Joan smiled unpleasantly.  "You pride yourself on your hospitality,
Mother.  Are you tired of us already?"

"No, I'm not," her mother said with dignity.  "You know quite well this
house is always home to you, and I'm glad to have Nol, poor fellow....
All the same, Joan, I must say I don't understand this way of going
on--marrying without a word to your mother and marrying a man without a
job, who seems to have no intention of making a home for you.  Nobody
could help liking Nol, but it's easy to see that he has no sense of
responsibility.  If he's comfortable at the moment I don't believe he
ever gives a thought to the future.  You will have to be the
responsible one.  Your allowance won't keep two; I must try to increase
it."  She stopped and then said, rather nervously, "There's one thing,
Joan, I do think you should try to dress better and attend more to your
hair and complexion--your whole appearance you know.  I've often and
often talked to you about this.  You never took enough interest in what
you looked like, even as a young girl, but now that you are married you
must begin.  I suppose, really, it's an art to keep your husband
admiring you--not that I ever thought of such a thing with your father."

Mrs. Heggie stopped, silenced by the look in her daughter's face, then
began, "Oh, my dear, I didn't mean----"

"I suppose," said Joan, "I suppose you mean that as I'm older than Nol
by nine years--yes, nine years--that I must use lures to make him care
for me?  (You notice that I don't say keep caring for me?  I know now
he never did, but it's so easy to deceive oneself into believing what
one wants to believe.)  What good would it do anyway?  It would take
more than a lip-stick and a permanent wave to make me attractive--and
all those young actresses know every trick in the game....  No, I'd
rather remain as I am, pretending nothing.  It's more dignified--if
dignity comes into it at all."

Mrs. Heggie's rosy face had paled.  "Oh, Joan!" she said.  "Oh, my
dear, you mustn't talk like that.  Nol does care for you, I'm sure he
does, he must, or he wouldn't have married you.  Looks aren't
everything.  Indeed, after the first, they hardly matter at all in
marriage.  And a good-looking man generally marries a pl---- a less
good-looking wife.  That's nature, I expect, evening things up.  How
many such couples I've seen!  And I'm sure nothing would have surprised
the good-looking husband more than to hear his wife called plain.  All
the same, there's no harm in making yourself look as nice as possible.
I don't want you to use lip-stick--a horrid savage-looking fashion I
think it is--but come with me to Edinburgh and get some really nice,
becoming clothes.  Mrs. Jameson was telling me only the other day about
a very good woman who not only makes well, but studies the
personalities of her customers and gives them what best suits them.
She was having tea with me the other day--Mrs. Jameson, I mean--and I
couldn't help remarking on the very becoming dress she was
wearing--kind of blue-grey with a little cape--and she told me about
this dressmaker and gave me her address.  There would be no harm in
trying her.  You have so much personality, Joan.  And as for you being
a few years older than Nol, that's nothing.  They say the wife being
older makes luck in the house, and certainly among the working people
now it's a great benefit--the Old Age pension, you know."

The gate at the foot of the lawn clicked, and both women turned to the
window.

"Nol!" said Mrs. Heggie.  "Away up and brush your hair, Joan, but
first, ring for tea.  And when you come down try and show an interest
in what sort of game he's had, poor fellow."

They had just begun tea when Nicole Ruthurfurd arrived with Mrs.
Douglas.

"Just in time," said Mrs. Heggie.  "I was just hoping you'd bring Mrs.
Douglas in to see us.  I don't think you and my daughter have met, Mrs.
Douglas.  And may I introduce my son-in-law?  Mrs. Douglas comes from
the Borders, Nol."

"We're disturbing you," said Nicole, as the parlour-maid rearranged the
table and brought more cups.  "We walked farther than we meant; the
touch of cold in the air is such a joy after these months of heat."

"Isn't it jolly?" Nol said.  "London's been awful.  You can imagine
what it means to be able to golf by the sea."

"I can."  Nicole smiled at him.  "Don't you think Kirkmeikle a nice
place after London, now that you've had time to look round it?"

"Perfectly delightful," said Nol.

"But hardly to stay in year in and year out," said Mrs. Douglas.

"Perhaps not," said the young man, but Nicole would not agree.

"You don't know what Kirkmeikle is," she insisted, "until you've
summered it and wintered it, as the saying is.  I think it's almost
best in winter, though spring and early summer are delicious."

"Do you really stay here all the year round?" Nol asked, obviously
surprised.

"Except for brief visits to London, and two or three months in summer
when we go to Ross-shire.  Does that amaze you?"

"It does rather," he confessed.  "You see I'm a Londoner born and bred.
I love the streets and the lights and the noise and the bustle.  All
the same, London can be pretty beastly, in dingy digs in a long hot
summer--especially when one's out of a job.  I'm an actor, you know,
and things haven't been very bright in our profession lately.  So I'm
in the proper mood to appreciate Kirkmeikle, and this most comfortable
house."

He smiled at his mother-in-law as he spoke, and she smiled back at him,
saying, "Well, I'm sure it's nice when one's house is appreciated."

Nicole said, "Yes, but they're both so fond of London, Mrs. Heggie, I
expect they will soon be taking wing like the swallows."  She turned to
Joan.  "My mother would like it very much if you would dine with us
quietly one evening.  Any evening; we've no engagements just now.
Would Friday suit?"

Before her daughter could reply, Mrs. Heggie broke in: "It's very kind
of Lady Jane, isn't it, Joan?"

"Yes," said Joan.

"It's kind of you to spare an evening to us," Nicole said.  "We so
seldom see you.  We play Box and Cox.  You are here, as a rule, when we
are in Ross-shire.  We shall look forward to Friday."

"Is Mrs. Douglas staying long?" Mrs. Heggie asked.  "Couldn't you bring
her to lunch one day?"

Nicole shook her head regretfully.  "She goes the day after to-morrow,
alas!  We're lucky to get her at all, for her husband grudges her being
out of sight for a day or two."

"Nonsense, Nicole.  I'm sure my Thomas would be surprised to hear that!
It's a great pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Heggie, and I only wish I
could lunch with you.  You will have to come to the Borders some day
and see us all.  You know Barbara Jackson, of course; I've been giving
Nicole and her mother the news of her and her boy."

"Oh, fancy!" said Mrs. Heggie.  "Little Andrew will be quite big.  Five
past is he?  How the years fly!  It seems no time since we were invited
to the Harbour House to see his mother's wedding presents!  D'you
remember, Joan?  Beautiful they were, too....  A pity he's the only
one.  It's such an anxious thing having an only child, I think.  Not
that you don't miss one out of a big family, but you have others left,
the nest's not _harried_, as you might say.  Still, it's a blessing
that they have the one.  Oh! don't go yet, Miss Nicole.  Must you?
Well, my love to Lady Jane and say we shall be delighted to dine on
Friday at a quarter to eight....  Good-bye, Mrs. Douglas.  Thank you so
much for coming to see us when your time is so short.  If you _could_
come to lunch to-morrow--No?  I _quite_ understand: Miss Nicole has so
many friends, but next time perhaps.  That would be nice.  Good-bye....
Good-bye."

Jean Douglas and Nicole were out on the road, and beginning the descent
to the Harbour House before either of them spoke a word.  Then Nicole
said, "That was an uncomfortable visit--serves us right for going to
spy."

"Speak for yourself," said Jean.  "I went to pay my respects to Mrs.
Heggie."

"She wasn't at all her urbane self," Nicole said.  "She felt she had to
chatter in order to hide the fact that Joan wasn't speaking at all."

"What was wrong with her?  She looked as if she had been having a
bitter quarrel with some one.  A most unpleasant, sullen-looking woman.
I felt sorry for that husband of hers; he must be ten years younger at
least.  What could have induced him?"

"Can't imagine," said Nicole.  "I rather like Nol, but I'm desperately
sorry for Joan.  I've always felt that there was something in her that
one couldn't reach--her poetry showed it.  She never encouraged
intimacy, and was silly about despising Kirkmeikle, so it really was a
relief to know that she was happy in London.  And Mrs. Heggie was so
happy without her!  Now Joan has wrecked everything--her own happiness
included--by marrying this shallow, pleasant young man.  You can see by
the way she looks at him how much she cares, and how miserable caring
makes her.  It must be dreadful to care intensely for some one
incapable of caring back."

But Jean Douglas refused to be sympathetic.  "I've no patience with
her, she should have had more sense: and Nol must be something of a
rogue to have married her."

"You don't know.  She may have some attraction for him, or perhaps she
was able to help him and he did it out of gratitude."

"More likely out of sheer laziness.  Anyway, she will have a certain
hold over him seeing she has to support him."

Nicole said, "Won't it be Mrs. Heggie who will have that privilege? ...
Oh, there's Esm Jameson.  Hallo, my dear!  You know Mrs. Douglas, I
think?  Anyway, you've often heard us speak of her.  We've been calling
at Knebworth."

The new-comer, a pretty woman in middle life, said: "I should have been
doing the same.  Did you see the bridal couple?"

"We saw the couple," Nicole said.  "They didn't look very bridal....
Jean and I have been wondering--not very politely--what made them do
it?"

"I so often feel that about couples," said Mrs. Jameson.  "It's one of
the great puzzles of life."

"If you are free on Friday, Esm, would you dine with us and meet Mrs.
Heggie and the couple?" Nicole asked.  "It would add to Mrs. Heggie's
enjoyment, and I think you'll find Mr. Mortimer--that's his name--quite
entertaining.  It's such a good thing he gets on so well with his
mother-in-law."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Jameson, "I accept with the greatest pleasure.
But won't you bring Mrs. Douglas to Windywalls?  The garden is still
quite pretty.  Are you keen on gardens, by the way?"

"Not at the moment," said Jean.  "This summer I've paid so many
shillings, and motored so many miles to see people's gardens."

She paused and her blue eyes twinkled at her companion, who laughed and
said, "I know and sympathize.  We shan't make you even glance in the
direction of the garden, but do come to lunch."

"But she has only to-morrow," Nicole explained, "and we are lunching at
Kinogle.  May we look in on you on our way home?  That will be nice."




CHAPTER VII

  "Time goes, you say?  Ah no!
  Alas, Time stays, we go!"
                    AUSTIN DOBSON.


It is always a disconcerting thing to find that one is less noble, less
magnanimous than one thought, and Alison Lockhart was by no means
pleased with her state of mind in those September days.

As a rule, George's autumn holiday was the nicest time of all the year
to her, a halcyon month to which she looked forward eagerly, and
planned for with care.  She and George were good comrades, liking the
same things, always happy in each other's company.  But this year
something was wrong, had been wrong ever since Car Eliot's name had
come by chance into the conversation, and George had told her of his
hopes.  Alison was astonished and disgusted to find herself capable of
jealousy, and jealousy of the daughter of her greatest friends.

She had cared for Tim Eliot all her life, but she had not been jealous
when he married Katharyn: she had sometimes plumed herself on that.
But now she found that she could not endure the thought of Car
succeeding her at Fairniehopes.  It spoiled things even now; the
garden, the hills, the river gave her less pleasure; the thought of Car
using her writing-table in the boudoir, Car presiding in the
dining-room under the old portraits, Car sitting at the round table in
the drawing-room pouring out tea, took the flavour out of everything.

Did George notice her different, she wondered.  Did he suspect that the
Alison he had been such friends with all his life was that despicable
thing--a jealous woman?  Sometimes she turned on herself in scorn.
"Good gracious, woman, what are you making a fuss about?  It won't be
in your lifetime.  The place is yours as long as you live, for the
matter of that it need never be George's...."  Ah, but she wanted it to
be George's; no one else would ever reign at Fairniehopes.  And surely
it was most natural that he should fall in love with a girl he had
known all his life, the daughter of near neighbours and great friends.
It might, she told herself, have been a London girl, who would have
cared nothing for the place and its traditions, or for the people.
Car, although she loved London and loved London life, belonged to the
Borders, and understood the ways of Border folk.

Alison was sitting, as she ruminated, on the low wall that ran round
the front of the house.  She had just seen George depart, very happily,
for Eliotstoun where there was a shoot.  The day stretched before her,
and she was surprised to find that she dreaded the empty hours--she who
had never felt the days long enough!--and impatiently, almost angrily,
she pushed away Sammy the Sealyham (who, being a petted creature, was
much affronted by the action) and got up determined not to waste
another minute in idle self-pity.

She would drive herself over to Kingshouse, she determined.  There was
always a welcome there, and the mere sight of Jean Douglas and Thomas,
her husband, would restore her--she hoped--to a more becoming state of
mind.

But there were one of two things she must do before she started, carry
some magazines to the village reading-room, and pay a visit to a sick
woman, Mrs. Spiers by name, the mother of the head gardener.

With a consoling word to Sammy she went into the house, and presently
was on her way to the cottage where Mrs. Spiers lay ill.

It was a pretty cottage, with a delightful outlook, but the room in
which the sick woman lay was crammed with furniture.  It contained a
high, heavy chest of drawers, a sideboard, two armchairs and four small
chairs, not to speak of the bed, and the window was so blocked with
large geraniums in pots that almost nothing could be seen of the
outside world, and very little light could get in.

It was stuffy and dark even on that brilliantly fresh September
morning, and Miss Lockhart, looking round, said, "What about moving
that table out of the window and letting in a little air and sunshine?"
but the patient objected.

"No, mem, dinna d'it," she begged, sitting up in bed.  "Davina micht na
like it.  It's bad enough me lying here, spoilin' the look o' her braw
room wi'oot shiftin' the furniture," and she sank back on the pillow,
thinking what a fuss "the gentry" made about air.

Alison sat down by the bed, remarking, "You worked well for your
daughter-in-law when you were able, Mrs. Spiers, and I'm sure she
doesn't grudge nursing you now.  How are you feeling?"

Mrs. Spiers sighed.  "Done," she said, "just fair done."  She brought
out from under her pillow a small bottle.  "I've an awful dry mouth,"
she explained, "so I keep some water handy in this bottle an' tak a
sook whiles."

This she proceeded to do, while Alison said, "Wouldn't grapes be
better?"

"Mebbe, but water does fine."

"I'll see you get grapes regularly.  I'm ashamed not to have thought of
it before.  How do you sleep?"

"Oh, I just rowe aboot.  Eh my, I used to be sweir to rise when I was
weel, but what wud I no gie now to get up in the mornin' to a hard
day's work."

Alison nodded.  "I can understand that....  Is the sickness as bad as
ever?"

"Oh ay, I'm aye seeck.  I says to Dr. Fleck, 'Doctor,' I says, 'what's
like wrang wi' me?  Will I ever leave this bed?'  An' he says, 'Mrs.
Speirs, I'm no a prophet.'  That was a' he said, and there was na
muckle comfort in't....  If ma auld man was here an' we were in oor ain
hoose, I could be mair content.  I ken I'm big buik here....  Mind,
Davina's no ill to me.  I whiles doot if I wad hae been as guid to ma
man's mither, but I was never tried for she died young.  All ma things
are here.  That's ma chest o' drawers--it's no as bright as I kept it,
an' they use ma cheeny ilka day, ma braw cheeny that I got when I was
mairret and kept like saffron.  I doot there's cups broken but they
never tell me...."  She sighed heavily.  "What's the pleesure in
leevin' when a' the folk you cared aboot are awa?"

"You have your son."

"Ay.  Elick's ma son, but he's Davina's man."

The words went home to Alison Lockhart's heart.  She got up to go.
Bending over the sick woman she stroked her hand that lay on the
counterpane.  "It's easy to give advice, I know, and hard to take it,
but try to keep up your heart, Mrs. Spiers.  And don't get it into your
head that you are bothering people.  We have all to be dependent on
somebody's kindness when we're ill.  Be thankful to be cared for by
your own.  I'll only have a paid nurse when my time comes."

This thought seemed to give Mrs. Spiers a certain satisfaction.  She
shook her head.  "So you will," she said, "an' I peety ye--though I've
naething against nurses.  That's a rale nice lassie that comes round
here--the district nurse they ca' her.  She whiles looks in to see me,
though there's naething she can do for me.  They tell me she's rale
weel-likit, an' I could believe it....  But there's naebody like yer
ain, though they should be as handless as oor Elick, puir chap.  He's
better wi' floors than wi' folk, I tell him....  Guid day to ye, mem,
an' I'm sure I'm muckle obliged for yer veesit.  I'll try to tak some
o' yer chicken-jeely, though thae things are gey stawsome.  I took a
fancy for a kipper, an' Elick brocht some, but oh! it didna taste
richt...."

As Miss Lockhart went out she stopped in the kitchen to have a word
with Davina, a tidy-looking woman in a chintz cap and overall.

"I'm afraid there's no improvement, Davina."

"No, mem.  I doubt it's no to be looked for, though she may linger long
enough, poor soul."

"Yes, that's the sad part.  The worst thing about being old and ill is
the feeling of being a burden, Davina.  But I know you will never allow
your mother-in-law to feel herself that.  She tells me she is so
thankful to be nursed by her own."

"Puir body!" said Davina.  "Of course we must do our best for Granny.
I tell the bairns they'll be old theirsels some day if they're spared.
No, she'll no hear, she's gey an' deaf.  Elick's a guid son an' awfu'
patientfu'....  Good day, mem.  It's grand weather.  I never mind sic a
summer."


Alison found Jean Douglas at her own front door.

"Hallo, my dear.  This is nice.  Thomas has gone over to Eliotstoun so
I'm alone; I've been on the top of Laverlaw with Gay and Merry.  Where
are the rascals?  _Merry_!  _Merry_!  _Gay_!  Here they come!"

Alison Lockhart, watching the two small white figures emerge from the
ferns at the burnside, said, "You always have a Gay and Merry."

"Yes, these are the third in succession.  When we have to hap one up we
get another at once, as like as possible, and then there isn't the
blank."

Alison looked at her friend amusedly.  "I think you are clever at
knowing how to take life, Jean.  You fall soft, some people never seem
to learn the knack."

"Am I good at living?" Jean asked.  "Certainly I enjoy it."

"Yes, you have always a look of enjoyment.  You look, too, as if your
voyage through life had been an easy one, fine weather all the way.
It's ridiculous at your age--sixty, isn't it?--to have such a
complexion, and such happy blue eyes."

"May I ask if you're upbraiding or complimenting me?" said Jean.  "I
admit I've had a good time all my life, but happiness is largely a
question of temperament.  If you're born with a gay, easily pleased
nature you'll be happy under almost any circumstances, but if you have
the ill-luck to be born envious and grasping there's no happiness for
you anywhere.  It hardly seems fair, does it? but I expect allowances
will be made when the Judge of all sums us up.  But why are we standing
here as if it were a conventicle and me the preacher?  Come up to my
room while I tidy.  Did Lawson see you?  That's all right.  He'll have
laid a place for you."

The two friends went through the outer hall with its portraits and old
oak, to an inner hall, bright with flowers, from which led a well-lit
shallow staircase hung with mezzotints.  As they mounted, Alison
stopped to study her favourites.

"What a beautiful one of Sir Walter!  He looks like the very nicest
sort of dog.  Robert Burns I never have the same affection for--much as
I admire him."

"_Do_ you?" said Jean, standing on the top step and looking back at
Alison.  "Remember he called women 'lovely dears'!"

"I admit that takes some forgiving, but just think of 'The Twa Dogs'
and 'Tam o' Shanter'!  Whose idea was it to have those portraits on the
staircase?"

"Not mine, certainly.  They were here long before our day.  Tom's
father had it so, perhaps his father before him, and Tom doesn't like
things changed."

Alison followed Jean into her room, and as her hostess washed her
hands, stood at the window that looked over the park, across Tweed to
Horsburgh Hill.  "Look," she said, "how the trees seem to go in a
procession, single file, across the top of the hill."

Jean came to the window drying her hands on a towel.  "It looks like a
cock's comb," she said.

She dried her fingers carefully and went over to the toilet-table which
had a petticoat of muslin, which "went" with the bed, with its slender
pillars, and valance of chintz.  There was always a nosegay on the
dressing-table, even in winter it did not fail--violets, jasmine,
snowdrops, early primroses, hepaticas--something could always be found,
small and sweet.  Jean Douglas found pleasure in flowers and birds and
all bright things.

Suddenly, Alison, still looking out of the window, said, "You must be
sorry you have no son."

Jean had been about to tidy her hair, and stood with the comb suspended
in her hand.  Alison Lockhart and she had been friends for years, good
friends and intimate, but there were things they never touched on.

"Yes," said Jean, and stood looking at her face in the glass.

Alison swung round.  "Jean, it's indefensible of me, but for the last
week I've been obsessed with the thought of who'll succeed us, and I
wondered what you felt about it.  Don't say a word if you'd rather not."

Jean Douglas ran the comb through her hair as she said.  "My dear,
there's no mystery about it.  There being no one to come after us
Kingshouse goes to the next-of-kin.  It's silly of me perhaps, but I
can't help feeling rather glad that it's quite a distant connection,
and that he very seldom comes here.  He's out in India at present, and
we don't know much about him.  We ask him here when he's home on leave,
but he has only come once--a decent dull man, he seemed.  He has a boy
at Winchester, we must become better acquainted with him....  As for
what I feel about it, what's the good of talking about that? ... And
what's obsessing you?  George is almost like your own son, he loves you
and Fairniehopes: I've always thought it an ideal arrangement."

"So it is, as far as George is concerned.  But he will marry."

"And don't you want him to?  Wouldn't it be a thousand pities if he
didn't?"

"Of course it would.  But the despicable thing is I don't want him to
marry.  I'm glad to think of George living in Fairniehopes when I'm
gone, living in the house, tramping the moors, but I can't bear to
think of his wife's using my things, wearing my pearls...."

"Oh!" said Jean.  After a minute she said, "Any particular wife?"

Alison laughed shortly.  "Of course you know it's Car Eliot."

"No, I didn't know, though I've sometimes suspected it.  But,
Alison----"

"Oh, I know.  Tim's and Katharyn's girl.  I ought to be enraptured.
But I'm not."

Jean looked consideringly out of the window.  The lawns were being cut
by a motor mower.  She remembered the fat pony that used to do the
work, and, away back in her childhood, men with scythes.  How old she
was getting and how quickly things came to an end!  It wasn't worth
while getting worked up about anything, time was too short.

She turned to her friend and said consideringly, "I don't believe you
would have felt like this if the girl had been an utter stranger.  But
in your heart you are fond of Car and want George to be happy.  Now I
don't pretend to be in the very least clever, but I've a certain amount
of common sense, and I think my advice here is sound.  Don't stand
aloof and alienate George and embitter Car.  Make up your mind if the
thing is going to be--and you can't deny that in many ways it's a most
suitable and happy arrangement--the only thing for you to do is to make
the best of it.  See to it that you and Car become friends.  Don't wait
for her to make advances, make the first move yourself.  Show her
you're willing to welcome her----"

"But I'm not."

"Tut!" said Jean, who was not famed for her patience.  "You know well
enough that relations--especially relations-in-law--simply have to be
made the best of.  The most senseless thing on earth is to look for
their faults, or be hurt at their neglect, or impatient with their
advances.  The only possible thing to do is to determine to live
together as pleasantly and peaceably as in us lies.  All this of course
you know yourself, but I'm saying it because sometimes we get into a
queer state of mind and cease to be normal.  A complex, I suppose they
call it now--and I adjure you as a right-thinking Victorian to
discourage such a thing by every means in your power.  That's the gong
being beaten by Lawson for the third time.  Come--or we'll be handed
cold overdone food by an aggrieved butler."

As they sat down at the table Jean was struck by a bright idea.  "What
about going over to Eliotstoun and picking up the men?  If you'll take
me over I'll come back with Thomas."

Alison demurred.  "But George has his own car; there's no point in my
going."

"As to point," said the hostess, as she helped herself to a baked egg
that was decidedly hard, "if you keep looking for a point you won't do
much.  It's a lovely day, the season will soon be over, Eliotstoun is
always a pleasant meeting-place--and isn't Katharyn herself point
enough for any expedition?"

"Oh, all right," said Alison, "but I've a feeling I'm being managed,
which is a galling thing for an independent spinster of mature years.
By the way, I've heard nothing of your visit to Kirkmeikle.  How is
dear Jane Ruthurfurd?  Are she and Nicole still content with their
salt-sea house?"

"To think that I didn't begin to tell you about them at once!  I loved
my three days.  Yes, Nicole and her mother seem very happy and very
content.  They were alone, as Alastair had gone to stay with a friend
and go back with him to school.  I'd have liked to have seen the boy,
who seems to be shaping well at school.  He's had a wonderful chance;
he will realize that later on."

"Who was he?  I forget."

"He lived with an aunt in Kirkmeikle, his parents being dead.  Alastair
Symington is his name.  The aunt married and didn't want to be bothered
with him, and the Ruthurfurds adopted him: he's been a great delight to
them."

"It was like Jane Ruthurfurd," said Alison....  "I've never seen the
Harbour House."

"You'd like it.  There's something different about Kirkmeikle.  It is
small and quite unspoilt, probably because there are few, if any,
houses to let.  I believe the baker takes in summer boarders, and one
or two others, but there's no big Hotel, only a moderately good golf
course.  The streets are steep and cobbled, and the Harbour House as
its name implies, almost in the sea.  There is only a sandy path and a
low wall between it and the beach.  When the tide is in it almost laps
against the wall, and when it is out there's the most lovely reach of
firm white sand.  And there are interesting things like fishwives all
sticking out with petticoats, and old men in jerseys with
salmon-cobbles, and a lovely salt smell to wake up to in the morning.
You ought to go and see it.  I'm sure you've been asked often enough."

"Yes, I have, but never when I was free to go.  How was Nicole looking?"

"Very pretty.  She has hardly changed at all.  She and her mother
interest themselves a lot in the people round their doors, some of them
are very poor, and all are glad of a friend.  And of course they have
heaps of friends round about.  I was taken to see a very nice woman, a
widow, with a charming place, and I went to lunch at Kinogle with the
Walkinshaws."

"Oh, didn't Althea----"

"Yes, Althea Gort married young Walkinshaw.  His mother, Lady
Walkinshaw, is crippled with arthritis and the daughter-in-law runs the
house, and manages every one with the greatest tact and discretion."

"Well," said Alison, "that girl will be one of the stars in Jane
Ruthurfurd's crown.  I know all her people, and she was most
unpromising as a young girl.  She had no chance.  When her parents were
divorced she went to live with her aunt Blanche--a helpless creature
Blanche always--and she positively flung her at Jane Ruthurfurd in
despair.  Jane and Nicole gave her a welcome, and were patient with the
ill-mannered brat, and in time she became an ordinary happy girl and
fell in love with a nice ordinary young man.  I'm glad the marriage is
turning out a success.  It must have seemed a risk to Lady Walkinshaw."

"Perhaps," said Jean, "but she's very grateful for her now.  Talking
about marriages, did you ever hear of Nicole's hospitable friend, Mrs.
Heggie?  No?  Well, she's a neighbour of the Ruthurfurd's and she has
one daughter Joan, a difficult young woman who wrote poetry and
despised her mother and her friends, and went off to find congenial
company in Chelsea."

"So!  Pretty?"

"No, and not young, at least not a girl, about five and thirty; quite
able, one would have supposed, to look after herself, but she has
returned to Kirkmeikle with a husband, a good-looking young actor at
present 'resting,' and delighted to find himself in Mrs. Heggie's
comfortable house----"

"And what does Mrs. Heggie say to it?"

"What can she say, poor decent woman!  But like Lady Walkinshaw she
manages to make a particularly nice 'in-law.'"

"Is this told me with a purpose?" Alison asked.  "For I'm afraid I'll
never be a nice 'in-law.'"

"Then, my dear, you're a much less clever woman than I gave you credit
for being, much less wise."

Jean Douglas carried her point and the two friends went to Eliotstoun,
where they found a crowd of people collected for tea.

There was much talk and laughter in which Mrs. Douglas at once joined,
but Alison Lockhart slipped thankfully into a seat beside the wife of
the member for the county, a lady who, being both dull and deaf, was
not given to overmuch conversation.

Presently Ralph Armstrong came along and brought her tea.  "I think
everybody is supplied for the moment," he told her.  "May I sit here?
I had a letter from mother this morning, and she told me to give you
her love and to say that things were going better now."

Miss Lockhart smiled at the boy.  "That's good, Ralph.  And you and
Phil are having a fine time here."

"The best!  You've got to have a taste of London in summer before you
can really appreciate this place.  I've always hated London, so has
Phil; isn't it fortunate that mother likes it?"

"Very," said Alison drily.

The boy looked at her.  "D'you mean that she doesn't like it any more
than we do, but pretends to because she has to stick it?"

"Your mother will make herself like London as long as she sees a chance
of making a living in it.  She is a sticker."

"I know she is.  I just hope she won't have to stick it too long.
It'll be some time before Phil and I can help much."

"But the time will come," Alison said....  "What of Buster?"

"Oh," Ralph grinned happily, "Buster is in his glory.  And Mrs. Eliot
says he may stay on here.  It's sheer cruelty to keep him in London.
Phil's going to Edinburgh University--you know that?  And there's a
chance that I may get into the Hudson's Bay Company, so things are
looking up for the Armstrongs!  I must go and see if any one wants
anything..."

Alison leant back in her chair, and as she slowly drank her tea,
watched the scene.

Katharyn was listening to a garrulous sportsman, and looking so
incredibly sympathetic that her friend knew she was badly bored.

Most of the young people were seated at a round table in the window,
with Car as hostess.  Alison saw that George's eyes often wandered in
her direction though he seemed well entertained by his companion, a
pretty girl who had come over from Ruthurfurd with Barbara Jackson.

As she sat there Alison thought over what Jean Douglas had said.  It
was so easy to fall into an aggrieved state, and so foolish, for no one
had any patience with the person who had a peeve at life.  She had been
popular because she was pleasant and reliable, not given to moods, a
woman who could be trusted to pay her way socially, to amuse her dinner
partner and help to make a party a success.  She had been rather
disturbed in the last fortnight to find how easy it was to drop out of
things--to yield to the impulse to plead a headache and shirk an
engagement, to avoid the trouble of arranging a dinner-party, or having
some people to stay.  In a little time, if this went on, except for her
intimates (and they were few) she would no longer matter.  Invitations
would cease, she would be left more or less alone.  And all for what?
Because she did not want her heir to make what was, after all, a most
suitable marriage!  For that she was sitting feeling as if a chip of
ice had got into her heart and changed the whole world.

The member's wife, having finished eating, put up her ear-trumpet and
asked, "Are you suffering from scarcity of water?"

Alison earnestly assured her to the contrary, and asked in turn how her
companion was faring.

"Oh, perfectly dreadful!  Rationed baths--so unpleasant when the house
is full!"

"What about the river?" Alison asked.  "It's so near you."

"So low as to be almost useless.  The servants carry pailfuls from a
pool to heat for dish-washing, but it is all so uncomfortable.  There
is nothing I am so afraid of as water scarcity."

"The penalty we pay for a good summer," said Alison, wondering why
every remark addressed to an ear-trumpet sounded so banal.

"Ah, yes.  How true!" said the member's wife.

The party began to break up.  Out in the hall Alison found Katharyn
Eliot's arm in hers.

"Are you in a hurry?  Well, wait for me in Jane's Parlour; I shan't be
many minutes."

It was very peaceful and pleasant in the little circular room that
September afternoon.  The westering sun was streaming in, bringing out
the lovely colours of the tapestry on the settee, lighting up the old
prints, picking out the tarnished gold of the harp.

A great glass bowl of Perditas' "flowers of middle age" stood on the
bureau, and Alison smiled to see a pile of MS. and a precariously
placed ink-pot on one of the window-seats.  Katharyn was such an
erratic scribe!

It was quiet on this side of the house.  From the window she saw
George, with the Eliot boys and Ralph and Phil Armstrong, cross the
lawn.  She was watching them wondering where they were going, when
Katharyn's voice behind her said:

"Here you are!  What luck to get you for a little to myself.  George
has gone with the boys to see the falcons, but he won't be long.
Anyway, you're driving your own car, aren't you? and are quite
independent....  Oh, look at my untidy work!"  She balanced the
ink-bottle on the pile of MS., and her friend trembled until she saw
them both placed in safety on the writing-table.

"You take such risks, K.," she said.  "If you had spilt the ink the MS.
would have been ruined."

"It would," Katharyn agreed.  "Tim said the last word when he described
me as 'a filthy creature with ink!'  I'm ashamed to be such a slut--but
don't let speak of it....  How are you, my dear?  I've somehow had an
uneasy feeling that everything wasn't well with you lately.  You
haven't by any chance been told that you've a mortal complaint--or
anything like that?"

Alison laughed.  "No, oh no.  I'm in rude health.  Merely growing lazy;
old age approaching, I suppose, and desire failing."

"_Don't_, Alison!  I believe that at ninety odd you'll still be going
strong."

"That would be hard on George!"

"No it wouldn't.  The last thing George wants, I am very sure, is to
lose you.  He described you to me the other day as 'a man and a
brother.'  He said you were the most companionable person he knows."

Alison laughed sceptically as she said, "George will probably marry
soon and find a really suitable companion."

Katharyn looked with candid eyes at her friend.  "Do you mean that
there really is some one, or are you talking in general?  I've never
mentioned it to a soul, not even to Tim, but I've always had a hope
that George and Car would care for each other.  You would like Car
better than a stranger wouldn't you?  And I would feel her so safe with
George.  I can't tell you how I hate letting her go to London to start
again at that Drama School."

"She is going again this winter?"

"Yes, and it's such a worry to Tim.  That's why I wish so much she'd
fall in love--the new love would push out the old."

"The expulsive power of a new affection," Alison quoted....  "Have you
seen any signs of such a thing?"

"None.  Car treats George like another brother--and he probably never
thinks of her at all....  I'm glad this summer is nearly over, Alison.
It has been so long and hot and worrying.  I've been able to get some
work done, but I'm still behind, and there's nothing so wearing as to
have to smile and talk when all the time you know that there's a pile
of work that must be ready at a given time lying waiting.  But after
next week Tim and I shall be alone."

"I've always known," said Alison, "that you were more wife than mother,
K."

"I'm afraid I'm a stupidly anxious mother.  When Sandy talks of some
new project my heart jumps into my mouth!  I live in dread of telegrams
saying the boys have got pneumonia at Eton or that Car has been run
over, or Helen has flown away.  We're _happiest_, Alison, when we are
all together, but I must say Tim and I are very content alone.  You
would be amused to see us of a winter evening when we've no one
staying.  We sit up here, and Tim smokes his pipe and reads the
_Times_, and I scribble on the fender-stool and splash ink about.  We
talk of the children and try to plan for them wisely, and at ten
o'clock we have a cup of weak tea and go to bed!"

There was a softer note than usual in Alison's voice as she said, "A
blameless existence you lead, you and your Tim.  He was always the
best, and I can never be sufficiently thankful that you and he found
each other.  That's the truth, K."

"Of course it's the truth, Alison.  You have always been one of Tim's
most beloved friends, and I'm grateful to be allowed to share in your
friendship.  Alison and Tim and Katharyn.  One and one and one--no
shadowy third.  Nothing must ever be allowed to break that three-fold
friendship."




CHAPTER VIII

  "Will you have me, lady?"
  "No, my lord..."
          _Much Ado About Nothing._


The day's beginning was the time Katharyn Eliot valued most.  It gave
her no pleasure to turn over and snooze for another half-hour while
other and more active members of the household splashed in their baths.

Seven o'clock found her in Jane's Parlour--already swept and garnished
by an _eident_ housemaid--busy replying to letters, jotting down things
that must be attended to that day, reading, and sometimes sitting in
the window-seat with idle hands, thinking.  Tangles, she found, had a
way of smoothing themselves out in that quiet time, and she always left
the parlour encouraged to begin a new day with vigour.

The morning after the shoot, as she went downstairs, she came upon Rory
sitting on a step, companioned by Buster, the Armstrongs' old spaniel,
who was adorned with a large bow of red ribbon.

"It's Buster's birthday," he explained, "so he must have treats.  May
he have breakfast in the dining-room, Mummy?"

"I suppose so, darling; but will Buster consider that a treat?"

Rory nodded gravely.  "He's such a high-minded dog.  He doesn't like
stable-life."

Katharyn bent to pat the black head, as she asked what else they could
do to celebrate.

"Phil's going to take him for a walk after breakfast _alone_--no other
dogs allowed.  And we've bought hum half a pound of chocolates at the
village shop all for him self--he loves chocolates--and cook has iced a
dog-biscuit and put ten candles on it.  That ought to make him feel
it's a birthday, don't you think?

"Well!" said Katharyn, "it'll certainly make him feel it's a special
occasion.  Come away, both of you; the gong went some time ago."

They found every one down except Car, who was lazy, and Tom, who in his
holidays was apt to sleep late.  Sandy and Ralph and Phil Armstrong
were supping porridge, while Tim was exploring hot dishes on a side
table.

"_Look_ at Buster," said Phil.  "He's as proud as Punch of his birthday
bow."

"Is it his birthday?" said Sandy, laying down his plate in order to
congratulate Buster properly who was now lying on his back, waving his
paws, and looking inordinately silly and affected.

"Old ass, aren't you?" Sandy said, rolling him affectionately from side
to side; "old _stupid_ ass, but very, very nice."

"Get up, boy," said Tim, "and take your breakfast.  Rational
conversation is made impossible in this house by the constant presence
of dogs."

His wife laughed and asked, "What are you doing to-day, you boys?"

Sandy replied, "George Lockhart has asked us to go to Fairniehopes for
a picnic.  You know, Mummy, he asked you about it----"

"So he did.  I'd forgotten.  It's a lovely day for a picnic.  You'd
better see what cook can give you in the way of provender."

"That's all right, Mummy," Rory broke in.  "George's supplying all the
grub."

"Does he realize how much you eat?" Katharyn asked, but her husband
reminded her that it was not so very long since George had been a
schoolboy himself.

"That's true.  Is Car going?"

"Is Car going where?" asked that young woman, entering the room.

"To the picnic at Fairniehopes," said Rory brightly.

"The answer is in the negative."  Car was lifting covers and
discontentedly surveying what was revealed: presently she sat down at
the table with a cup of coffee and a morsel of toast.

"Car's always cross in the morning," said Rory.  "She must get up on
her wrong side."

"Be quiet, brat," said his sister.  "I do hate people who are breezy at
breakfast time.  People ought all to breakfast in their own rooms and
not appear till the day is well aired.  Where's Tom?"

"He seems to be of your school of thought," said Tom's father.  "Do you
know that your mother has been up for two hours?"

"That's one of the things about Mamma that I like least," Car said
calmly; "that passion for early rising.  I can't think why getting up a
little earlier should make one so smug and self-satisfied, but it does."

"Car can't get up in the morning," said Sandy, "for she reads half the
night.  I can see the light in the window.  Studies parts, I expect."

Car looked angrily at her brother, but Ralph, who was a born
peacemaker, broke in with a question about the habits of owls, and
Sandy, a great lover of birds, was lured away from a wordy war with his
sister.

The entrance of Tom was another distraction.

Tim, after a look at his second son, remarked:

"There's one thing, if Tom is generally late for breakfast at least he
looks as if part of the time had been spent in brushing his hair and
his clothes.  Rory, I'm certain your hair hasn't seen a brush this
morning.  Let me see your nails."

Rory's hands immediately went under the table, and he explained with a
disarming smile that he had been particularly busy that morning and had
had practically no time to spend on improving his appearance.  "I'll
tidy up," he promised, "before I go to the picnic."

"Oh, yes, the picnic," said Tom.  "Are we all supposed to go?"

"Would you prefer a book of verses underneath a bough?" Sandy asked.
"Car'll keep you company, she's not going."

"I've changed my mind," said Car.  "I am going to the picnic.  On a day
like this Fairniehopes glen is too good to miss; and there's nothing to
do here."

"George wanted us all to come," said Sandy.  "There's to be no one but
ourselves.  You come, Mother; the holidays will so soon be over."

"I'd love to, Sandy--but oh, my dear, I've just remembered I've a
Nursing Committee.  How tiresome!"

"Nursing Committees should never be held except on wet days," grumbled
Sandy.

"This won't be a long one," said his mother.  "I'll tell you what, I'll
join you at tea if you can give me any idea where on the moor you are
likely to be?"

"I'll scout round and watch for you," Rory promised eagerly.  "Buster
and me."

"Very well, and I'll bring some eatables."

"Don't!" Car advised.  "You'll only insult the Lockharts' cook.
Wouldn't you hate it if invited guests came carrying pokes of
provender?"

"I daresay I would," Katharyn agreed.  (How wise children were compared
to their parents!)  "Then I'll come empty-handed, some time about four
o'clock and expect to be fed.  Tell Aunt Alison I'm coming."

"If she's there," said Car.  "George spoke as if it were his own little
party, the sort of thing he used to give us long ago when we were
children."

"Perhaps, then," said Katharyn, pouring herself out another cup of
coffee, "it would be better if I didn't come either."

"Oh, I don't think it matters: just as you feel about it.  I'm quite
sure George would be proud to see you.  He's one of your most devoted
admirers."

By this time the male members of the party had left the room,
accompanied by the dogs, and the mother and daughter were alone.

Katharyn, sipping her coffee, said, "That's your way of putting it.
Certainly George and I always have been good friends since he came
first a shy schoolboy, and I am so glad for Alison's sake that he has
turned out such a thoroughly good fellow.  If only he has the good
fortune to marry happily!"

Car put her head on one side and looked wise, as she said:

"I doubt if Aunt Alison would be easy to satisfy when it came to a wife
for George.  She--and you, too, Mother, though I know you're a good
deal younger--belongs to an age that was given to putting men on
pedestals and giving women less than their due, so----"

"Nonsense, Car.  You seem to think that every woman born in Victoria's
reign must have a crinoline in her disposition.  Alison is a
broad-minded woman who has seen much of the world and read widely, and
known intimately many clever people, and I know no one better fitted to
judge either a man or a woman.  But don't let's quarrel over George's
future wife, that 'not impossible She'!  Dear me!  Are we last?  I'll
look at my letters before I see cook."

Katharyn and her husband lunched alone, and Katharyn took the
opportunity to talk over something that had been occupying her thoughts
all the morning.

"Tim!" she said; "in my mother's letter this morning she tells me that
the doctors insist that she stays out of London this winter.  You know
how she felt the fogs last winter, and her breathing is so much better
down at Longhurst that it seems absurd that she should ever attempt to
go to town.  Of course she minds a lot, it means missing so much that
she enjoyed, but what she minds most is not being able to give Car a
home in London.  And for us it's a sheer calamity, for although mother
doesn't approve of Car in many ways, she is very fond of her, and Car
stands in wholesome awe of her grandmother.  What are we to do?  I
don't like the thought of the child living in rooms or in one of those
hostels, with no one to take an interest in her, or be a check on her,
and yet I can think of no one she could go to."

Tim buttered a biscuit with care and said, "Why not send her to Mrs.
Armstrong?"

"What?  Oh--d'you think that would be wise?"

"Well, she's some one we know.  Mrs. Armstrong wants boarders, and she
might be glad to have some one from the old place.  She was always a
nice woman.  It's worth considering, I think."

"Ye-es.  Bayswater's pretty far out, but I don't know that that matters
much.  Once you are in a tube or a bus a mile or two makes little or no
difference, and Car can't afford taxis.  I daresay Car might prefer it
to South Street, for her grandmother kept a pretty sharp eye on her.
Here she would come and go exactly as she pleased."

Katharyn puckered her brows and looked so care-worn that her husband in
exasperation cried:

"Then, my dear, we'll simply put a stop to the whole thing.  I daresay
Car will consider herself mightily ill-used, but anything is better
than turning your hair grey....  What's she going to make of it anyway?
The notions these girls get into their heads!  Why can't she be content
to live here, and play about with the boys, and take what gaiety comes
in her way?  I'll speak to her to-night."

He looked so fiercely determined that his wife had to laugh.

"No darling, don't do anything in a hurry.  It's silly of me to make
such a fuss, and I daresay it's only natural that Car should want more
out of life than Eliotstoun can give her.  We forget that what seems a
paradise to us may mean prison to her.  She must be given the chance to
try her wings.  She may find that they won't bear her far, and that
would be a cruel disappointment.  It's difficult even to know what to
hope for, to pray for....  I'm not sure that your plan about Mrs.
Armstrong isn't a good one.  I know she would take a kindly interest in
Car.  And George Lockhart keeps a friendly eye on her; it's a comfort
to think that he's in London."

Katharyn laid a hand on her husband's knee.  "Don't worry, old Tim!
We've got so much that these pin-pricks shouldn't worry us.  And Car's
a darling when all's said....  Now I must be off to my Nursing meeting.
I hope they're all very happy at their picnic."


That night in the drawing-room at Fairniehopes Alison Lockhart sat
knitting by the fire, while George read the _Times_.

A log fell out, and as George leant forward to replace it he said:

"Pity you didn't come to the picnic.  Mrs. Eliot came, and we missed
you."

"I'm rather old for picnics; too stiff now to crouch in the heather; a
chair and a table become necessities."

George scoffed.  "Old age has descended on you with remarkable
suddenness.  You were as young as ever when I came back at the
beginning of the month....  We had a pleasant day and you provided for
us lavishly."

"Boys need a lot," said Alison, knitting busily.  She looked at the
_Times_ and asked, "Any news?"

"Not in the papers," George said, and got up and stood on the
hearth-rug.  "But I've got some news.  To-day I asked Car to marry me
and she said, 'No.'"

Alison felt her hands shaking and laid down her knitting.  Something
was making her feel faint.  Was it relief? or Anger?  She looked at
George.  He seemed much as usual.  He couldn't care much, she thought,
and then realized that was absurd.  Did she expect him to beat his
breast, to cry, to tear his hair?  She had no means of measuring his
wound--whether it was as wide as a church door, or as deep as a
well....  Was it her imagination or did he really look older, and oddly
pinched?

Suddenly rage swept her.  What right had that child to make George
suffer?  A heartless brat, selfishly absorbed in her own schemes and
plans.  Again she realized how absurd she was.  She had been prepared
to dislike Car as George's wife, now she hated her for refusing him!
George was speaking.  "You mustn't worry about me, Alison.  And don't
blame Car, she can't help it....  I'll go back to-morrow night, I
think....  I would have been going back anyway at the beginning of the
week.  Thank you, my dear, for my splendid holiday."




CHAPTER IX

  "A laughing schoolboy, without grief or care..."
                                          KEATS.


The end of the holidays had come, and Tom and Rory were the first to
resume the quest for knowledge.  Tom being something of a philosopher,
and not averse to study, was going back calmly, but Rory who loathed
study and hated passionately leaving his home and his dogs, lamented
bitterly, troubling deaf heaven with his bootless cries, and was only
partially comforted by a promise wrung from his mother that she would
come up at half-term and take him and Tom to their grandmother's for
the week-end.

"Longhurst isn't bad," he grumbled, "but it isn't Eliotstoun.  Couldn't
you bring Buster and Rascal with you?  They wouldn't be any trouble,
and they'll miss me so much."

"I'm sure they'll miss you," his mother agreed, "but it would be small
kindness to take them a long railway journey for the sake of being with
you for two days.  Granny has a dog, you know."

"Oh, Mummy, not a _dog_!  A toy thing with a bark like a cross robin's!
Buster's such a _massive_ beast, it's a pleasure to pat him."

"Well, darling, stand off that shirt.  Here comes Janet with your clean
clothes."

They were in Rory's bedroom, packing his trunk, and the floor was
strewn with garments and boots.

Katharyn, picking up a pull-over and regarding it, said, "Surely this
isn't yours, Rory?  I never saw it before."

Rory cast a bored glance at the garment.  "Yes, it's mine now.  It was
once Cecil Baird's.  I gave him a knife for it and something else.  I
forget what."

"But you had a good pull-over that I knitted for you.  Where is it?"

"Lost," said Rory.

"And he hasn't brought home half his shirts, mem," Janet put in.

"Oh, Rory!" said his mother.  "You are careless; remember that shirts
cost money.  Money isn't at all plentiful these days."

"I didn't lose them," Rory protested in aggrieved tones.  "Besides, I
don't need many shirts, I can make one last."

"Oh, go away, you _dirty_ boy; I don't know where you get your
tramp-like ways."

Rory swung the lid of the trunk backwards and forwards in a maddening
way as he said: "Tramps have a jolly good time.  No lessons and never
washing unless they like....  Yes, I'm going."  He vaulted over Janet,
squatted like a brooding hen on the floor, then, with a whoop, dashed
along the passage and precipitated himself downstairs by way of the
bannisters.

The two women left in the room smiled at each other.

"He's an awfu' laddie," said Janet, "but fine and cheery.  I like the
holidays best though there's a lot of work."

"You're very patient with the boys, Janet, considering how they try
your temper....  What has the child done with all his underclothes?"

Janet shook her head, remarking:

"It's a pity Master Tom and Master Rory couldna be carded through each
other, for Master Tom's that careful and has everything of the best,
and poor wee Master Rory doesna care a docken.  He minds me of Mr.
Sandy.  _He_ never minded what he had on--to this day any old thing
does for him--but Master Tom's aye as neat as if he was gaun to a
wedding!  Master Rory's been that pleased about the scarcity o' water
and being saving on the baths, and it's pure misery to Master Tom.
It's queer the differences in the same family."

"Well, Janet," said her mistress, "you know all the ways of our family;
you've seen them all grow up."

"Ay, an' the happiest time was when they were a' wee bairns.  Ma mother
often said that.  It's nothing but anxiety when they begin to go their
own ways."

Katharyn looked rather ruefully at the maid who always had been such a
good friend and standby to her.  Something of a disciplinarian, Janet
saw to it that the young maids kept the house in perfect order, and
herself managed to do much that could not be considered her work, like
looking after the boys' clothes, packing and unpacking for them,
scolding them when they needed scolding, nursing them through childish
ailments, and standing up for them against all accusers.

"I hope you're wrong, Janet.  I wouldn't like to think that the best of
life is behind us.  Think what an interest it will be to see them make
their way in the world, to welcome them home; perhaps, later on, to see
the nurseries occupied again."

But Janet refused to take any such hopeful view of the future.  As she
tested socks and deftly rolled them up and packed them into corners she
continued to look a picture of gloom.

"They'll just likely make a hash of the marrying," she said.  "I dinna
hold with the French in many ways--eating snails and frogs, the nesty
craturs!--but they show some sense in the way they marry.  I'm told
they choose for the young folk, and that's a good plan, for how can ye
expect heedless young things to know what's good for them?

"Perhaps," said Katharyn, "you'd like marriages arranged by the State?"

"Mercy!  No!" ejaculated Janet in horror.  "I'd like to see Ramsay
MacDonald, or Baldwin, either, tellin' me whae to marry!  No, I just
meant parents and guardians, ye ken, looking out for suitable matches.
Are these shoes no' ower wee for Master Rory?  See them against his new
ones!"

"Yes.  Put them aside, please.  I'll be glad of them for the next
Jumble sale.  Has he enough without them?  We'll need to get some
pyjamas made for him, he's growing out of everything--but that's a
heartening thing to see."

"'Deed ay.  Better wear shoon than sheets, ma Granny used to say.
There's no use getting him much of anything when he's growing that
fast.  Mr. Sandy's the one that's ill-off for everything.  Afore he
goes back to Oxford he'll need shirts and pyjamas, no to speak o'
semmits."

"Dear me, Janet, there seems no end to the wants of my family!  Mary is
so busy with Miss Car's clothes I don't see how she can manage any
more.  Perhaps you and I could make some pyjamas; I must have a day in
Edinburgh choosing materials.  Now, I must go and dress for lunching
out....  We'll talk over things later."

"Yes 'm," said Janet, carefully laying in a pile of shirts, and looking
up at her mistress.  "Were ye hearing that Andra Veitch's wee laddie's
ill?  Ay, they're in a state about him for the doctor's fair puzzled!
I think masel it's typhoid.  It was bound to come, what with the
scarcity of water and the hot summer."

Katharyn protested.  "Oh, no, Janet; the scarcity hasn't been enough to
cause trouble.  I'm glad you've told me about Bobbie Veitch.  I'll make
a point of calling to-day.  I don't like to think of the child lying in
that crowded cottage.  If he's really ill he might be better in the
Nursing Home."

"Mebbe ay and mebbe no," said Janet.  "If a' tales are true the Home is
no just perfect.  Mistress Scott--ye know who I mean, the widow o' the
Shepherd at Corhope?--was there for a fortnight an' she didna like it."

"Oh," said Katharyn.  "What was wrong?  Wasn't the food good?"

"She said it was na _bad_, but very monotonous."

"Mrs. Scott must have high standards."

"Well," said Janet, "ye like to be comfortable when ye're paying for a
thing."

"She wasn't paying much, the terms to members are absurdly low.  She
had a good bed in a pleasant airy room, with two other patients to talk
to, plenty of well-cooked plain food, a nurse to wait on her, and a
doctor daily--what more did she want?"

Janet sniffed.  "In a Nursing Home ye expect to be _nursed_.  But it
was little Mrs. Scott saw of the nurses.  Impident young lassies, she
said they were.  The one she had took an hour to fill a hot-water
bottle--_she timed her on the clock_!  And when she did bring it, Mrs.
Scott couldna help saying, 'The kettles here tak a while to boil,' just
like that, an' the nurse tossed her head and said she had more to do
than fill bottles for patients who could quite well get up and fill
them for themselves.  Did ye ever hear sic impidence?  And Mistress
Scott tell't by the doctor not to move.  She said to me she believed it
was as much as her life was worth to get up and fill a bottle....  Ay,
and the electric light beside her bed went wrong and one night she had
just a candle."

"She never has anything else at home," Mrs. Eliot pointed out.  "And
you know how easily bedside lamps go out of order."

"The wireless too," said Janet, "was more of a provocation than
anything else.  They had sic daft-like programmes, Mrs. Scott said she
was fair affronted."

"Oh, Janet, don't lay the sins of the B.B.C. on the Nursing Home.  I
can't help thinking Mrs. Scott must be rather difficult to please.
Most of the patients say how comfortable they are."

"Mebbe," said Janet, "they just say it to please ye.  There's a lot o'
folk like that, but it was never ma way.  How are things ever to be put
right unless folk complain?  The high heid yins like you, Mem, don't
know when the nurses are impident and lights allowed to go wrong, an'
bottles no filled, unless somebody tells ye.  Na, I doot Mistress
Veitch wadna let wee Bobbie near the Home; she'll think he's safer in
his ain hame.  But ye can ask her, of course."

Katharyn, half amused and half-irritated, resisted the impulse to thank
her retainer for her kind permission and, instead, greeted her second
son who, at that moment, sauntered into the room.

"Hallo! Tom.  Packing for yourself, are you?"

"Trying to.  But some one seems to have made away with a good many of
my possessions."

He looked hard at Janet, who bent diligently over Rory's trunk as Tom
enumerated his losses.

"Handkerchiefs, both silk and linen, collars, shirts, at least
three--they're not there by any chance, are they, Janet?"

"Ay," said Janet calmly, "they're here a'right.  You've ower mony
things, and Master Rory's ower few, so I just divided them," and she
held her hands protectingly over her loot.

"Well, of all the cheek!"  Tom looked helplessly at his mother, who
caught his arm, laughing.

"Let it alone, Tom," she urged.  "It's true what Janet says; you have
so many things and poor Rory never has enough."

"_Poor Rory!_" said Tom.  "What's the use of giving him decent things?
He uses his hankeys for anything--mopping up ink and so forth.  Any old
thing does for him: he'd rather go dirty than not."

"I know," said his mother soothingly, "but that phase will pass, he'll
learn self-respect, and begin to take an interest in his clothes.  You
certainly show him a good example....  Tom, when you have time will you
look me up a quotation I want?  It's Crabbe: a delicious thing about
actors that I wanted to use, and you are so clever about finding
things."

With her arm in his Katharyn manoeuvred her son past the open trunk,
along the corridor to Jane's Parlour, a place he loved to get a chance
to enter.  Tom was not boyish in his tastes, he hated noise, and dirt,
and rough play, and was only too fond of staying indoors and enjoying a
book in peace.

"Going out, Mummy?" he asked, as he proceeded to search the
book-shelves for Crabbe.

"I'm lunching at Ruthurfurd.  Andy's parents are there."

"Lady Jackson!  What a treat for you!"

"Yes, it is, honestly.  I like Lady Jackson.  I don't see how any one
could help liking her.  Andy adores her, it's a pleasure to see them
together."

"Mrs. Andy doesn't adore her, and I don't blame her.  To my way of
thinking Lady Jackson is merely a fat vulgar woman."

"Because, my dear, you haven't lived long enough in this world to
recognize, when you see it, true kindliness and honest worth."

Tom grinned and murmured irrelevantly, "'A man's a man for a' that'
(Robert Burns)....  Here's Crabbe.  You've no idea of the quote's
whereabouts?

"It was in _The Listener_ I noticed it.  How stupid I was not to write
it down at once!  I'm afraid the paper's gone with a bundle of
magazines to the Village Club."

"You can't remember how it went?

"Something about 'a wandering, careless, wretched, merry race.'  But
don't spend too long looking for it.  Dear me, I wish you weren't going
away to-morrow!"

Lady Jackson gave her old friends a boisterous welcome.  Jean Douglas
was there and Alison Lockhart, as well as Katharyn Eliot.

"Isn't this nice?" she said, beaming all over her broad face.  "I just
hoped Barbara would ask you three, and here you are!  It's queer, you
know.  When I came first to Ruthurfurd from Pollokshields it was always
the friends I'd left behind that I kept thinking of, and now that I'm
back in Pollokshields it seems as if there was no one there as nice and
as interesting as the Border neighbours....  Well, how are you all?
Oh, I'm fine, but getting broader every day--and father's getting
smaller.  Isn't it queer how often men seem to shrink with age and
women expand?"  She laughed happily.  "But what's the odds so long as
we're happy?  Andy wanted us to see the garden before the first frost
spoiled it.  That's why we're here so soon again, but we'll not likely
be back before Christmas.--Are you listening, Barbara?  A grandson's a
great magnet.  Sir Andrew and I just live for the wee fellow."

"You spoil him," Barbara put in.  "These lovely toys----"

"Uch," said Lady Jackson, "what's a toy or two?  Father gets them made
at the Works--at least the wheelbarrow was made there, and the tool
chest; of course the wee motor car came from a shop."  She turned to
Mrs. Douglas: "You never saw anything as neat.  It's as like a real car
as it can be--all the latest gadgets, you know.  Father and I were
playing with it the other night like a couple of bairns."

"The small Andrew won't be small long," said Mrs. Douglas.  "I know a
difference every time I see him."

"That's why," said Lady Jackson earnestly, "that's why we take every
opportunity of coming to Ruthurfurd.  We can't bear to lose more of his
childhood than we can help.  He'll soon be a schoolboy, and somehow
it's never the same after they go to school.  They seem to lose all
their wee confiding ways and become ashamed of showing affection.
Isn't that so, Mrs. Eliot?"

"Doesn't it depend on the boy?" Katharyn said.  "My eldest, Sandy,
never changed at school, welcomed all his relations when they went to
see him with effusion, and wasn't in the least ashamed to be seen
leading a small brother by the hand.  Tom, on the other hand, is apt to
be abashed by our presence, and in public, repudiates us."

"And Rory?" asked Miss Lockhart.

"Rory and Sandy are alike," said Katharyn, "and Tom and Car.  Helen is
by herself."

"Fancy!" said Lady Jackson.  "Isn't it queer the different natures in
one family?  Our Andy was _awful_ sensitive.  He didn't repudiate us,
Mrs. Eliot, he stuck by us, if you know what I mean, but I could see he
was in misery if I talked too loud, or asked kind of silly questions
when there was any one about to hear, and I tried to hold my tongue and
be dignified and not affront the boy, but it's not natural to me to be
quiet.  I'm always out with it before I know.  Of course father was
always all right, he rarely says a word, and that's mebbe why I'm such
a talker."

Barbara, in a detached way, had begun to question Mrs. Eliot about the
departures of her boys to school, and it was left to Jean Douglas to
reply.

"A good talker," said Jean, "is a boon and a blessing.  It's sheer
laziness that keeps most people silent; they won't trouble themselves
to talk.  But we talkers get no credit for our self-sacrificing
efforts; we're supposed to do it for our own pleasure."

"The only sort of talker I object to," said Miss Lockhart, "is the one
who isn't content unless she has the car of the company: such a talker
wrecks a party."

"Unless," said Jean, "she's a duchess, when we groundlings ought to be
grateful for what is offered, or so malicious about our neighbours that
we listen with a sort of ashamed enjoyment."

"That's lunch, did you hear, Barbara?" said Lady Jackson.  It was one
of that lady's failings in her daughter-in-law's eyes that she would
remind her when no reminder was needed; and Barbara, ignoring the
interruption, went on speaking to Mrs. Eliot until she felt the rebuke
had had time to soak in.  But Lady Jackson, blissfully unaware that she
was being rebuked, was on the point of again calling attention to the
fact that luncheon had been announced, when Barbara rose, and the
company filed into the dining-room.

As they unfolded their napkins Lady Jackson began, "I'm awfully
interested, Mrs. Douglas, to hear you've got one of Mrs. Armstrong's
boys to live with you."

"Yes, Phil.  He's going to take his degree at Edinburgh University, and
perhaps go to the Scots Bar.  He and his brother have been staying at
Eliotstoun, you know, and Phil only came to us a day or two ago.  I can
see that it's going to work all right.  He goes about with my Thomas
and inspects the place in the most serious way and already knows every
man, woman, and child on it.  We shall miss him when he goes to
Edinburgh, but we'll have him for week-ends.  And Ralph has got an
opening in the Hudson's Bay Company."

"Do you mean he's to go to the Polar regions?" said Lady Jackson.

"Not quite.  He goes first to Winnipeg, where he'll probably be in an
office for a while--a year or two, perhaps.  After that it may become
more exciting."

Barbara remarked that Mrs. Armstrong ought to be very grateful to get
her boys so quickly and suitably settled, but her mother-in-law shook
her head.

"The things that happen," she said.  "Mrs. Armstrong seemed--I never
knew her well--such a pretty, delicate woman, so beautifully dressed
and expensive looking, with an adoring husband and everything she could
want, and now she has lost her husband and her home and had to part
with her boys!  I can't imagine her struggling away with cooks and
tradespeople, trying to satisfy exacting boarders."

"Well, she's doing it," said Alison Lockhart, "and doing it well,"
while Katharyn Eliot broke in: "Did I tell you Car's going to live with
Mrs. Armstrong when she goes to London in the beginning of October?
Yes.  My mother isn't to be in town this winter, so that door was shut,
and Tim suggested sending her to Mrs. Armstrong, who seemed quite glad
to have her.  I do hope it will work out all right."

"Why not?" said Mrs. Douglas, while Lady Jackson remarked that a girl
was a great responsibility.  "Not but what we would have liked one,"
she added, "but it wasn't to be,--Barbara, are those your own potatoes?
They're awfully good.  Won't you try them, Miss Lockhart?  Oh, fancy!
To do without potatoes would be a great deprivation to me!  I'm a real
Paddy for potatoes!  And as for father----"

Here Mrs. Douglas broke in to stem, for Barbara's sake, Lady Jackson's
flow of talk, "Do you remember, Lady Jackson, when we met here about
three weeks ago I was just going on a visit to the Harbour House?
Nicole and her mother were so interested to hear I had met you and
wondered when you meant to pay them a visit.  They are both very well
and had enjoyed their summer in Ross-shire."

Lady Jackson's broad face beamed.  "I'm glad to hear it.  I'll be
visiting Kirkmeikle one of these days.  Lady Jane has often asked me to
stay a night or two but I've never presumed, but there is nothing I
enjoy more than to go to lunch and mebbe stay for tea."

She sighed sentimentally as she continued: "I'll never forget the first
time I saw Nicole and her mother.  Ruthurfurd was advertised for sale
and I had got a card, and motored out from Glasgow to see it.  I was as
nervous as a cat, for I didn't know how I'd be received, and at that
time I was terrified of butlers--I'm getting used to them now--but I
was hardly within the door when a pretty fair-haired girl came and
shook hands with me so kindly, and said she'd show me the house.  And
she did, and was so patient, answering all my questions so pleasantly,
and then she took me into the drawing-room, and there was Lady Jane
sitting at a tea-table drawn up before the fire, looking so sad in her
black dress that I felt a criminal to be thinking of taking her home
from her.  Barbara, there, was with her; she was the only one that
seemed to resent my presence; and that of course because she was
feeling for her aunt and cousin.  They gave me tea, and Lady Jane was
as nice to me as if I'd been a friend and not a sort of usurper as you
might say, and I went home and told father that since the Ruthurfurds
had to leave their house it was the chance of our lives to follow them
at Ruthurfurd....  Bless me, I'm keeping everybody waiting."

As Lady Jackson hastily finished what was on her plate, Katharyn Eliot
smiled across at Barbara and said, "The links in life are very
interesting, a chance-seen advertisement, a card to view, and the lives
of a lot of people are sent running into new channels."

Barbara, looking rather flushed, was eating toast with a determined air.

"Yes," she said, "it's almost alarming how things happen; the smallest
trifle may decide one's fate."

"What a blessing we don't realize it at the time," said Alison Lockhart.

"I stayed three days at the Harbour House," said Jean Douglas,
addressing Lady Jackson, "and saw quite a lot of the Ruthurfurds'
friends."

"Wasn't that nice?  Did you see Mrs. Heggie?"

"Oh, poor Mrs. Heggie!" said Jean.

Lady Jackson looked startled.  "Don't tell me she's dead."

"No, no.  But you know she has a daughter----"

"Ucha.  Joan.  She lives in London, doesn't she?"

"Yes.  Well, she arrived home with a husband lately."

"Fancy!  She's not young, either."

"But the husband is, unfortunately: an actor out of a job.  A pleasant
young man, very good-looking, and already quite devoted to his
mother-in-law."

"Then why did you say 'poor Mrs. Heggie'?

"I ought to have said 'Poor Joan.'--Oh, I don't know, I've no business
to say 'poor' anybody.  But one can't help wondering how such a
marriage will turn out."

Lady Jackson gave her comfortable tolerant laugh.  "I can't help
wondering that about many a marriage.  Often the least promising turn
out best.  There's never any knowing....  But I'm awfully interested to
hear about Mrs. Heggie's daughter....  I think we should go out,
Barbara, when we get our coffee.  It seems such a pity to miss this
good day.  Wee Andrew'll go round the flower garden with us.  You'll
hardly believe it, but he knows all their names...."




CHAPTER X

"There is no private house in which people can enjoy themselves so well
as at a capital tavern."  DR. JOHNSON.


After having complained repeatedly through the summer of the dullness
and narrowness of life at Eliotstoun, Car was surprised to find that as
the time approached for her to go to London, the thought of leaving
home became less and less pleasant.  After all, there was something
very attractive about the old place.  And the boys weren't bad as boys
go; Tom, indeed, was a good companion, much better than Helen, who
cared nothing for what interested her sister, frankly disliking poetry
(especially the work of William Shakespeare) and caring only for the
lightest and most frivolous of plays.  In parents, Car admitted, she
had been blessed.  Of course they had their faults.  Her father never
wanted to move from Eliotstoun, and her mother, who might have been
quite a figure in London, was content to remain with him.  Still, there
was something to be said for peaceful parents.  She had seen her
friends suffer under the restless type, parents who treated themselves
to every sort of pleasure, without considering the needs of their
family.  Anyway, Car reflected, her mother was not likely to crash as
poor Penelope Wotton's had done, or her father become a fraudulent
bankrupt like Beta Morton's.

And when it came to the bit, hers were parents who were hard to leave:
she even had a slight doubt if it was right of her to leave them.  But
of course that was absurd, for her parents really needed no one but
each other, and probably were looking forward to getting the house to
themselves--though they would never admit it.

Anyway, her life was her own; she had a right to make something of it.
The thought of settling down to matrimony did not appeal to her.  Some
day, she supposed, she would marry.  But not yet.  And not George
Lockhart.  That would be the dullest of obvious marriages.  She liked
George, and hoped that he wouldn't let her refusal make any difference,
for he was very useful to her in London, one of the few people her
grandmother had treated civilly.  That was another thing; she would
have more freedom this time.  Granny really had been a nuisance with
her rules and restrictions.  Not that it would be very amusing in a
boarding-house in Bayswater, but Mrs. Armstrong was one of themselves,
the mother of Ralph and Phil, and that made a difference.  All the same
she must see to it that she very definitely went her own way from the
first.  Mrs. Armstrong must not think that because she was an old
friend she had a right to dictate to her: that would be unbearable.

Mrs. Armstrong, on her part, was not looking forward with any great
degree of pleasure to the arrival of her latest boarder.  Life was
difficult enough as it was without having to keep a maternal eye on a
girl who would probably resent any interference.  Why wasn't the girl
content to stay in her own lovely house, instead of coming trapesing up
to London to learn to act.  A minx, very likely.  Imagine, thought
Alice Armstrong, having a home on Tweedside and leaving it voluntarily!
She sighed for the folly of youth, and then, for there was little time
for sighing in her life, began to check the butcher's book.

She was in the hall when Car's taxi drove up, and took the girl
upstairs to the room that was to be hers.

"It's high up," she said, "and there's no lift; but your young legs
won't mind the stairs.  My room is next door.  If you want anything be
sure to come to me.  Did you leave every one well?  I can't begin to
tell you how grateful I am to your mother for her kindness to the boys.
They had such a lovely holiday at Eliotstoun, and I'm pretty sure it
was all owing to your mother's efforts that Ralph got such a good
appointment."

"I think it was Colonel Douglas that managed that," Car said, taking
off her coat and laying it on the bed.  "He knew some one who had some
influence in the Company.  Mistress Jean says that as they've no
children of their own, it's their job to do what they can for their
friends' children."

"Well," said Mrs. Armstrong, "their friends are deeply grateful.  Ralph
sailed for Winnipeg last week, and Phil writes such happy letters from
Kingshouse.  It's the greatest relief to me to know that they are
getting a chance to make their way in the world."

"But you must miss them," Car said.

"Oh, as to that--  Fortunately, I've a lot to think about.  Will you be
all right here?"

"Indeed, I shall," Car said cordially.  "It's a very nice room.  Oh,
and you've given me a picture of Tweed."

"Yes.  It's the stretch below the house at Armstrong, a lovely bit, I
think.  The bathroom's just opposite; I'm sorry we haven't running
water in the bedrooms up here.  The gas-fire works with a shilling in
the slot meter.  Dinner is at 7.30.  I never go in to meals--it would
be too difficult--so I feed alone in my own little room, but I'll be in
the drawing-room afterwards and make you acquainted with your
fellow-boarders."

"Are they interesting?" Car asked.

"Well--they're quite normal.  Not oddities, I mean.  A few are here for
the winter--at least, I hope they are.  There's a nice woman from St.
Andrews, a Miss Dennistoun, and a Colonel and Mrs. Eridge who have let
their house at Cheltenham for the winter, and two youngish men who are
away all day at business, and a very old lady called Mrs. Ireland, who
knits all the time and never goes out.  That's the lot except for the
chance people, visitors to London for a week or so, who prefer a quiet
boarding-house to a hotel."

"I see.  And do you find them easy to get on with?  I mean to feed and
so forth?"

"Oh, they have their little ways, but on the whole they're wonderfully
forbearing, and I'm such an amateur at the job I need forbearance.  But
I'm learning.  The servants are the big problem: they quarrel so
continuously that one always seems to be changing.  It is so unlike the
old days....  I don't suppose the Eliotstoun servants ever change."

"Not often: most of them have grown old at Eliotstoun.  We wouldn't
like it at all if we went home and didn't find Stavert with the car at
the station, and Skinner waiting in the hall to receive us, and Janet
half-way down the stairs ready to scold or pet us."

Mrs. Armstrong sighed as she said, "How I miss the stability of the
country!  But I mustn't keep you.  You'll want to unpack before dinner."

Car began at once to take out her belongings, but becoming entangled
with some books, forgot all about time, and was squatting on the floor
amid all her possessions when the gong sounded.

Then there was a wild rush: a dress was dragged from the trunk, and
after a hasty wash and brush she dashed downstairs, leaving her room in
confusion.

The dining-room was fairly large, filled with small tables.  Car was
directed to one in the window, and as she sat taking her soup, she
tried to place the other occupants of the room.

At a table close to the fire sat an old lady, tall, with a large white
wrinkled face; on the arm of her chair hung a capacious workbag from
which the ends of knitting needles obtruded.  Mrs. Ireland and her
knitting, obviously.

Two youngish men with thinning hair were together at a table near the
door.  They had both very alert faces and seemed to have plenty to say
to each other.  The business men, Car decided.  Colonel and Mrs. Eridge
were pleasant-looking people.  They seemed on friendly terms with the
lady who sat at the next table, who had a deep voice and a rather slow
way of speaking.  The large table in the middle of the room was
occupied by a family party of three young girls and their parents,
evidently enjoying a holiday in London.  They all spoke more or less
together, discussing what they had seen, and what they meant still to
see.  One of the girls was fussing in case they would be late for the
play that evening.  "I _must_ see the curtain go up," she insisted.
"Daddy, you won't wait for coffee?"

"I like my coffee," said the parent patiently, "but still----"

"We might get a cup between the acts," said the good-natured-looking
mother.  "It would help to pass the time.  I always feel the intervals
so long."

So the girl got her will, and dragged her family away the moment they
had finished the excellent apple-tart.

Car watched them go rather wistfully, drank her coffee, and followed
the other guests out of the dining-room.  The business men went out
together almost at once, but Colonel Eridge and the three ladies
settled into what were obviously their own particular chairs in the
circle round the drawing-room fire.

Car, hovering in the background, would have liked to escape to her own
room, but Mrs. Armstrong, coming in at that moment, led her forward and
introduced her, and was called away almost at once to speak on the
telephone.

Colonel Eridge placed a chair for the girl, and Mrs. Eridge said:
"You've come up from Scotland to-day, haven't you?  You have a
fellow-countrywoman here in Miss Dennistoun."

That lady spread out a piece of embroidery on her lap, as die said: "I
wonder if you know St. Andrews?"

"Hardly at all," said Car.  "I was only there once for an afternoon.  I
live in the Borders."

"And I'm ashamed to confess that I know almost nothing of your part of
the world," said Miss Dennistoun.  "I'm keeping it against the time
when I won't be able to go long distances.  At present I like to get
off the beaten track."

"Miss Dennistoun is a great traveller," Colonel Eridge put in.  "She
had a most adventuresome time in Persia, and in Egypt she----"

Miss Dennistoun interrupted him.  "Please, Colonel Eridge, don't make
me feel ashamed.  I've done nothing worth mentioning.  I admit I've
sometimes been scared, but with very little reason, and looking back it
seems all enjoyment."  She turned and smiled at Car, who said, "I've
got a brother whose one desire is to live dangerously, or, at least,
uncomfortably.  He goes away on whalers and things, and would love to
join Antarctic expeditions, only my mother won't let him."

"I don't wonder," said the Colonel's lady.  "It's bad enough when young
men have to risk their lives for the honour of their country, but
deliberately to fling them away doing foolhardy things seems to me
simply foolish.  Look at the lives that are lost climbing."

"Oh, well, my dear," her husband said, "it's not a thing you can
dogmatize about."

"But what good is it doing anybody?" Mrs. Eridge insisted.

Nobody replied, and Mrs. Ireland said, "Switzerland is such a pleasant
place for a holiday.  My husband and I went to Lausanne one summer, and
had such nice walks: I wouldn't allow him to climb."

"Very wise," said Mrs. Eridge, laying out Patience cards on a small
table at her side.

"I think," said Miss Dennistoun, turning to Car, "that you knew Mrs.
Armstrong at home?"

"Oh, yes.  Armstrong is only about seven miles from my home.  The boys,
Ralph and Phil, age more or less with my brothers: we were all brought
up together.  Everybody was terribly sorry when Mr. Armstrong died, and
the place had to be sold.  It was dreadful for Mrs. Armstrong."

"But she didn't sit down and weep," said Miss Dennistoun.  "Perhaps it
was a blessing that she simply had to bestir herself and start making a
home for her boys.  And a blessing for us, as it has turned out.  We
feel it most fortunate to have such a pleasant place to stay."

"It's lucky for me too," said Car, "though I shan't be much in the
house, I'm afraid.  I'm at the Dramatic College, and the hours are
fairly long.  I start to-morrow morning, so I think I'd better go now
and finish my unpacking."

She rose, and smiling to the group round the fire, made for the door,
pursued by Colonel Eridge who was in time to open it for her.

"A pretty creature," he said, settling himself once more in his chair.
"Strange that girls won't stay at home now.  I suppose I'm
old-fashioned, but I can't help feeling that home is the best place for
a young girl....  Would you like the wireless, Mrs. Ireland?"

"Not till the nine-thirty news," said the old lady decidedly.  "We had
quite a surfeit of music last night, hadn't we?  I know I went to bed
with a headache.  But of course, if any one else wants it--Miss
Dennistoun?"

"Not for me.  I've got my work.  And Patience is absorbing enough,
isn't it, Mrs. Eridge?  Dear me, though, it's almost nine o'clock
already.  How quickly our evenings go!"

As Car was crossing the hall to go upstairs, Mrs. Armstrong called her
in to her own little room.

"Going to bed early?" she said.  "Wise girl.  I hope you'll sleep well.
When you write to your mother be sure to send my love and any nice
messages you can think of.  Good-night."

Car found her room made ready for the night, and had the grace to feel
ashamed when she thought of the state in which she had left it.  Even
now there was much to be done, and she set to and soon had everything
tidily put away.  There was a cupboard big enough to hold her trunk and
hat box: she put some photographs of her own on the mantelpiece, laid
out her writing-case on the table, hung up her rose-red dressing-gown
and looked round pleased with her efforts.  The sight of her
writing-case suggested a letter home, and she at once sat down to write.


"DARLING MUMMY,

"I'm thinking of you and Daddy to-night sitting in Jane's Parlour with
a lovely wood-fire.  I have a shilling-in-the-slot gas thing, but it's
better than nothing--if I can afford the shilling!

"I didn't a bit like leaving home this morning, but as I went of my own
free will and not from any wish of yours I needn't say anything about
that.  This place is pretty far out but nice once one gets to it.  Mrs.
Armstrong has a lot of the furniture from Armstrong, and it isn't in
the least my idea of a boarding-house--starched lace curtains and
aspidistras in pots.  It's like an ordinary house, pretty and fresh,
with lots of flowers.  The guests seem all right too.  A very old
lady--about a hundred I should think, a Colonel and his wife from
Cheltenham, a middle-aged spinster from St. Andrews, and two city
gentlemen make up the permanents.  Mrs. Armstrong very wisely keeps
herself aloof, and eats in her own room, a comfortable little place,
full of her own things, books, pictures and so on; there she can shut
the door on worries.

"How plucky she is!  She says she's lived soft all her life and it's
only fair that she should have a taste of the hard side.  She looks
quite different too.  I always thought of Mrs. Armstrong as a pretty
rather peevish person, what the Victorians called 'spoilt by her
husband.'  Now she's standing alone with perfect ease.  It makes one
feel rather respectful!

"To-morrow morning I begin my work.

"Good night, darling!  Bless you.

"CAR."




CHAPTER XI

  "The lyf so short, the craft so long to learn."
                                            CHAUCER.


Car got up the next morning and put on a new russet-coloured woolly
frock, with a feeling of expectation at the thought of beginning work
again.  She liked to be busy, though when her mother had pointed out
that lots of jobs could be found for her at home, she had retorted that
the work must be congenial.

In the dining-room she looked rather pityingly round at her
fellow-guests, thinking how awful it was for them to have nothing to do
after breakfast but go into the drawing-room and read newspapers, no
work except to kill time, surely the hardest work of all.

Colonel Eridge had his _Morning Post_ neatly folded beside him.  His
wife had the _Daily Sketch_; Miss Dennistoun hugged the _Times_; aged
Mrs. Ireland patronized the _Daily Mail_.

"It's because she's so odd," Car told herself, "she needs her news told
startlingly."  Aloud she said to her, "You're up early.  I hope you
slept well?"

"I always waken about four o'clock," said Mrs. Ireland, "so I'm glad
when it comes to breakfast-time.  And what are you going to do to-day?"

"I'm going off to study at the Dramatic College," Car said, rather
impressively.

"Dear, dear!  The Dramatic College!  But you aren't going to be an
actress, are you?"

"I'd like to," said Car.

Mrs. Ireland looked dubious.  "I suppose it's all right.  And of course
Mrs. Kendal was a much respected woman.  I enjoyed her on the wireless,
there was a chuckle in her voice that is very heartening.  And Ellen
Terry was greatly loved, but I don't know----"

Colonel Eridge broke in: "I think I know the Dramatic College.  Isn't
it a very tall white building with carved stone figures of Comedy and
Tragedy over the door?"

"Yes," said Car.  "A huge place.  There are two theatres in the
building, a gymnasium, lecture rooms, and classrooms, connected by
endless stone stairs and miles of stone passages.  The cloakroom's at
the very top, and one learns not to forget one's handkerchief, for it
means a breathless and exhausting dash upstairs to get it."

The other breakfasters were all listening with flattering interest, and
Car went on: "You remember Tessa in _The Constant Nymph_ complained of
her school that they expected you to do something every minute, and no
allowance was made for transit!  It's rather like that at the College.
The refectory, where we feed, is even higher than the cloakroom, and
one only gets ten minutes for lunch, and as five are taken up washing
our exceedingly grubby hands, we don't have much time to eat."

"And what do you eat?" asked Mrs. Eridge, who was always interested in
food.

"Lots of things: excellent sandwiches, and doughnuts, and crumpets, and
eclairs, and lemonade and strong tea--if you've any energy left to want
them."

"I wouldn't like to work a whole day on dough-nuts and lemonade," said
Miss Dennistoun.  "Aren't the stone stairs very trying?"

"Very.  And all the floors are stone, too, so your feet never stop
aching."

"It sounds to me like a species of Chinese torture," Colonel Eridge
said, turning to inspect the plate of bacon and eggs that had been
placed before him.

Car laughed.  "All the same it's quite amusing," she said.

"What it is to be young!" said Mrs. Ireland, shaking her head and
thinking that one flight of carpeted stairs was more than sufficient
for her legs.  "How old are you, my dear?"

"Not so very young," said Car.  "Twenty-two."

"I'm more than four times your age," said the old lady proudly.  "But
if you take it out of yourself as you are doing I doubt if you'll ever
see ninety.  How long have you been studying?"

"Only one term," Car told her.  "I'm beginning seriously this winter,
last time was only a trial trip.  I think my parents rather hoped that
one term would sicken me of the whole thing--"  She paused and added,
"Instead it gave me an appetite for more."

Had Car been perfectly honest with herself she would have admitted that
what had shed a glamour over the hard work and discomforts at the
Dramatic College was the presence of Gwen Davis.  The two girls had
made friends on the first day of the term, when their eyes had met over
some absurd happening and they had laughed together.  Both beginners
and new to the routine, they supported each other, and the more Car saw
of her new friend the more she admired her.  Gwen was rather a lovely
creature, and good at everything in her graceful unhurried way.  To Car
she seemed a miracle of beauty and talent, and she sat at her feet in
almost slavish adoration.  Through the summer holidays she had written
to her idol constantly, hardly noticing that the letters she got in
reply were short and perfunctory.  Gwen had no passion for
letter-writing, and was too satisfied with her life to feel the need of
an outlet.  The only child of comfortably off parents, she lived
outside London, and enjoyed the life of the suburb with a throng of
other young people.  They played tennis and golf and bridge, danced and
bathed, and had never an unoccupied moment.

To Gwen Car's life sounded insupportably dull.  She had never been to
Scotland, and believing it to be a place where the rain practically
never stopped falling on the kilt-clad inhabitants, had no desire to
go.  "It's like Wales, isn't it?" she once said to Car.  "Daddy's
partly Welsh, and he took Mums and me a motor trip last summer to the
village where his grandfather once lived.  What a place!  I don't know
how we ever came out alive.  It was North Wales--all mountains, you
know--and Daddy got the route from a map, and chose a road that
shouldn't have been called a road on any map.  It went right up the
mountain's side, and ceased to exist because the rain had washed it all
away.  We had to go on because we couldn't go back.  Imagine a
limousine on a mountain-track!  Every minute Mums and I expected the
thing to rush back and empty us into a torrent.  The whole place was
white with waterfalls!  Daddy sat beside the chauffeur to give him
moral courage; being a Cockney the wildness of everything we saw
horrified the poor man.  At last we got to the top and were cheered by
the sight of what we hoped might be an inn, but when we got nearer we
found it was an empty house, derelict.  You can't imagine what a
feeling of desolation it gave us, the deserted house, and in front of
it a black lake or tarn or whatever they call it.  I'm not imaginative,
but I was glad when we left that black hole behind us!"

"A place for dark deeds!" said Car.  "I know those Welsh mountains,
they're lovely.  What I can't stand are the coast towns, crowded with
trippers, and blaring with bands."

"Goodness," said Gwen, "I was thankful to see trippers; they meant
civilization and decent hotels and baths and cinemas.  There's nothing
of the call of the wild about me, my dear....  I'm suburban.
Thoroughly up to date, a 1935 model.  What!"

Car nodded.  "That's what you look like, like a hundred other
girls--only a lot prettier than most.  But you're a great deal more
than that.  Anybody who saw you act would know it at once.  The words
as you say them seem to come alive.  I've noticed over and over again
how your entry makes a scene live.  And your voice----"

"Yes.  I have rather a nice voice, I think, but that horrid Miss
Cunliffe said that I had very nearly a Cockney accent.  She imitated me
saying 'paound.'  The idea!  I'm sure you don't think I speak Cockney."

"Is it Cockney?" said Car.  "I notice you say some words differently,
but I think it's pretty.  I daresay I use Scotticisms."

"Miss Cunliffe says you speak so purely.  I don't like that woman,
she's always trying to humiliate me....  I love to act, that's why I'm
here, for there's not the slightest need for me to earn my living, but
I'm sick of all that Shakespeare stuff.  I haven't a notion what it
means half the time, but I suppose it's good training.  Some day,
perhaps, I'll get a chance in a modern play.  The worst of it is I've
no influence.  All Daddy's friends are in business and know nothing
about the stage....  But, Car, you really ought to be far better than I
am.  You've heaps more intelligence, and are better educated, and you
really like blank verse."

"I own I do like blank verse when written by W. Shakespeare," Car said.
"All the same, when it comes to saying it you get it over and I don't."

Car had been looking forward for weeks to being with her friend again,
and her eyes were eager, though her greeting was correctly casual.

"_Darling!_" said Gwen, putting out her hand in a pretty, impulsive way
she had.  "How joyous to see you!  Same old place, isn't it?"

"You didn't expect it to 'suffer a sea-change into something rich and
strange?'" mocked Car, while Gwen said, "I hope we haven't to do _The
Tempest_ this term.  I hate both Ariel and Miranda.  What sort of
holiday had you?"

"Oh, all right.  I was at home most of the time.  We've generally a
good many people in August and September, to shoot you know, and I'm
supposed to help my mother to entertain them.  Wasn't it a gorgeous
summer?"

"It was with us.  I suppose even Scotland was dry....  We had a
glorious time in August at the sea.  A whole crowd of us had houses
near each other and some put up in the hotel, and we had great times.
Ough!  Don't you shiver at the thought of winter and fog and getting up
early and getting into smelly trains and coming up to these chilly
marble halls!  I wish it was always summer."

"Not I," said Car.  "I like the cold, it makes me feel very well and
jolly.  I really like the country best in winter, when others fly from
it.  The thought of the bare trees and the cold wind outside and
blazing wood-fires inside makes my heart jump up somehow.--I've
forgotten my pencil!"

"Never mind, you can look at my notes--if I take any.  Here
beginneth--The Cunliffe doesn't look as if she's done much sun-bathing,
does she?"




CHAPTER XII

"It has pleased Providence to preserve to me my calmness of mind ... my
cheerfulness, and my enjoyment of little things."  MISS MITFORD.


It always amused Katharyn Eliot to be asked how she managed to fill her
days in winter-time in the depths of the country.  The more vivacious
among her friends held up their hands in horror at the thought of how
time must drag....  Why, it even dragged with them in spite of all
their efforts in the way of rushing here and there and changing the
scene, and how any one could stay month after month in a large empty
house, with nothing to enliven or distract, with only a rather dull
husband for company----!  To be sure there were always a few
neighbours--also, it was presumed, sunk in boredom--and a certain
amount of lunching and dining, but such stretches of arid solitude!
Katharyn only smiled.  There was no boredom in her days; they were all
too short.  The horror for her would have been the chasing after
pleasure.  It was a delight to get up in the morning with a quiet day
before her, to breakfast with Tim and the dogs, to write, if her brain
worked, all morning; then luncheon, followed, if they were alone, by a
walk with Tim; tea in Jane's Parlour; letter-writing till dinner-time
(four children away meant two letters to each every week); dinner, and
the sort of evening they both enjoyed above everything, reading, a
little talk, sometimes music on the wireless, the news, and early to
bed.  Dull?  How could she be dull, Katharyn asked.  She was in her own
home where everything that happened interested her profoundly.  The
servants, in the house and on the estate, were her friends, what
affected them affected her.  She loved the place in all the changes
that the seasons brought.  To her it was more exciting to watch the
leaves fall and the swallows depart at Eliotstoun and to welcome the
first snowdrops and bird notes of the bleak Border spring, than to
cheat the winter gloom and follow the swallows to lands where it is
always summer.

Her friend Jean Douglas shared with her this preference.

"Thank goodness," she said one day when she was lunching at Eliotstoun
before going to a Nursing meeting, "that we've got husbands who are
never happier than when at home.  I simply don't know what I'd do if I
were Tilly Kilpatrick, and had to go cruises and things to keep my
husband amused."

"Tilly likes it," said Katharyn.

"Yes.  I think she does.  She keeps a light spirit in spite of
increasing bodily weight, and still enjoys a dance like a girl.  I can
picture her flinging herself into all the amusements of a cruise,
getting up theatricals and fancy-dress balls, and being the life of the
party.  Now, I'd be nothing but a nuisance.  Board-ship life bores me
to tears.  I hate seeing sights, and, like Sir Walter Raleigh, I don't
much like the human race--I'm not saying that in a boastful spirit,
being well aware that it's an attitude to be deplored."

"It's not the human race you dislike," Katharyn pointed out, "only that
very small part of it that has too much time and money on its hands."

"I daresay you're right.  And I only dislike them when I'm pushed up
against them.  Leave me alone at Kingshouse and I'm a fairly tolerant
and pleasant creature; Alison Lockhart, on the other hand, quite
positively likes change, and enjoys meeting new people.  I expect any
day to hear she's off again on her travels."

"Alison's alone, you see; that makes all the difference.  If you hadn't
your Thomas----"

"I'd still feel just the same about it," Jean insisted, "though, of
course, Thomas makes Kingshouse for me.  I often think of Alice
Armstrong losing everything.  How is Car getting on with her?"

"Well," said Katharyn, "Car says the house is very comfortable and well
run, and she seems to admire very much the pluck with which Mrs.
Armstrong faces all the difficulties--and they must be many.  But what
a satisfaction to feel that you have taken hold and are making good.
At least she has a home that her boys can come back to.  And if she can
keep it going for five years or so she might sell it as a going
concern, and make a home in Edinburgh for Phil."

"She might," said Mrs. Douglas dubiously.  "I'm not very optimistic
myself about boarding-houses, but Alice has surprised us all, and she
may continue to do so.  As to making a home for Phil--young men are apt
to have a young woman in readiness to do that for them, especially,
have you noticed? men without private means.  I'm glad, though that
Car's happy.  How is Helen?"

Katharyn's face flushed.  "She is still with the Deelings.  Tim and I
don't like it at all, but when we suggest that she may be out-staying
her welcome she writes that she is having such a good time, and
implores us not to bring her back."

"Leave her then," Jean advised.  "If she hasn't the sense to prefer
Eliotstoun and her own people to a household of----"

"They're evidently very kind people, and Mrs. Deeling has written to me
more than once telling me what a treat it is for them to have Helen.
They have no children of their own and they make a pet of her and give
her presents.  Oh, I'm not going to pretend that I think it is at all
nice; it's weak of us to let it go on, but it's so difficult, Jean, to
know when to be firm."

"Yes, my dear, a family is something of a problem, but yours less than
most on the whole.  Young people are naturally wayward, but yours
aren't ill-conditioned ruffians like some I know."

Katharyn laughed as she looked affectionately at her friend.  "Thank
you, my dear, for that crumb of comfort.  I'm not really complaining,
only I wish the children cared more for Eliotstoun.  Sandy and Rory are
the two who love it--the girls and Tom find life here boring and
constantly want to go away.  That to me is so exasperating that I can
hardly bear it."

"Give them time: they'll appreciate Eliotstoun later on.  At present
they can't understand your delight in a quiet life, your pre-occupation
with simple things, and it exasperates them.  Helen has evidently found
the sort of life she likes."

"Helen likes a good time, to be lapped in luxury, to be petted, to
shine before an admiring circle--things she can't have as one of a
large family in a somewhat thread-bare country house.  I don't wonder
they like to have her, she's so pretty and gay when she's happy, but
Helen doesn't seem to see that it puts us under an obligation to these
people."

"There's no obligation as far as I can see, any more than we feel we're
obliging Alice Armstrong by having Phil at Kingshouse--all the other
way.  We are most grateful for the loan of Phil.  It makes a difference
having young life in the house; you would hardly believe how we look
forward to the week-ends.  Thomas is so interested in his talk that he
doesn't go to sleep after dinner.  I sometimes wish we could have young
Angus Douglas in the same easy way, and get to know the boy.  But it
wouldn't be the same.  I'm afraid we wouldn't be able to forget that he
was the heir, that he was going to follow on.  Like Alison Lockhart
with George----"

Jean stopped suddenly and Katharyn said, "But Alison and George are on
perfect terms."

"Yes," said Jean.  "Isn't it time we were going?  It would never do if
the President were late."

As they drove to the meeting Jean said, "I'm one of the visitors to the
Home this month."

"I know.  I hope you've found everything satisfactory, and patients
pleased."

"On the whole," said Jean.  "There will always be grumblers of course.
The chronic cases are the most difficult.  That poor old blind Miss
Bartle said to me, 'Whiles I'm that grateful to have a place like this
that I'm full of thanksgiving, and whiles I think I'm no well off at
a'.'"

"Can you wonder?" said Katharyn.  "It's difficult to be thankful all
the time when you're old and suffering and lonely.  That's a very real
problem--what is to be done with women, and men, too, alone and ailing
and with very little money.  They can't stay in ordinary lodgings for
they need more attention than a busy landlady can give them, and where
are they to go?  If they are really ill they can go to the Home where
they are well looked after, though they won't always own it, but if
they are simply old and tired and in need of constant cheerful society
at their own firesides, and have no friends and no firesides, what is
to be done?"

"Almhouses," said Jean.  "No, they wouldn't be of any use to people who
couldn't look after themselves.  The best thing would be to buy a
smallish cheerful villa, with a kind capable woman at the head of it,
where half a dozen at a time could be taken.  But I'm afraid it would
cost a lot and money's scarce."

As the two women got out of the car Katharyn grasped her friend's hand
for a moment and said, "Jean, I grumble about crumpled rose leaves,
when, with all I have, I should be the most grateful woman alive," and
Jean replied:

"True, my dear.  Hold on to that, especially when Barbara Jackson fires
her darts.  She'll be sure to be nasty about Nurse Sloane's
dismissal....  I must say this place is always very spick and span:
we're lucky in our matron."

Mrs. Douglas was no committee-woman, and had a trick during discussions
of falling into a dream and hearing nothing of what was being said.
To-day she was determined to show herself alert and business-like, and
sat bolt-upright in her chair as the matron gave in her report, but
before long she became oblivious to the words spoken, so busy was she
studying the face of the speaker and wondering what thoughts lay behind
that quiet brow.  Did she find enjoyment in her work?  Content?  What
in her inmost heart did she think of the ladies on the Committee?  Or
were her thoughts too well under control to stray indecorously?

There was Katharyn sitting at the head of the table listening with a
pucker in her forehead, not brought there by the report (which was
quite satisfactory) but (Jean knew) by the problem of the old and
lonely.  She was wearing rather a shabby coat and skirt and not a very
becoming felt hat, but she was the only woman in the room (Jean
thought) who was completely unself-conscious.

Tilly Kilpatrick fidgeted continually, patting her hair, fiddling with
her scarf, casting glances at her companions.

Barbara Jackson, very much the prosperous young matron, her tweeds,
hat, gloves, jumper all matching perfectly, had opened her hand-bag,
and was trying to see in the mirror if her nose needed powdering.

Beside her sat a new-comer, a small, composed woman, very neat in
beige.  Alison Lockhart was present, not a very common occurrence as
she was so often from home.  Time and again she had asked to be
replaced by some one more dependable, but there seemed no other person
procurable for her district, so she remained on the Committee.  When
present she was something of an acquisition, and when the meeting was
over Jean congratulated her on the intelligence of her questions.

"Wonderful!" she said.  "I don't know how you think of them.  If I say
anything I'm at once made to feel that I'm being hopelessly irrelevant,
but they listen and reply to you with most flattering respect.  How are
you, Alison?  Come back with me to tea.  We've seen far too little of
you lately.  Have you been at Fairniehopes alone?"

"Yes, but I don't mind that.  Enjoy it, in fact.  It's so pleasant that
I've half a mind to spend the winter at home.  I'd love to come to tea.
D'you mind if I follow you shortly?  One of our people is in the
Home--Mrs. Spiers."

"I remember the name.  I'm afraid she's very ill."

"Dying," said Alison.  "She's been with her son and daughter-in-law for
some months, but their cottage is small and full of children, and
though the district nurse was a great help, she wasn't getting all the
attention she needed, so we brought her here.  I'm afraid she minded a
good deal, but she was sensible about it, and saw that it was best for
every one.  All she wants now is to get away.  She was telling me the
other day that she was trying to 'mind' every interesting thing that
had happened since he went away to tell her husband when they meet.
She has no doubt about a future life."

"That's a blessing," said Jean.  "If there's no future life there's no
meaning in the present one; that's what I think.  Run along then, we'll
have our talk later--Oh, Barbara, I didn't see you.  All well at
Ruthurfurd, I hope?"

"Very well, thank you.  Mistress Jean, are you going home now, and if
you are may I come to tea with you and bring my friend, Mrs. Shorter?
You know, she and her husband have taken Hyndlea."

"But--I haven't called on Mrs. Shorter."

"Oh, but she quite understands.  I _told_ her you weren't a caller--let
me introduce..." and Jean found herself shaking hands with the small
composed person she had noticed in the meeting, and in a very bad
humour said, "I suppose we may as well go on.  Alison Lockhart's coming
as soon as she's seen a patient.  Katharyn, can't I persuade you to
come to tea seeing Alison's coming?  No?  Home then, Taylor."

When Miss Lockhart arrived they went into the boudoir for tea, Barbara
Jackson exclaiming ecstatically to her friend, as she surveyed the
table, "There's nothing like a Kingshouse tea: it's something apart."

"I'm sure it is," said Mrs. Shorter, slipping expectantly into a chair,
"and Committee meetings make me so thirsty."

"Where's Thomas?" Alison asked.

"Somewhere about," said his wife, well knowing that at the sight of
visitors the said Thomas had fled, and was probably now enjoying tea by
the billiard-room fire.  Turning to the new-comer she said--her tone as
interested as she could make it--"I hope, Mrs. ... you are liking this
district?"

"Quite," said Mrs. Shorter.  "But we've been here eighteen months now
and feel ourselves quite old residents."

"Dear me," said Jean incredulously, "it seems no time since the
Johnstons left.  I must be getting old, for time and change are too
much for me, I can't keep up with them.  I used to do my duty fairly
well, but now I hardly ever achieve a call."

"And why should you?" said Alison Lockhart, helping herself to cherry
jam.  "After a certain age we should be excused all social duties.
Leave them to the young, and let us older ones look after our gardens
and make our souls."

"Excellent plan," said Mrs. Douglas.  "Barbara, those little savoury
rolls are good."

Barbara took a roll and, smiling amiably at her hostess, said:

"Please don't take Alison's advice and retire from the social scene.
We can't do without you.  It's absurd to pretend that youth can take
the place of experience."

"That's true enough," said Jean Douglas with some complacence, "and
certainty in this district the most popular woman is frankly
middle-aged.  No, Alison, you and I aren't in the running, our tongues
are too sharp.  Katharyn Eliot is easily the best liked, most
deservedly popular woman in the county.  Jane Ruthurfurd's mantle fell
on her."

"Do you think so?" said Barbara, and turning to her friend explained,
"My aunt, Lady Jane Ruthurfurd, who used to be at Ruthurfurd, I don't
know if you've ever met her."

"I don't think so," Mrs. Shorter said in her assured way.  "Hasn't she
a pretty daughter who is supposed to be going to marry John Dalrymple?
Or isn't going to?  I believe some one told me she wouldn't have him
and that was why he remained a bachelor.  Such a pity!  He is so
charming, and it's so bad for a place, an absentee landlord."

"Have some more tea," said Jean.  "I'm so glad you are helping with the
Nursing, Mrs. Shorter.  I expect Mrs. Jackson persuaded you to."

"Well, one must do something to help when one lives in a neighbourhood,
and Barbara thought the Nursing needed gingering up a bit.  A thing is
apt to get stale when the same people keep on running it.  Mrs. Eliot
is all that's delightful, I'm sure, but she isn't very enterprising, is
she?  I'm only just on, of course, and I must be careful--new brooms,
etc.!--but already I've noticed several little leakages that would be
easy to remedy."

"Ah," said Jean, nodding her head wisely, "some one coming fresh to a
thing does notice what may have escaped the attention of----  Oh, by
the way, Alison, did you find your friend?  I hope she finds the Home
comfortable?"

Alison nodded.  "Mrs. Spiers has no complaints.  The matron seems to be
very good to her, makes time to have a chat with her every day, which
she much appreciates, and the nurses are attentive.  Of course she
misses a lot--the stir of the cottage, the children coming in from
school and her son from his work, the familiar smells from the
kitchen--scones baking, clothes being ironed--the 'crack' of the
neighbours....  I must see to it that some one of her own is taken in
to see her every day so long as she is able to speak to them--the
matron doesn't think it will be long."

"I hope it won't," said Jean softly: "_poor_ body!"

"And yet," said Barbara, "how thankful they should be for such a place.
The only alternative would be the Edinburgh Infirmary, much farther
from home.  I'm always preaching that to the patients, but there's very
little gratitude among them!  Audrey," to her friend, "I'm afraid I
must tear you away.  I've got to be home for Andrew's hour."

"Of course," said Mrs. Shorter, getting up.  Holding out her hand to
her hostess she said, "Isn't Barbara a _perfect_ mother? ... Thank you
for my good tea.  It was so sweet of you to let me come.  May I come
again?  I shan't expect you to come to me, but if you could spare
time....  Good-bye, Miss Lockhart."

When the door closed behind the departing guests, Mrs. Douglas said:

"I must say Barbara tried to be very pleasant.  I wish I liked her
better.  Let's have another cup of tea now that we're alone.  What do
you think of Mrs. Shorter?"

"Barbara says she has a great deal of poise."

"Oh, is that poise?  I would have called it impudence.  But she's a
neat, pretty little creature and, I daresay, capable.  By the way, have
you heard anything of John Dalrymple lately?"

"Nothing much.  George said in a letter that he had run across him in
his club and thought him looking ill."

"I wonder," said Jean, "why he didn't come to Newby for the shooting
this autumn.  Jane Ruthurfurd was asking news of him in her last
letter, so he can't be writing to her or Nicole.  How tiresome it is
when people won't do the obvious and proper thing."




CHAPTER XIII

  "O there be players that I have seen play--"
                                      _Hamlet._


Car Eliot quickly became engulfed in her work at the Dramatic College,
and was little seen in the boarding-house.  Going to bed tired out she
was apt to sleep late in the morning, then had to bolt her breakfast,
and rush to the bus or tube.  Often she did not get in for dinner and,
altogether, as Miss Dennistoun told her, was about as difficult to
catch a glimpse of as the Loch Ness Monster.

"That's what I feel like!" said Car.  "I only really rise to the
surface and get a breath of air on Sundays."

It was a wet Sunday morning and they were all gathered round the
drawing-room fire after breakfast.  Mrs. Ireland was almost invisible
among shawls, Mrs. Eridge and Miss Dennistoun were protected by
Shetland cardigans, while Car wore a short-sleeved jumper with her
tweed skirt.

Mrs. Eridge looked at the girl's bare arms and shivered.  "My dear,"
she said, "are you wise?  It's so easy to get pneumonia, and it's so
often fatal."

Car smiled reassuringly at the anxious lady.  "I'm as warm as toast.
It's all as you accustom yourself.  I make very little difference in
winter, and I practically never take cold."

"There's something in that," said Miss Dennistoun.  "The more you put
on the more you have to put on.  I knew a girl whose mother was almost
crazily anxious about her--she was the only one who had survived
childhood, and her mother wouldn't have her sent to school and fussed
about her continually, making her wear woollies and long-sleeved
spencers, till the girl simply rebelled.  She found out what other
girls wore, and how peculiarly she was dressed, and one day she threw
off all her woollies and got herself into the scantiest of _crpe de
Chine_ wisps--and _wasn't one scrap the worse_!  Indeed, she became a
much more normal and healthy girl in every way.  The fact of wearing
smooth pretty things underneath seemed in some strange way to change
her whole outlook on life.  Yes, she became surer of herself, developed
a pretty taste in clothes, struck out a line of her own, had her own
friends and her own interests, and I heard only the other day that she
is going to marry a rising young politician."

Every one looked impressed, and Mrs. Eridge said, "That's a very
satisfactory story, but all the same it was a risk.  I'm a great
believer in woollies for our climate, indeed, for all climates.  Even
in India I always wore wool next my skin, very light, of course, but
still wool--and a cholera belt.  Indeed, to that I attribute our good
health: I always insisted on Charles doing the same."

Colonel Eridge, who did not care to hear his underclothing discussed,
opened the _Sunday Times_ with a rustle, and Mrs. Ireland, peering like
a tortoise from her shawls, said:

"In my young days we always wore at least one flannel petticoat, and
one starched one with flounces of crochet, or Swiss embroidery; solid
stays tightly laced, slip-bodices high to the neck, and all our dresses
were lined."  She laughed a little as she added: "I think I'd like to
be young in these days, light on my feet and free to play games with no
heavy draperies round my legs.  And it must be a great experience to
fly!"

Car, looking across at the large wrinkled old face, felt a pang of pity.

"But why not?" she asked.  "Why give up and sit by the fire?  There's
no reason why you shouldn't fly.  You'd enjoy it, and it would do you
good to feel you'd done it.  I've been reading such a good story about
a man of eighty-eight who went off in a buggy--it was an American
story--driving twenty-eight miles to a Fair, with a small
great-grandson, visited every show, ate everything that pleased him,
and jogged home again, and though he nearly died of it in the night, he
was able to laugh the next day and to say: 'The only thing to do with
life is to give a whoop and let it rip.'  I think that's quite a good
way to look at it."

"Very American," said Mrs. Eridge dubiously, but Mrs. Ireland smiled
approvingly.  "I think it's true," she said.  "It's feeble to do
nothing but nurse the little flame that's left alight in you....  But
I'm afraid I'm too late in thinking of it.  I've nobody to do things
with me: you need a very big spirit to do things alone."

"But you're not alone," Miss Dennistoun said.  "If ever you feel like
doing anything spectacular let me know and we'll do it together.  Like
you I want to fly.  But at the moment I want to hear what Miss Eliot
does all day at that Dramatic College.  Won't you tell us?"

"I'd love to," Car said, "though I'm afraid you'll find it far from
interesting, and Colonel Eridge wants to read his paper."

"No, indeed," said that gentleman.  "Anything you tell us would, I am
sure, be much more interesting than ... Please go on, Miss Eliot.  It's
so seldom we have the pleasure of your company."

Car hesitated, then said:

"Well, here's a typical beginner's day:

"10 o'clock.  A lecture, mostly about the history of the Drama, by way
of giving us what they call rather pompously, a cultural background.
Knitting (there's quite an epidemic of it just now), whispering,
sweet-eating, and learning parts are strictly forbidden, but in spite
of it they flourish gaily.  Nearly every one whispers, and gabbles
parts in spite of the lecturer's frantic efforts to enforce order.  11
o'clock.  Elocution, for which we have to learn up passages of prose
and verse.  I like this class.  The actress who takes it is a tiger,
but rather inspiring to work for.  12 o'clock.  A dancing lesson in the
gymnasium.  We wear pleated black silk skirts and white silk shirts,
and are filthy at the end of the lesson as the gym is thick in dust
which would-be Pavlovas have kicked up in it.  We pirouette and prance,
and stand with one leg upon parallel bars, until one o'clock when we
get ten minutes for lunch----"

"_Ten minutes!_" said Colonel Eridge, who liked to sit over a meal for
a good hour.

"Ten minutes," Car repeated.  "And by the time we've dashed up to the
cloakroom to change and wash there's only five minutes--and it's almost
impossible to get served in the refectory with such a crowd of hungry
students clamouring for food.  Car stopped, and added pathetically,
"I'm hungry all the time--when I'm not too utterly worn out to feel
anything."

"I can well believe it," said Miss Dennistoun.  "But so far you've
never mentioned acting."

"I'm coming to that.  At 1.15 we have a rehearsal.  Last term--my
first--we did _The Merchant of Venice_, a French play, _She Stoops to
Conquer_, _Lilies of the Field_, and a Greek play.  So you can imagine
it was pretty strenuous.  A rehearsal goes on for about two hours, and
if taken by a competent producer never seems a minute too long, but
under some producers they are simply chaotic.  Miss Irene Barton--I
expect you've seen her act?--is wonderful.  She always knows who are
shirking work, or whispering, or shamming sick, as well as those whose
hearts are in the job.  Next comes a French rehearsal.  That's our
daily trial.  Mademoiselle has a rooted idea that all students are lazy
and disobedient and incompetent by nature, and can only be controlled
by severity.  She has an exceedingly witty and bitter tongue and loves
to reduce the whole class to tears.  This class goes on till five, but
we're allowed off in batches to get tea.  At 5.15 we have a make-up
class, and that we all adore.  It's held in the dressing-room of the
theatre, and for a happy half-hour we mess about with paint vying with
each other who will look most grotesque."

"And how long does your day last?" asked Mrs. Eridge.

"We get off about 6.30 unless there's an extra rehearsal, when we don't
leave the building till after eight....  The programme, of course,
isn't the same each day, it's varied by fencing lessons, lectures on
mime and gesture, or lectures on stage-designing and playwriting."

"And tell me," said Miss Dennistoun, "do you all have a part in the
plays?"

"Well," said Car, "we get bits of parts.  The classes are so large that
the parts have to be split up, so sometimes there are five Portias, and
so on.  It's very different with the men's parts.  Men are so much in
the minority at the College that they have an unfair advantage."

"And are you young people all very happy together?" asked Mrs. Eridge.

"Not a bit," said Car.  "There are some very nice girls, and they try
to keep out of the general scrum of jealousy and back-biting, but we're
rather like bait in a can, all trying to crawl over each other!  It's
really a case of the survival of the fittest.  The work is purposely
screwed up to such an exacting pitch that no one who isn't in earnest
can stick it out for more than one term.  Sometimes the Principal sends
for a pupil and breaks it to her as gently as possible (he's a
kind-hearted man) that the stage is evidently not her _mtier_.  I'm
expecting the summons any day!

"Oh, _no_," said Mrs. Eridge.  "I'm sure that is _most_ unlikely."

"I've got a niece," said Miss Dennistoun, in her brisk way, "who is
keen to go in for acting.  Would you advise her to go to the Dramatic
College?"

Car considered.  "It depends on how keen she is.  What's her age?"

"She's just eighteen.  She finished at St. Leonards last summer and is
having a year in Paris."

"She's about the right age.  (I'm rather old.)  If she is strong and
willing--it sounds like an advertisement for a kitchen-maid--and
pushing, I might add, for if you are too retiring, too much of a lady,
you may never get a show at all.  And talented, of course."

"Ah, that's the real point," said Miss Dennistoun.  "I've no idea how
good Rosemary is.  She's a pretty child, and always carried off the
honours at school shows, and people said to her, 'Oh, you must go on
the stage'--so delightfully simple!  I'd be glad to have her settle
down at home with me--her parents are dead--but like so many others she
wants a job."

"There aren't enough to go round," said Colonel Eridge; "and girls with
good homes ought to stay in them."

Car blushed and said, "Acting isn't like an ordinary job: it's like
writing, either you can do it or you can't."

"In my day," said Mrs. Ireland, who had quite forgotten that a few
minutes before she had had a desire to fly, and spoke as the complete
Victorian, "in my day girls were content to stay at home and help their
mothers till Mr. Right came along."

"And if he didn't come," said Car, "were they still contented?"

"If they weren't no one knew it," said Mrs. Ireland, knitting briskly.
There was that in her air that seemed to glory in the stoicism of her
contemporaries, and reflect on the less restrained attitude of the girl
of to-day, and to Car it seemed that the others shared it.

She had been trying to entertain them, and probably they were only
thinking how much better she would be at home, and wondering why she
spent laborious days training for a profession in which she might never
get a footing.  Well, they could wonder.  She was determined to go on
and find out if she would ever be any good.  And even the spade work
was a joy to her.  Besides, there was nothing for her to do at home.
The monotony of the leisurely round drove her to a frenzy.  It was
different for her mother, she loved it, and anyway, she had an outlet
in her writing.  And as for waiting patiently for Mr. Right--how she
hated the ridiculous, arch expression....  Her thoughts flew to George
Lockhart.  He, she supposed, would be hailed by every one as Mr. Right.
Well, George had discovered that she wasn't waiting to pick up the
handkerchief when he was kind enough to drop it.  Then her heart smote
her.  There had been no complacency about George's abrupt, unexpected
proposal, and her hurried, almost apologetic refusal seemed to be a
blow to him.  George was part of her life at home, a great friend--but
not to be thought of as a husband.  How wonderful, thought Car, to be
married to some one who would understand and share one's enthusiasms
and hopes, to live a life that would be no dead level of solid comfort
and certainty, but thrilling in its variety, now on the heights, now in
the depths, a life full of change and amusement and anxiety, but never
monotonous.  She looked round the room.  The fire was bright, there
were fresh flowers, the covers of the chairs and sofas were clean.
Colonel Eridge was reading his paper, his wife was going through a
bundle of letters tidily confined in an elastic band, preparatory to a
morning's letter-writing.  Miss Dennistoun, who refrained from
embroidery on Sunday, was reading the newly published life of a great
missionary, presently she would go out to lunch.  Mrs. Ireland, to whom
Sunday and Saturday were the same, knitted as usual.

Murmuring something Car left the room, and met Mrs. Armstrong in the
hall.

"I was just coming for you, Car.  You're wanted on the telephone."

Car took up the receiver.

"That you, Car?" said George's voice.  "I wonder if you'd care to come
to the Temple church this morning, and lunch with me afterwards.  I've
two other people coming.  All right.  I'll meet you at the door.  Pity
it's such a bad day.  Good-bye."




CHAPTER XIV

  "How heavy do I journey on the way...."
                SONNETS OF WM. SHAKESPEARE.


The small room that Mrs. Armstrong called her own, and her sons had
christened "the dowie den," occupied a good strategic position, behind
the dining-room and not too far from the kitchen.  There she sat for a
good part of every day, writing letters, doing accounts, evolving menus
with the cook, discussing supplies.  She had early found that if she
wanted a thing well done she must see to it herself, so every day she
inspected the rooms to see that they were being well kept, looked after
the flowers, wrote out the menus, and gave the small touches that make
the difference between a grim boarding-house and a comfortable home.
She could not afford to be lavish, but she knew that it was false
economy to stint food or coals or laundry.  The meals were as varied as
possible, and she saw to it that there was constant hot water, good
fires, and clean bed and table linen.

"You know," Mrs. Eridge said to Miss Dennistoun one day when they had
come in from a wet and dreary afternoon, and settled down before a good
fire, with tea in the offing, "we really are very fortunate to be here.
It's almost like being in one's own house, with pleasant people staying
without the worry of servants and house-keeping.  Last winter we were
in a private hotel in Kensington--I told you, didn't I, that we let our
house in Cheltenham every winter--and though it was very nice, still
there was a restlessness, with so many people coming and going.  Here,
although quite a number of chance people come (I suppose one tells
another, and I am quite glad to see them for Mrs. Armstrong's sake),
they don't seem to worry us, do they?  They are out practically all day
and in the evenings too, and we have our own cosy little circle round
the fire quite undisturbed.  You are so well read and intelligent and
travelled, dear Miss Dennistoun, that it's quite an education to talk
to you, and it makes such a difference to Charles, for he does like to
discuss what is happening in the papers.  I try to take an interest,
but I'm afraid sometimes I irritate him by asking foolish questions.
Not that he isn't patient, he always was, dear fellow, even in India,
where the heat makes every one irritable.  And these are anxious times.
I can't quite understand how it is that with a big surplus on the
Budget and trade improving that dividends should still be going down.
Our income is exactly halved, dear Miss Dennistoun."

Her companion's face was sympathetic as she said encouragingly, "Yes,
things are difficult with most of us, but now that trade really seems
on the upward grade everything must improve.  Some dividends weren't
affected at first, and they will take time to recover, but they _will_
recover if there isn't another world crash--which may God forbid...!
We are fortunate, as you say, to have found this refuge.  Like you, I'm
a good deal poorer than I once was, and when I got a chance--a most
unexpected one--to let my house well, I jumped at it and am enjoying
the rest and change greatly....  I must say I've a great respect for
Mrs. Armstrong, she does her job efficiently, and, have you noticed, we
never hear a word about her difficulties, any more than we get
reminiscences of her past splendour?  We never hear if the servants are
tiresome, the tradespeople fail, or if guests make a nuisance of
themselves.  And, mind you, keeping a boarding-house is a whole-time
job; there's no discharge in that war.  Her heart must fail her often,
because it isn't as if she had been used to work and plan and pinch.
To have lived all her life protected and thought for, and then suddenly
to be thrown on the world, with two boys dependent on her and very
little money--I wouldn't for the world add to her worries.  I often
wish I could help her in little ways, but she might resent it if I
tried to."

"She might," Mrs. Eridge agreed; "she doesn't ask for pity, does she?
It is always so delightful when she comes into the drawing-room and
talks to us for a little.  And she looks so restful and unhurried as if
she hadn't a care in the world.  How does she do it?"

Miss Dennistoun shook her head.  "Don't ask me.  In her place I'd be
like a 'hen on a het girdle' as we say in Scotland, so worried about
this and that as to be incapable of sane conversation.  And Mrs.
Armstrong discusses books and music and plays as if these, and not more
mundane matters, were her chief concern."

"And her clothes are always pretty and fresh," said Mrs. Eridge, "and
black and white isn't easy to keep fresh."

Alice Armstrong's heart did sometimes fail her when she thought of
going on keeping a boarding-house year after year.  But she seldom
allowed herself to look forward.  A day at a time, she found, was the
only way to live this life.  And after all, as she often told herself,
you never can tell what may be waiting for you round the corner, and
the world might end to-night.  Not that she wanted it to do that and
cheat Ralph and Phil out of their chance.  That was the one thing she
cared for now, that her boys would do well and get the best out of
life.  With gratitude she owned that the way had been opened up for
them amazingly.  She had left Armstrong dazed, bruised in spirit,
broken-hearted, with only one desire to take herself off where she was
not known, where no one would ask questions or try to be kind.  She
knew she must do something to make a living, she had furniture enough
to furnish a good-sized house and the idea came to her that she might
keep boarders.  Her lawyer found a suitable place and she began the
struggle at once.

These first August days were a nightmare.  The misery of starting a job
she knew nothing about, the seemingly hopeless quest for reliable
servants, her fright at her first guests, the knowledge that the boys
were wretched, not knowing what to do to help, their only occupation
searching the newspapers for possible jobs, and taking poor bewildered
Buster for walks.

She had discovered then how much she missed her friends, and when
Alison Lockhart had suddenly arrived one sultry afternoon Alice
Armstrong had found herself, most unexpectedly, weeping on her shoulder.

After that things had rapidly improved.  Katharyn Eliot's letter came
inviting the boys to Eliotstoun, and from that visit resulted Ralph's
job in the Hudson's Bay Company, the sort of job he had longed for, and
the offer from the Douglases to send Phil to Edinburgh University and,
later, start him in law.  It was such a relief to know that her sons'
futures were reasonably assured that nothing else seemed to matter
much.  With luck she could pay her way and keep a roof over her head,
and it was a home for the boys to come back to.  The other alternative
had been to live by herself in rooms or in some private hotel.  Then
she would have had no responsibility, no anxiety, but she shuddered at
the thought of her empty days.  Her one salvation, she felt, lay in
work.

And each day was teaching her something, was making her task easier.
She had discovered in herself a capacity for organization that had
never been called forth in the easy life at Armstrong, where
well-trained servants kept the household running on oiled wheels.  She
found that it was with something like enjoyment that she tackled the
problem of keeping a variety of human beings comfortable and happy, and
making them a paying concern.  She had only been at it four months.
The first month had been, more or less, chaos, but now she felt the
ground firm beneath her feet.  Confidence was gradually coming to her,
she no longer trembled beneath the rudeness of untrained low-class
servants, or the too exacting demands of some passing guest.  The house
was beginning to be known, by one telling another, as a pleasant,
moderate place to stay if one had to be in London on business or
pleasure, and her permanent boarders seemed well satisfied.

If only she could hold on to the Archers.  They were the linchpin of
the establishment.  Mrs. Archer cooked well and economically, was
clean, industrious, and honest, and her husband was not only good at
the table and obliging in every way, but was so full of information
about London, and suggestions about what sight-seers might visit, that
he quickly became a great favourite with every guest.  That was the
snag.  Archer was too much of a success with every one.  His wife found
(or imagined) that the housemaids cast too kind an eye on him for her
peace of mind.  Whenever he was out of her sight she was miserable, and
as Archer's duties took him here, there, and everywhere the poor
woman's life was by no means reposeful.  She complained to her
mistress: "It's the same all the time.  The good places we've had to
give up because people wouldn't leave Archer alone!  I married him when
he came out of the war--that was in 1919, for he was in Germany for a
bit--and me being a cook and him having been a batman to an officer and
no work offering for him, we decided to get a place together as cook
and handy-man.  It was easy enough to get one, but once there the
trouble began.  Archer just can't 'elp making himself a favourite--I
don't say he means it, but he _has_ such a forthcoming way with him.
It's 'Let me do that for you, Miss, a pleasure I assure you,' and the
mischief's done!  Girls are all that silly, and in these days they
don't respect the marriage-bond.  What I've 'ad to stand, m'm, you'd
'ardly credit it.  The impudent hussies!  Yes, m'm, I tried taking a
place, only the two of us, in the depths of the country, but it was no
good, some one was always fussin' after Archer, the only difference
bein' that I hadn't them under my eye.  I don't say there's any harm in
it, for Archer, to give him his due, is a good livin' man, but he's
soft an' I've no peace of mind, and without peace life's not worth
living.  Even with ladies it's Archer this and Archer that.  'Ask
Archer, he'll know.'  'Archer is so obliging.'  An' me cookin' and
worritin' my brains to turn out new dishes for them, and I never get so
much as a word of thanks."

"Oh yes, you do," her mistress assured her.  "I'm always being
complimented on the cooking in this house.  Some one was telling me
only the other night that there was so much imagination in it.'"

"Well, there!" said Mrs. Archer, somewhat dubiously.

"The lady meant that your dishes are just a little different.  Your
sauces are so good, and your soups have a flavour, and you're a wizard
with ices.  They don't taste of face-cream as so many ices do.  Your
cooking holds the establishment together.  You and I together can make
the place a success, so don't desert me.  Try not to worry so much
about Archer.  What does it matter if Gladys does make eyes at him?
Tell yourself there's safety in numbers."

But Mrs. Archer shook her head despondently.  "The trouble is I look
older than him.  I'm not, m'm, we're just an age, but cookin' all day
in a hot kitchen I can't expect to keep up my looks, an' Archer's that
debonairy he doesn't look his years.  Gladys, the slut, pretended to me
she thought I was his aunt!  I assured her, very dignified like, that
she wasn't likely ever to be taken for anything so respectable as an
aunt.  Connie's an 'armless, stupid girl, but Gladys is an 'arpy.  And
she smokes, did you know, m'm? and rouges her face--all the vices of
her age you might say.  Not that I mind what sort of a puppy show she
makes of herself if she wouldn't blink her eyes at Archer.  And call me
Auntie--that's a real insult, ain't it, m'm?"

The cook leaned her floury hands on the table as she gazed up at her
mistress, and Alice, looking at the troubled, honest, moist face, could
not but feel pity for her.

"Mrs. Archer," she said, "it's very impudent of Gladys, and very hard
for you to bear.  But try to remember that in this life we've all got
something to put up with.  Try to pretend that you notice nothing: it
gives her pleasure, I'm afraid, to make you miserable.  And you
remember, the last housemaid was worse, for she was both impudent and
useless, and Gladys is a good worker.  I depend on you to help me, and
I know you won't fail....  I could arrange to let you and Archer out in
the afternoons, and Gladys and Connie in the evening the moment they've
finished their work.  That would give you more peace from them.  I
quite see the difficulty.  It's wretched for a married couple to have
no time together."

"It wouldn't do to have another man, instead of the two girls," Mrs.
Archer asked.  "There's plenty about, poor souls."

Her mistress looked doubtful.  "It wouldn't be very convenient, would
it?  I doubt if Mrs. Ireland would care to have a man bring in her
morning tea, and----"

"There's Mrs. Cowie," said the cook eagerly, "she'd be only too glad to
come in every morning for an hour or two--a nice refined person she is
to have about bedrooms."

"Well, we must think it over.  At present Gladys and Connie are doing
their work quite well and I can't send them away with no reason....
What about a fish souffl to-night?"

Mrs. Archer sighed resignedly.  "As you say, m'am.  I'm sure I don't
want to make things 'arder for you.  After all, you've lost your
husband, and I still have Archer in a manner of speakin'.  All the
same, if he were laid away in Kensal Green and I could go every Sunday
and lay flowers on his grave, and have a nice enlarged photo of him in
my room I'm not sure that I wouldn't feel him more mine than he is now,
'aving to share him with all manner of people.  But these things aren't
in our hands....  Very well, m'm, I'll make the souffl and perhaps a
butter-scotch ice?"

"Yes, that's a great favourite, and there's a birthday party before the
play.  Such a pretty girl, eighteen to-day, here with her parents and
her brothers.  We must try to have things extra nice--I'm going out to
see about the flowers now...."

Alice Armstrong found, as every one must who has anything to do with
human beings, that she had to do, a good deal of soothing and some
cajoling, not only in the kitchen but upstairs.  Some of her boarders
had got into the habit of looking to her for sympathy, which she was
very willing to give, and if sometimes her attention wandered during
one of Mrs. Eridge's endless monologues about Cheltenham and Bundapore,
at least her face never lost its expression of absorbed attention.
Mrs. Ireland had moments of feeling her age and loneliness, usually
between the hours of five and six when the others were out, and Alice
liked to be near to turn her thoughts in another direction.  Very
little did it--a new stitch, a request for some of her reminiscences,
some small attention like a bunch of violets, or even a cake of special
soap.

Sometimes Alice Armstrong told herself that eventually she could see 10
Cambridge Gardens becoming a sort of home for the lonely and aged; but
it was not that yet.  Not while Miss Dennistoun, the robust and
cheerful, seemed to bring a breath of bracing St. Andrews air, and Car
Eliot dashed in and out, so absorbed in her work that she could think
of little else, and the two city gentlemen gave a hint of business
briskness to the establishment, and little family parties enjoyed a
holiday beneath its roof.




CHAPTER XV

  "And when in thee Time's furrows I behold...."
                      SONNETS OF WM. SHAKESPEARE.


Towards the end of November Katharyn Eliot was in London on her way to
her mother's house in Gloucestershire, where Tom and Rory were joining
her for their week-end leave from Eton, and she spent a night or two at
10 Cambridge Gardens, anxious to see something of Car, and to satisfy
herself that she was well placed and happy.

To Alice Armstrong the short visit was like a well of water in a
thirsty land.  At home, in the Borders, the Armstrongs and the Eliots
had been friendly but not intimate.  Ralph Armstrong had been rather a
possessive husband, and had liked his wife to do everything with him.
With her husband and her boys and her house she had not had much time
for her neighbours, but now Mrs. Eliot seemed to wear a halo, coming
out of that past that was like a happy dream, too perfect ever to have
existed.

Katharyn sat with Mrs. Armstrong in her room the evening she arrived,
noticing without commenting on them the pictures of Armstrong above the
mantelpiece, the photographs and sketches that made for an exile a bit
of the Borders in Bayswater, and listened.

For once Alice Armstrong talked, and found relief in telling everything
to one who could understand.  She told of her husband's sudden illness
and death, and the shattering decision that they must leave Armstrong.

"It wasn't Ralph's fault," she insisted eagerly.  "Things had been
going from bad to worse for a long time.  I suspected it, but he hated
to worry me and said nothing, and to better things was tempted to
speculate.  What could he be expected to know about stocks and shares?
If only he had told me we might have found a way out between us, but I
knew he did it for the best, his only thought was for the boys and
me....  Not that anybody wanted to cheat, I daresay they thought their
advice was sound--but there it was, everything had to go.  There was
only enough money to bring me in a small income, but the furniture was
mine and I thought here was a way to make a living.  Perhaps if I'd
known what I know now I wouldn't have attempted it, but I rushed at it,
for it seemed the only way to keep a roof over our heads.  The lawyer
thought this house was a bargain, for it was in good repair and well
situated, quiet and yet convenient for 'buses and tubes, and I took it.
Then I began to find what I'd let myself in for.  Even a house that
looks well may need a lot, and it seemed wise to put running water in
the bedrooms and so forth, while we were in confusion anyway, so all
July the place swarmed with workmen.  You know what last summer was
like, and it seemed awful in London to country people like ourselves.
The maids I got from registry offices were the kind who desire no place
to rest, and simply walk in and out of situations.  When things were
more or less in order a few boarders came, sent by friends of my own,
and I did my best for them.  I say 'I' with truth, for at all times I
was both cook and kitchen-maid and most other things.  Fortunately
cooking has always been my hobby, though I got very little chance to
try my hand at Armstrong, and now I was on my mettle.  Ralph and Phil
buttled, poor darlings, and helped the charwoman.  It was a funny time,
but there was one thing, it kept me from brooding.  I was too busy all
day and too tired at night to think.  But that sort of thing can't go
on long, and one day at the end of August things seemed to get suddenly
desperate.  A cook that we thought was going to be a treasure walked
out after two days, taking with her some of our belongings.  A boarder
who had come for a week and seemed such a pleasant guest, left without
paying her bill.  (Being a novice I had never thought such a thing
possible.)  Phil looked seedy and confessed to a sore throat, and
Buster was sick on the drawing-room carpet.  In the midst of it the
door-bell rang.  I went myself--and there stood Alison Lockhart....  At
home I'd always been rather afraid of her--you know that twisted
sardonic smile she gives?--but that day she seemed a bit of the life
that was gone, that wonderful life where cooks cooked, and there were
pleasant undisturbed meals and flowers and peace, and before I knew
what I was doing I found myself weeping on her shoulder."

"You poor thing," said Katharyn, "I don't wonder.  And Alison would be
kind, I know."

"More than kind....  That was the turning-point; things have gone on
improving ever since.  To begin with, you took the boys for that
gorgeous holiday at Eliotstoun, and that was a great burden off my
mind.  And you got their father's friends to interest themselves.
Ralph writes such happy letters from Winnipeg.  I think he ought to get
on; he's a good mixer and a hard worker."

"Like his mother," said Katharyn.  "And Phil is happy in Edinburgh."

"Oh, utterly.  He was so homesick for Scotland, poor boy.  I can never
be grateful enough to the Douglases for making it possible for him to
live there."

"I think they'd tell you that the gratitude is on their side.  Jean
loves boys, and it's a joy to her to have him.  Thomas never says much,
but I hear he quite brisks up when the Saturdays bring your Phil.  But
tell me how you manage.  It seems a most comfortable place.  You must
have a competent staff.  Archer is a host in himself."

Alice laughed.  "That's just it.  Archer is too much of an Admirable
Crichton.  Every one admires him so much that his poor wife--a perfect
treasure of a cook--spends her life in jealous misery.  I don't know
what's to be done about it.  I'm terrified to hear every time I go to
the kitchen that she wants to give up her place.  She doesn't mind the
ladies petting him, that rather pleases her as a compliment to her own
taste, but when Gladys the housemaid under her very eyes makes love to
him, it's a little more than she can bear.  She says it's been the same
in every place, and she wants me to put away the maid-servants and get
another man.  It's all very difficult, and not in the least funny for
poor Mrs. Archer, but I'm hoping things will settle themselves if I lie
low and say nothing."

"I hope so," said Katharyn.  "And what about my girl?  I hope she
doesn't add to your burden."

"Indeed, no.  We all see too little of her.  She flashes like a
kingfisher across our rather drab scene.  I'm amused sometimes to see,
when she happens to enter the drawing-room, how the permanents try to
entice her into spending a little time with them.  It's rather nice to
see her sitting on the arm of old Mrs. Ireland's chair telling her
about something that has happened at the Dramatic College, and the old
lady all smiles and interest, so flattered by the attention.  Car is a
great favourite in this house."

"Then she will be at her best," said Car's mother.  "She seems happy,
does she?  Her letters home are very cheerful, and she says she much
prefers staying with you to being with her grandmother in South Street.
That I quite understand.  My mother, who is rather rigidly of another
age, has a strong distaste for this dramatic craze of Car's, and never
misses a chance of saying something cutting about it.  It's trying for
the girl, for her heart is really in her work, though I doubt whether
she has any real talent."

"Oh, surely!  Car is pretty and graceful, with a charming voice--all
great assets."

"But not enough to make it worth her while to continue the training,
and I think she is beginning to realize that herself.  She sometimes
writes rather wistfully about other students in whom she thinks she
sees the divine spark.  And, honestly, I'd be more than thankful if
she'd recognize her own limitations and give it all up."

"She would forget her ambition if she fell in love."

"Not if the man had the same ambition.  I wouldn't like her to marry an
actor."

Car was delighted to see her mother, and got away in time on the Friday
to take her to dinner and a play.

"I must have missed you a lot more than I realized," she told her.  "My
heart positively jumped when I saw you in your old fur coat, with the
perplexed pucker between your eyebrows, among all the waved, painted,
upholstered herd."

"I'm afraid I'm pretty shabby," Katharyn said, "but I'm so little in
London that it isn't worth while to buy town clothes, they'd only get
out of fashion, and I've plenty for home wear....  You're looking well,
darling, in spite of your hard work.  You're coming with us to-morrow
to Longhurst?"

Car nodded.  "Of course I must see Tom and Rory.  But it won't be much
fun for any of us.  Grandmother'll want to testify about all sorts of
things--oh yes, she does, Mummy.  Why should being old give any one the
right to criticize impertinently?  Why, she even criticizes you."

"If I don't mind why should you?  For myself, I'm only too thankful to
find some one who takes enough interest in me to care what I do!
Besides, I know that it's really affection that prompts it.
Grandmother is so anxious to be proud of us all."

"And can find so little reason," mocked Car.  "I've no use for
criticism, anyway.  Adulation is what I want.  But I'll try to take
Granny's in a chastened spirit."

Katharyn's mother, Lady Battye, was certainly a frank and fearless
commentator.  She greeted Car with--"What a ridiculous hat, child!  No,
don't kiss me with those gory lips.  Still posturing, I suppose, in
that dramatic place?  Every time I see you you look more theatrical."

It was her daughter's turn next.

"Katharyn, I'm sorry to see you ageing so fast.  There's such an
unrenewed look about you, do you never get any new clothes?  Oh, I know
times are hard and you have a large and very selfish family, but
pelicaning can be carried too far.  Let them do without for a change
and look after yourself.  Why doesn't Tim see to it?  But he probably
notices nothing; sees you, no doubt, as he saw you when he married you,
young and beautiful."

"Well, Mother dear, surely that is quite a satisfactory state of
things!"

Lady Battye grunted and went on: "Is Helen still staying with those
people?  That, I confess, I cannot understand.  The girl can have no
sense of dignity or decency to be willing to be made a pet and toy of
by strangers, and no affection for her parents and her home."

Katharyn blushed and was silent, and Car broke in, "If Helen likes to
be made a pet of where's the harm?  The Deelings give her a good time,
and she earns her keep by making sunshine in the house.  The phrase is
Mrs. Deelings'."

Lady Battye turned a disgusted eye on her grand-daughter as that young
woman left the room, then her attention fell upon Tom and Rory playing
with a puppy on the lawn.

"Curious," she said, "what an underfed look Rory has, and always had.
From his infancy he looked as if he had come out of some slum.  But
he's a nice boy.  I wish I could say the same about Tom.  Mark my
words, Katharyn, you will have trouble with that boy.  So far as I can
make out talking to him--he mumbles in such an affected way that it is
difficult to make any sense out of his conversation--he has no respect
for anything that he ought to respect, and reverences strange gods."

Katharyn was standing beside her mother looking out at her criticized
offspring.  "It's only a phase," she said.  "It'll pass, Mother."

"I hope so, my dear; I earnestly hope so, but to me it is most alarming
to see a boy of that age who should not have a thought beyond lessons
and games and food, spending his time reading the most advanced and
completely irreligious writers of the day.  So unlike Sandy.  I'm sorry
to have to say it, Katharyn, but he is the only one of your children I
can wholly approve of.  He is normal.  I can understand him.  He's
devoted to outdoor life, he likes adventure as a young man should, and
he's not above being nice to an old woman."

"Yes," Katharyn agreed eagerly, "Sandy's a dear, but so are the others
in their own way."

"Perhaps, but it's not a way I can appreciate....  Now that Caroline is
out of the room I must expostulate about her being allowed to go about
looking a positive Jezebel, with those painted lips and
finger-nails--like those poor Indian women we send missionaries out to
convert.  I'm tempted to try my hand as a missionary with Caroline."

"Please don't, Mother.  Car knows quite well you disapprove.  Tim and I
hate it too.  I think she does it as a gesture, to show her
independence, poor child."

Lady Battye snorted like a war-horse.  "Poor child indeed!  If I were
Tim I would simply deliver an ultimatum.  Either she washes her face
and stays at home and makes herself useful, or she goes out and earns
her own living as best she can.  What is the use of a gesture of
independence when she's spending her father's money in riotous living?"

Katharyn laughed in spite of herself.  "Oh no, Mother, it's far from
riotous living at the Dramatic College.  It's hard labour sweetened by
coffee and doughnuts as far as I can make out!  And it's my money that
keeps her there, that I make by writing.  I use it for extra things
like that.  And Car really is keen, and works hard.  If she doesn't get
her training now it will be too late: they've got to start young."

"What worries me," said Lady Battye, "is that it's high time Caroline
was thinking of marriage instead of this tomfoolery.  There was a young
man who sometimes came to see her in South Street whom I thought highly
of, a George Lockhart, a neighbour of yours.  He was the only one of
her friends that was worth calling a man--and with good prospects, I
gathered."

She looked searchingly at her daughter, who replied:

"Yes, he heirs Fairniehopes.  You remember Alison Lockhart's place?
You've been there, I know.  Car and George are great friends, but
whether they will ever be more is doubtful.  It would be so perfect
that one hardly dares think about it."

"You can help it on," said Lady Battye.

"I'll never try," said Katharyn, remembering with a shudder her
mother's methods with eligible suitors in her own young days.

"You were by no means easy to manage yourself," her mother reminded
her, "and might have done so much better.  It was a great
disappointment to me when you became engaged to Tim Eliot.  You might
have had such a different life.  Think of Dick Collingham!  What a
position you would have had as his wife!  We all thought at the time
that you were throwing yourself away, and we have been proved right.
There you sit year in and year out at Eliotstoun, and are never seen in
London.  You must be forgotten by nearly every one, and if any of your
old friends saw you they would be as shocked as I am.  Obviously you
have lost interest in your appearance.  You should never have allowed
your forehead to pucker like that, it gives you such an anxious look.
Go to some place and see about it, and I'll pay for the treatment
myself.  I don't like made-up faces, but there's a happy medium between
that and letting yourself go altogether.  After all you are only
forty-five, is it?  No need to look a wreck at forty-five."

"I know, Mother," said Katharyn meekly.  "I hadn't realized at home
that I looked so bad.  I suppose every one there is used to me and
doesn't notice, and I'm getting so short-sighted that the casual glance
in my looking-glass which is about all I've time for doesn't reveal
much.  But I must say I was rather startled yesterday seeing myself
suddenly in a shop mirror."

"No wonder.  You really must do something about it when you are in
London.  I heard the other day of a good woman.  No, of course, I don't
visit her myself, but I know people who do, and they speak highly of
her."

"But, Mother, _one_ visit would be of no use."

"Yes, it would, you would be able to get advice as to what to use,
creams and that sort of thing.  I'll telephone now and make an
appointment.  Deborah Rideout is the name.  Faked, I should think, but
easy to remember, and the address is 20 Ebury Crescent.  Have you taken
that down?"

"Yes, Mother," said Katharyn meekly, having learnt by experience that
argument with such a parent was useless.

"Must you go home on Tuesday?" Lady Battye continued.  "Surely when you
come so seldom, to London you could lengthen your visit."

"Tim expects me on Tuesday," said Katharyn, and her mother, recognizing
the tone as final, said no more.

The week-end did not pass without some passages at arms between Lady
Battye and her grandchildren, and on Sunday night Car came to her
mother's room and loudly proclaimed her relief that the visit was
nearly over.

"And to-morrow night, Mother, you're coming with us to the play.  That
will be fun!  I told you George had got seats for Priestley's new play?
I want to see it very much.  And he has asked Gwen too.  Isn't it
decent of him?"

"Has George met your friend?" Katharyn asked.

"Not yet, but he's heard me talk lots about her.  We're dining with him
at a new place he says is quite good.  I have a note of the place and
time somewhere.  I hope you'll like Gwen, Mother."

To make up for rather a dull week-end the boys spent the Monday in
London, lunching off their favourite dishes, and dragging their mother
here and there to see various things that interested them.  Katharyn
would have been glad after seeing them off to go back to Mrs.
Armstrong's to rest, but her appointment with the 'face-lady,' as in
her mind she called her, was for five o'clock, so, somewhat unwillingly
she set out to see her.

One is not at one's best after a wet November day spent in shopping and
sight-seeing in London, and Katharyn wondered how she was to confront a
fashionable (and probably supercilious) beauty doctor in her grimy and
dishevelled state.  Not that it mattered of course.  She was only going
because her mother had made such a point of it, and Deborah Rideout
would certainly never see her again.  Still, it is never pleasant to
feel oneself at a disadvantage, and it was with a sinking heart that
she paid off her taxi and rang the bell of No. 20 Ebury Crescent.

The waiting-room, small and intimate and empty, had green walls on
which hung a few good prints, a beautiful bureau, comfortable chairs,
and a bright coal fire.  Katharyn had not been seated for more than a
few minutes, and had only begun to glance at a copy of the _Tatler_,
when she was startled by a voice saying "Will you come in, please?"
and, looking up, found that the door communicating with another room
had been opened and that she was being invited inside.  A tall woman in
white, with fair hair and a serene expression, was smiling at her.
There was a wide couch or divan in the middle of the room, a
dressing-table covered with porcelain pots and bottles, and some bowls
of chrysanthemums.  The towels warming before the fire gave a
comfortable nursery feeling, and when Katharyn had removed her coat and
hat and muddy shoes and had lain down on the couch and been covered
with a rug she felt almost like a child in the hands of a kind Nannie.
It was extraordinarily restful, tired as she was, to lie there, every
muscle relaxed, and have smooth cool cream patted in to her face, to
think of nothing but the peace of this quiet room, to hear nothing but
the soothing voice of the "face-lady" who now and again made a remark
that needed no reply.  The treatment went on for more than half an
hour, and when the ice-cold pads were removed from her eyes and her
face dried and powdered, Katharyn got up, remarking, "It's as well that
I live far out of reach, or I'm afraid I'd want your ministrations
every day, Miss Rideout.  You are Miss Rideout?"

The tall lady smiled and nodded.  "Yes, and it's my real name.  I'm a
Quaker.  I know it seems an odd profession for a Quaker to choose, but
I'm not quite an ordinary 'beauty doctor.'  I give herbal treatments
for the skin, and all sorts of people come to me, men and women."

Katharyn, studying her face in the mirror, said, "I'd almost lost touch
with my face, except for a hasty glance when doing my hair....  Now I
feel so refreshed and clean.  I suppose I ought to keep doing things to
my face?"

"Your skin is really very good.  If you like I'll give you some cream
to rub in regularly, a feeding cream.  It won't take away the lines,
but if I may say so, the lines help to make the character in your face.
Lines must come, and a woman of, say forty-five, with the lines all
smoothed away has a face with no meaning."

"Then," said Katharyn, surprised, "do you not believe in make-up?"

"So far, I do.  It's the duty, don't you think, of a woman, whatever
her age, to look as attractive as possible?  A little make-up,
skilfully put on to leave people guessing, is a great help.  I hate to
see a woman painted like a clown."

"And reddened lips and nails?"

Miss Rideout shrugged and smiled.  "They say they feel unfinished,
almost indecently bare, without them!  It seems to me that the whole
question of make-up lies in that.  They become accustomed to so much,
then they want more.  Like light.  I was brought up as a child in the
country with lamplight and candlelight.  I thought gas wonderful.  That
seemed nothing when I got electric light, and so we go on."

Katharyn left Miss Deborah Rideout feeling quite heartened and renewed,
promising herself another visit to her the next time she was in London.

At Cambridge Gardens she found a telephone message from Car that it was
a late night so she and Gwen Davis would have to come straight from the
College.  It would have been pleasant, Katharyn thought, to have spent
a quiet evening, and perhaps have had another talk with Mrs. Armstrong,
but she dressed herself with more care than usual in honour of her
refreshed face, and she was waiting with George Lockhart at the
restaurant when the two girls came in breathless with hurry.

"So sorry, Mother; so sorry, George, but everything seemed to conspire
to make us late.  Mother, this is Gwen.  Gwen, let me introduce Mr.
Lockhart--Miss Davis.  Will you give us five minutes to tidy?  Sorry to
come such grubs, but it couldn't be helped.  Come, Gwen."

Neither Katharyn nor George needed to exert themselves during dinner to
make conversation.  The two girls laughed and talked and amused each
other, and also seemed to amuse George.  Katharyn, tired with her
strenuous day, was glad to listen and watch.  She was interested to see
Car's friend.  Gwen Davis was certainly very pretty, with a small
heart-shaped face, dense black hair, and dark eyes with thick,
straight, black lashes; the lovely rose in her cheeks was obviously
natural.  Katharyn noticed that she was very much aware of her host,
and had a trick of looking up at him through her lashes that was
distinctly captivating.  A flirtatious little person, it seemed.
Katharyn hardly knew whether to be pleased or irritated that Car seemed
to be delighted that her friend was having a success.  Was she being
large-hearted? or was she only quite indifferent about whom George
admired?

Katharyn sighed over the puzzle of youth, and then smiled as she
remembered that the next evening would see her at home at Eliotstoun
with Tim.




CHAPTER XVI

  "He had a wife was dour and din.
                      WILLIE WASTLE.


"Isn't life at the Harbour House singularly peaceful?"  Nicole
Ruthurfurd was speaking, kneeling on the window-seat, looking out to
the sea.  The tide was full in, almost up to the low wall, and the
November dusk was falling: along the coastline lights were beginning to
twinkle.  Lady Jane sat by the fire, her hands for once idle.  The
tea-things had not yet been removed, the covered dish, half-emptied of
toast, stood on a brass stand beside the fender-stool, the smooth
curves of the Georgian silver tea-service reflected the fire-light.

Lady Jane, looking into the fire, said, "But not entirely uneventful,
Nikky."

Nicole wheeled round.  "Oh, I don't mean that it's dull.  As you say,
there's always something happening, not epoch-making events exactly,
but interesting to us, like Alastair getting into the rugger team, and
Althea's proposed dance.  And our neighbours' affairs sometimes make me
wonder, and----"

"Talking of neighbours," said her mother, "I met Joan Heggie this
morning--Joan Mortimer I should say.  I thought her looking ill.  I
stopped to pass the time of day with her, but she barely nodded and
went on.  She's often abrupt, but I never saw her so snubbing as
to-day.  It seemed to me that she had almost a distraught look: I feel
uneasy about her."

Nicole came over to the fireplace, and sat down on the fender-stool as
she said:

"I met Mrs. Heggie when I was coming in before tea.  She seemed to be
wandering aimlessly about.  I begged her to come in and see you, but
she made some excuse.  Nol Mortimer, she told me, went back to London
this morning.  He's got the offer of a part in some play."

"Oh, but that's good news.  Then, Joan will be going to London too."

"Well, I don't know.  I gather things haven't been very easy between
them lately--not that they ever were, Joan always nagged, and this
offer has given Nol a chance to depart on his own.  Poor Mrs. Heggie
is torn between pity for her daughter and a lurking sympathy with the
man.  Anyway, it hasn't improved matters at Knebworth.  Nol, who was
always gay and cheerful, is gone, and Joan, the sullen, remains."

Lady Jane looked distressed as she said: "There was always something
very ill-assorted about the couple.  Joan so intense and demanding, and
the man easy and pleasant and shallow--but sometimes one sees the most
unlikely people settling down and making a success of marriage, and so
I hoped.  And the last time I saw them together--it was at Esm's
luncheon-party, wasn't it?--I thought Joan much improved, well-dressed
and tidy and--for her--quite genial and forthcoming."

Nicole nodded.  "I remember.  But what has always been wrong with Joan
is that she has a peeve at the whole earth, she suspects every one's
motive.  It didn't matter much so long as she cared for no one, but
quarrelling with Nol is torture for her, and yet she can't help doing
it.  If she'd let him alone he'd have been quite happy, for he doesn't
ask much of life--comfort, good fires, hot baths, well-cooked food,
plenty to drink, and peace.  I believe he liked living at Knebworth.
He's fond of Mrs. Heggie, he could laze as much as he liked, and there
was always golf if he felt energetic.  Unfortunately, there was also
always Joan, exacting, demanding Joan!  I'm desperately sorry for her:
she'll be eaten alive with jealousy at the thought of Nol in London
without her."

"Why doesn't she follow him?" said Lady Jane, reaching for her
embroidery-frame.  "After all, they are husband and wife."

"Her pride may keep her here.  I hope not, for Mrs. Heggie's sake.
She, poor dear, can't be finding much pleasure in life just now.  How
can she entertain her friends with a daughter in the house like an
active volcano.  You remember Jean Douglas was with us when the couple
arrived?  September that was, and Jean was much interested in the
situation, more amused than sympathetic, as is her way."

Lady Jane threaded her needle and asked, "Would you say that, Nicole?
I've always found Jean most genuinely kind."

"Oh, yes," Nicole agreed, "genuinely kind, always, but never
sentimentally so.  You know how she always laughs at me for being a
sentimentalist.  Wasn't there a letter from the lady this morning?"

"Yes, there on the bureau, under the glass paper-weight.  Read it
aloud, please, I'd like to hear it again."

Nicole found the letter and began:

MOST PRECIOUS OF FRIENDS,"

("A most comfortable doctrine, Mother!")

"I'm going to use this wet afternoon to have a talk with you.  Thomas,
having been out all morning tramping in the wet, is now asleep by the
billiard-room fire and, I fear, will be laid low with lumbago
to-morrow, but nothing will 'learn' him.

"I have been doing my duty socially, and have just said a thankful
good-bye to a dismal luncheon-party.  Isn't it odd how sometimes a
party simply won't go?  The food was good, the hostess persistently
lively and encouraging, but nothing would move the pall that hung over
it.  Perhaps I hadn't mixed my guests properly, or perhaps they felt
the depression of the weather, or were devoured by some secret sorrow,
I don't know, but anyway it's over.  I've had them, that's the great
thing.  The older I grow the more foolish it seems to me to trouble
with irrelevant people.  It's too wearying to try and get to know
strangers.  Henceforth I shall leave the entertaining of new-comers to
the young.

"But oh, my dear, the tiresomeness of new people makes me think
lovingly of the charm of old friends.  How I wish you and Nicole could
come dropping in as you used to do.  Some blanks are never filled.  Not
that I ought to complain, for I am fortunate still to have good friends
near.  This country-side has changed, but so long as the Eliots are in
Eliotstoun and Alison Lockhart at Fairniehopes I shan't say a word.
For a wonder Alison Lockhart is remaining at Fairniehopes for the
winter.  I'm not sure that it's a good sign.  She says she has seen all
she wants to see of the world, and hasn't energy enough to go
travelling.  I suppose it is desire failing, but it gave me a pang to
hear her.  Absurd, of course, for what happens to one happens to all!

"Katharyn Eliot has been in London for a short time, and came over
yesterday to tell me all about it.  Like me she is such a homekeeper
that any little jaunt seems an adventure.  You remember I told you that
Car Eliot is staying at Mrs. Armstrong's boarding-house while she
studies at that dramatic place, and Katharyn stayed there for a few
nights.  I was interested to hear from her that the place is very well
run and that the boarders think highly of Mrs. Armstrong's efficiency.
Katharyn says she really thinks that she enjoys doing it, and isn't a
bit sorry for herself.  Isn't it a blessing when people can take
misfortune in such a way!  Most of us would have been completely
flattened out if we had lost husband, house, and money at one fell
blow; but Alice Armstrong has risen like a Phoenix from its ashes.  (I
don't think that is what I mean exactly, but let it pass.)

"Soon all the young people will be home again for Christmas.  I'm
wondering if we couldn't persuade Mrs. Armstrong to come here beside
Phil.  Sheer selfishness on my part, for, otherwise, Phil will go to
London to be beside his mother, and we would be left lamenting.  I
remember thinking, Jane, when you wrote and told me you were adopting
Alastair what an odd and unnecessary thing it was; but now I realize
the exceeding wisdom of the act.  Of course, you knew and I didn't what
it meant to have boys in the house.  I am only now finding out the
delight of it, the interest and amusement a boy brings into life, and
only now do I realize something of what it must have meant to you and
Nicole to lose Ronnie and Archie.  The only thing that worries me is
the feeling that we are defrauding Phil's mother; it seems hard that
she should be missing so much.  I tell myself that it is better for
Phil to be in Edinburgh being prepared for a profession, than hanging
idle about Bayswater, or perhaps in some job that would lead nowhere;
but all the same, Tom and I have a guilty feeling which makes me send
constantly offerings of game and fruit to Mrs. Armstrong.  I don't
suppose she wants them, but it eases our conscience, and the guests
will score.

"I haven't been to Ruthurfurd for some time, but I often meet Barbara
at one thing or another, and she looks well, and seems thoroughly
satisfied with her life.

"By the way, you were asking if we had any news of John Dalrymple?  We
haven't seen him for an age, nor heard from him...."


Nicole laid down the letter and looked across at her mother, who said:

"I can't understand why John isn't writing."

"Oh," said Nicole, "probably he thinks there is nothing to write about.
When had we a letter?  It must have been in October, for I remember he
said something about the autumn colourings.  He talked of taking a trip
to South Africa for Christmas, so I expect he's been preparing....  You
write to him, Mother, one of your so justly celebrated letters that the
recipients put away to be kept as heirlooms, a long kind newsy letter,
such as only you can write."

"I'll write now," said Lady Jane.  "I don't like to feel out of touch
with John: he has always been like my own."


That same evening Mrs. Heggie sat in her drawing-room at Knebworth
glancing idly at the evening paper and waiting for dinner to be
announced.  She looked up as her daughter came into the room and said:

"Oh, Joan! couldn't you have made yourself at least tidy?"

Joan, in a tweed skirt and woollen jumper looked morosely at her mother
with her carefully done hair, and well-cut black satin dress, and said:

"Nero fiddled while Rome was burning."

"What?" said Mrs. Heggie.  "Who's talking about fiddling?  It doesn't
make things any better to come to dinner in your morning clothes, and
it's so bad for the servants."

"I've other things to think of than clothes and the opinions of
servants."

"Joan," said her mother, exasperated, "if you'll believe me it's all
part of the same thing; you've never thought enough of the impression
your own clothes and your manners make on people.  Nobody lives to
herself in this world, we all depend on each other.  I'm not clever, I
know that very well, but I've sense enough to see that it makes for
happiness and comfort to be on good terms with our fellow-creatures, to
try to like them, to be interested in them and in what concerns them.
Mind you, there are far too few _interested_ people, people you can go
to and tell all that happens, and show them your new clothes, and know
that they're pleased to listen and look.  When Mrs. Brown died--you
remember the invalid lady who lived in the pretty cottage at Sandy
Bay?--I never saw more genuine grief.  Some one said to me at the
service in the house, 'I'll miss her _terribly_.  She was so
interested.  I could go to her and tell her everything and always knew
she cared.  Her house was a haven to many.'  I thought that was almost
as good an epitaph as one could wish for."

"Mother," said Joan, "here am I nearly crazed with worry and you talk
to me about epitaphs.  What am I to _do_?  Tell me that."

"First, go up and change," said Mrs. Heggie, and Joan, to her mother's
great surprise, went.

After dinner, which was eaten in silence except for a few remarks about
the weather from Mrs. Heggie to keep up appearances, they had coffee by
the drawing-room fire.

As they drank it Mrs. Heggie said in tones of deep conviction: "There's
almost no trouble that a meal and a good fire don't do something for."

Joan smiled.  "You are so material, Mother."

"I daresay I am, but material things are a great comfort sometimes.
Poor Nol liked a good meal and a good fire and a good bed, and he got
them all here.  I just hope he'll be as well looked after where he's
gone."

"You needn't get sentimental over Nol, Mother, he'll always find some
one to look after him.  I never saw any one float through life as he
does."

Joan relapsed into gloomy silence, and Mrs. Heggie with knit brows sat
thinking deeply.

At last she said: "I don't want to blame you, Joan, but you know I did
warn you that you would alienate Nol by the way you were going on.
Some men--patient souls--don't seem to mind nagging, they take it like
their daily bread.  Others simply can't put up with it, and I, for one,
don't blame them.  I don't believe you know how irritating your voice
was sometimes when you spoke to Nol, especially when you were by way
of being sarcastic at his expense.  If you were very young and very
pretty it would be a different thing--a man will stand almost anything
in that case--but with you having the advantage in years, and ... Joan,
you must try a new way if you want to keep Nol.  My advice to you is
to go to London and take a small flat, engage a woman who can cook and
knows what comfort is, and then write to Nol and say you have a place
ready for him.  I think he'll be quite glad to come, and if he does,
Joan, _let him alone_.  You go on with your work and let him go on with
his.  Show him that what you want is his happiness and try to keep a
peaceful feeling in the flat so that he will be glad to have it to
return to.  Don't question him or seem suspicious whatever you do, and
don't seem to hang on to him; show him you have a life of your own to
make a success of!"

Joan gave rather a twisted smile.  "One gets home truths from you,
Mother!  Your idea is that I--or rather you, for that's what it amounts
to--keep Nol by bribery, giving him good free lodgings without making
him feel shackled.  I am to absent myself as much as possible, being
old and unattractive--what d'you suppose he married me for, Mother?  Be
honest and say you don't know."

"Well..." began Mrs. Heggie, evidently at a loss, but she pulled
herself together and continued, "because he cared for you, Joan, of
course.  No decent man would marry for any other reason, and Nol's
quite decent, poor fellow.  All the same, people marry far too
thoughtlessly in these days.  Marriage isn't the solemn, binding thing
it used to be, more's the pity.  But things would be better if people
would realize that once they are married, they've got to work hard to
make their marriage a success."

Joan laughed.  "I believe, Mother, that if a marriage comes to grief,
you always, in your heart, blame the woman."

"Yes," said Mrs. Heggie firmly, "I do.  Men, even the good ones, are
kittle cattle; God didn't give them much sense, and it's the woman's
job to make the best of them."




CHAPTER XVII

  "They were twa bonnie lasses...."
                          OLD BALLAD.


One day in the middle of December Car Eliot was discussing plans with
her friend Gwen Davis, while they devoured sandwiches together.
"You're going home, I suppose," said Gwen.  "What's Christmas like in
Scotland?"

"Much the same as anywhere else, I should think....  Try an egg and a
ham sandwich together."

Gwen did so, nodded approval of the combination and went on: "I thought
you didn't keep Christmas in Scotland, that your Church objected or
something."

"You're thinking of John Knox, aren't you?" Car said, helping herself
to a dough-nut.  "He objected to most things when he lived--hundreds of
years ago.  The Church of Scotland doesn't make much of a fuss either
of Christmas or Easter, but there's no objection about it.  We haven't
a service in our village church on Christmas Day, but on the Sunday
nearest to it we sing 'Come all, ye faithful,' and 'Once in royal
David's city.'"

"Oh," said Gwen, not in the least interested.  Presently she went on:
"I'll have a wretched Christmas this year.  Mummy is seedy, so we can't
go away.  Generally, we go to some big hotel and see crowds of people
and have lots of fun.  At home we're too small a party to celebrate by
ourselves, and it saves a lot of trouble and gives the maids a holiday."

"What's wrong with your mother?" Car asked, wondering what Eliotstoun
would be like if its mistress had to lie in bed.

"Oh, I don't know," said Gwen.  "One of these illnesses that go on and
on.  The doctor told us to take a quiet holiday in summer--we suggested
a farmhouse in Devonshire.  But none of us liked the idea, and Mummy
and Daddy said it wouldn't be fair to me to bury me on a moor, and Mums
thought that she'd be all the better of being taken out of herself, so
we went to the Metropole at Hunstone and I had a wonderful time.  But
Mums looked worse and worse every day, and when we got home she
collapsed and had to go to bed and stay there."  Gwen's mouth drooped
as she said, "It's miserable because we have to have a nurse all the
time, and she makes ructions with the maids, and now we've got my aunt,
Mummy's sister, to stay and look after things and I never did get on
with her.  She's one of those envious old maids who can't bear to see a
girl enjoy herself.  She's always telling Daddy that he spoils me, and
talking about the selfishness of modern youth, saying that we've no
sense of responsibility, and so on.  Oh, it's chronic, I can tell you.
Actually she thinks that I ought to give up my work here and stay at
home now that Mums is ill.  Did you ever know anything so absurd?  It
isn't as if Daddy couldn't afford nurses and things, and anyway, I'm
sure it would worry Mums into fits to have me always about.  I'm no use
in a sick-room.  Precious little of the administering angel about me!
Besides, this is my life-work.  Nothing should be allowed to interfere
with it.  Luckily, Daddy sees that."

"How did your mother begin to be ill?  Did she get thin?" Car asked,
remembering uneasily that she had been struck by her mother's worn look
when she was in London.

"I don't know about _thin_," said Gwen.  "Her face got yellow and
puffy."

"Oh," said Car, relieved, for her mother was neither yellow nor puffy.
"It must be horrible for your mother to have to lie in bed so long.
Doesn't she get fearfully bored?  How d'you amuse her?"

"Well, you know, I hardly see her except in the evenings and at the
week-ends and not much then, for I'm out such a lot.  She reads when
she feels up to it, and Aunt Gladys talks to her, and Daddy, of course,
is with her in the evening, but I don't really know how she sticks it.
I'm sure I wouldn't be a patient patient, and I'd see that the doctors
did something about it or I'd know the reason why."

"Haven't you had a specialist seeing your mother?"

"Oh, goodness, yes.  Two.  But they didn't do anything.  If only it was
something like appendicitis, where one goes to a Home and has it out
and is better, but this is so indefinite.  Anyway, it'll be a
disgusting Christmas with Aunt Gladys in the house and all, and I'll
only be in the way."

"I don't suppose you'd care to come to Scotland," Car asked, "to stay
with us?"

Gwen turned shining eyes to her friend.  "That _would_ be lovely!
but--would your people care to have me?  I mean, don't you know, a
family gathering--you won't want a stranger."

"Oh, that doesn't matter.  I'm sure my mother would be glad to have
you, she likes us to ask our friends.  I'll write to-night."

"But I'll feel so shy among you all."

"It isn't much of an all," said Car: "only the parents, Sandy, the
Oxford brother, and Tom and Rory, schoolboys.  Helen, my sister, will
be there, too, I hope."

"But--d'you think they'll like me?"

"Why not?" said Car; and Gwen felt, as she often did, that Car was
rather an unsatisfactory friend.

"Well," she said deprecatingly, "I don't know if your mother did--much.
She scared me rather that night I met her at dinner.  But Mr. Lockhart
was so kind.  He's a neighbour of yours, isn't he?  Will he be at home
for Christmas?"

"Oh, I expect so!  He's generally at Fairniehopes at holiday time."

"Fairniehopes," Gwen repeated.  "What odd names your places have!  Is
it near your home?"

"About eight miles away.  George Lockhart's aunt, who owns the place,
is one of my mother's greatest friends."

Gwen twisted her amber beads as she said carelessly:

"Then the place with the funny name doesn't belong to Mr. Lockhart?"

"No," said Car, "not as long as it belongs to Miss Alison Lockhart.
And I'm sure George hopes she'll have it for many years.  He has his
profession, you know."

"Of course.  Well--it's terribly kind of you, darling, to ask me, and
I'm sure Mummy and Dad'll be glad to think that I'm getting out of the
dull house for a little.  The evenings are bad enough, I don't know how
I could face a fortnight of it.  How I hate illness!  Starched nurses
crackling up and down stairs, lowered voices, nobody invited to the
house in case of disturbing the patient, gloom everywhere, and every
one looking at me as if I were a monster when I hint that it isn't very
lively for me.  Mums herself is the only one that has any sympathy for
me.  She sometimes begs Dad to give me dinner in town and take me to a
play, but it's not really any fun to go with a person who's thinking of
something else all the time.  I've old-fashioned parents: they're
devoted to each other."

Car laughed.  "Don't say it as if you were apologising for them.  Wait
till you see mine! ... D'you know your part?  I find it very difficult
to learn, somehow, and I simply can't get my first entrance right."

"Let me look."  Gwen reached for the script, and studied it for a
minute.  "Like this, I think..."

Car's eyes brightened as she watched her friend.

"Yes," she said, "of course that's how it should be done, but it never
would have occurred to me.  Gwen, how I envy you!"

"Why?"

"Because when you act you seem perfectly natural, because you can make
any scene come alive."

Gwen yawned.  "Oh, I don't know.  I like it when I'm doing it, and it's
amusing to be praised and made a fuss of, but it's a sickening grind
really.  And what'll I make of it in the end?"

"You'll make a success."

Gwen began to polish her nails.  "And what does success amount to?" she
asked.  "A few words of praise from dramatic critics, my photograph in
some picture papers, a short run probably, and a long wait for another
part.  I've been told that nobody should go on the stage unless they
can't help it.  I can help it all right!  You, Car, have more of a real
passion for acting than I have."

Car nodded.  "I believe I have.  But though I worked night and day for
years I'd never be able to act like you.  You used to be keen, Gwen,
you had ambition.  What has changed you?"

The girl shrugged her shoulders.  "Don't know.  I still call it my
life-work but I've lost taste for it.  I'm not a sticker like you.
Dad'll say 'I told you so,' he always chaffs me about the way I get
tired of things.  Oh, I don't mean to give it up right away, I'll have
a good try for the medal.  I must have something to show for all my
early rising and miserable cold journeys and hard work here."

Car looked at her friend as she said shrewdly, "If you get the medal,
Gwen, you won't give up.  I believe you care for it far more than you
know yourself.  You couldn't act as you do and not care.  Aren't you
posing a bit?  It's so easy for an expert to pretend to be bored by his
own power, and so irritating for the common ruck to listen!"

Gwen laughed in a pleased way, finished doing her nails and said: "Are
all your people very high-brow?  Your mother is, of course, being a
writer."

Car laid down her script and asked: "What d'you mean by high-brow?  If
it's high-brow to like good books and hate slush, then mother is
high-brow; but, on the other hand, she's not in the least superior, and
enjoys quite simple books, and is very easily amused."

"What sort of books does your mother write?"

"Oh," said Car, "sort of historical studies.  I know it sounds bad----"
as Gwen gave a horrified gasp, "but really her books aren't in the
least dull, and she writes charmingly for children."

"Oh, does she?" said Gwen.  "Have you got one--rather an easy one that
I could read?  I'm not much of a reader really.  Of course I love
reading, but there are so many other things to do.  If you're keen on
games it takes up a lot of time.  I expect you read a tremendous lot,
Car....  I notice you always know where the quotes come from."

"It's all in the way one's brought up.  When we were small we used to
puzzle people by talking about book-people as if they were friends and
neighbours, so real were they to us.  But my father's not a bit bookish
and that makes a pleasant variety.  Sandy's like him.  Birds and beasts
and everything out of doors appeal to them both.  The next boy, Tom,
would read all day--though he's no scholar at Eton, and Rory, the baby,
is betwixt and between."

"And your sister?" Gwen asked.

Car laughed.  "Helen is so popular, so much in demand, that she hasn't
much time for anything.  Indeed, the family don't see much of her.
She's younger than I am, very pretty, very engaging, but I confess I
can't understand how she can enjoy staying so much in other people's
houses.  Myself, I hate visiting.  Like Mr. Salteena, I say doubtfully,
'I hope I shall enjoy myself,' being perfectly certain that I shan't."

"Who is Mr. Salteena?" Gwen asked.

"Didn't you ever read _The Young Visiters_?  Oh, but you must.  I think
it's not only one of the funniest books ever written, but full of
profound truths.  We must read it aloud when you are at Eliotstoun....
Oh, Gwen, I've been given seats for Gordon Daviot's new play for
Thursday night.  Come with me, won't you?"

Gwen looked doubtful.  "I'd love to, of course, but they don't much
like my coming home late alone."

"Well, stay the night with me at Cambridge Gardens.  I'll speak to Mrs.
Armstrong.  I'm pretty sure there's a small room near mine free.
You've never seen the boarding-house.  Do come, and I'll introduce you
to my friends the 'perms.'  I've told them about you--I give them all
the gossip of the D.C.--and they'd be thrilled to meet you.  And I'd
like you to meet Mrs. Armstrong who runs the concern.  I don't know if
I told you that she was a neighbour of ours at home?  Her husband died,
and as there was no money, or only very little, and she had two boys,
she pluckily tried this way of earning a living.  I do admire any one
who does a good bit of work."

"Yes," Gwen agreed, and added, "All the same, preserve me from having
to run a boarding-house.  I'd pity the wretched boarders.  I can't even
cook a potato."

"That's a proud boast!" mocked Car.  "Weren't you ever a Girl Guide?  I
learned to make smooth porridge, and fry ham and eggs, when we were out
in camp, and an old cook taught me to bake drop scones and girdle
scones, so I'm almost fit to go to Canada as the bride of a rancher!
... Time's up!  Do come on Thursday, though I don't expect to enjoy
'Mary' as much as 'Richard' or 'The Laughing Woman!'"




CHAPTER XVIII

  "Fair Quiet, I have found thee here,
  And Innocence thy sister dear!"
                      ANDREW MARVEL.


Christmas was such a great occasion at Eliotstoun that not to be at
home for that festival was an unheard of thing for any member of the
Eliot family.  Even the absentee Helen came fluttering back, and by the
24th they were all assembled under the family roof-tree.  Katharyn had
been making preparations for weeks, and now the house was decorated
with silvered cape-gooseberry branches and bright berried holly;
presents for every one, wrapped in white paper and tied with coloured
ribbon, were reposing in an unused room, and careful plans had been
made for every day.

Alison Lockhart, who happened to be at Eliotstoun some days before
Christmas, said:

"Really, Katharyn, you are like a child about Christmas.  I believe you
enjoy it much more than the children do."

"Oh, much," Katharyn agreed, "except perhaps Rory--and Tim.  Tim says
he and I are the youngest in the house, and there's some truth in the
statement.  One's children are so sophisticated.  Tom and the girls
have the air of humouring me in my enthusiasms!  They hang up their
stockings and play childish games with something of amused protest.
But I don't care.  Having the good fortune to live in a place where
even to-day quietness endures, I mean to hold on to the old simple
things that mean so much."

"It refreshes me to hear you," Alison said.  "I've had a woman staying
with me on her way south, and she was positively blasphemous about
Christmas and all that it meant in the way of toil and trouble.  She is
one of a very big connection, and she says the effort to find suitable
presents for every one, and to be duty grateful for the presents of
others, to assume high spirits and pretend enjoyment at family parties
leaves her every year a complete wreck.  If only, she said, she could
fall asleep about 15th December, and not wake until the New Year was
well aired!"

"Poor soul!  But she went elaborately into it: my presents and
festivities cost little but time....  I confess I get no writing done
in December.  My hope is that perhaps the children will look back on
these times with pleasure.  There's a lot, don't you think, in having
happy memories?"

Alison looked at her friend as she sat working busily.  "Had you a
happy childhood?" she asked.

Katharyn coloured as she said, "Not very happy.  For one thing, I was
an only child and ... Anyway, that's why I'm particularly keen that our
children, Tim's and mine, should have a picture gallery in their minds
of scenes peaceful and secure, that they can turn to when life is ugly
and threatening.  You know, Alison, it sounds priggish and
old-fashioned to say it, but it does matter how children are brought
up.  If they're taught that life is a selfish thing, merely a sort of
game of Beggar-my-neighbour, then their house is built on sand, without
foundations, and when the floods come they perish.  Whereas, if they're
brought up in the belief that, compared to losing one's soul, losing
one's life is a small thing, they've rock to stand on."

Katharyn was standing with a paint brush in her hand, her blue overall
rather stained, and a wisp of hair over one eye, looking in spite of
her years and her children and the lines on her face that they had
contributed to, so like a grave good child that Alison, in a rush of
affection, cried:

"My dear, I'm very sure you are right, and your children are little
beasts if they don't realize all you have tried to do--all you have
done for them."

"But I don't want them to be grateful," Katharyn protested.  "I only
want them to have something to hold on to when the floods come."  There
was a silence for a minute, each woman thinking her own thoughts, then
Alison said:

"I wish I were religious; it must be a great help to those, like
myself, who are growing old.  By religious I don't mean being taken up
with some new stunt, but simply having quietness and confidence in
one's heart.  I'm perfectly decent up to my lights, I help where I can.
I look after my own people, and don't bear false witness, and so on,
and have always thought rather highly of myself.  Quite lately I
discovered (I admit to my astonishment) that I was a poor thing."

Katharyn laughed.  "We all feel that at times.  But I should say that
you had less need than most.  How many years have I known
you--twenty-five?--and I've never known you fail any one, or show
smallness or meanness."

Alison Lockhart sat bolt-upright.  "Don't say that, K.  It's all you
know."

Katharyn looked up from her work surprised at the vehemence in her
friend's voice, but presently Alison continued in her usual light,
half-mocking tones:

"George is coming after all.  He thought he wouldn't; some friends
wanted him to go to Switzerland, but the Borders won."

"I'm glad," Katharyn said contentedly.  "I hate it when Fairniehopes is
shut up; you can't imagine what a difference it makes.  Although we
don't see nearly as much of you as we'd like it's nice to know you're
near.  You know, Alison, you're really becoming something of a recluse.
You used always to have people staying, and seemed to enjoy
entertaining, and being entertained."

"Old age, my dear.  I seem to have lost my taste for people, and only
want old friends like you and Tim--and Jean Douglas."

Katharyn looked rather anxiously at her friend, as she asked: "You
don't feel ill or anything?"

"Not in the least, but people who live alone are apt to get cranky in
their later years."

Reassured, Katharyn laughed at the idea.  "You can hardly be said to
live alone, you most popular of hostesses.  And what about George?
Surely he counts for something?"

"George counts for a lot," Alison said gravely.

"Well, then----"

"Oh, I know.  I'm just _blethering_, as my friend Mrs. Spiers would
say.  I called at the Home on my way here and saw her.  It's amazing
the interest she still takes in everything.  The doctor tells me that
it's largely her interest in life that keeps her going.  She lay there
to-day looking the frailest little wisp of a thing, and told me about
her grand-daughter who is going to London to be a kitchen-maid with the
Barntons, and who had been in yesterday to say good-bye to her.  'I
didna say a word to her,' she told me, 'for ma mother aye said, "Never
daunton young folk," but I could ha' tell't her yon wasna the way to
dress for service.  She might hev been the Duchess of York no less,
with a fur collar to her coat, and a hat pulled down on one side, and a
gold watch on her wrist, and a pearl necklace, by way of, round her
neck.  And slippers on her feet instead of good strong shoes, and silk
stockings!  Perfect blethers!  I mind when I went to service--I was
younger a bit than Jenny, mebbe fifteen--I had on ma best dress, and a
coat ma mother had made for me out of one she got from the master's
wife.  Ma father was a shepherd and there were ten of us to bring up on
a gey wee wage.  All my belongings were in a bit tin box--strong cotton
nightgowns and chemises that I'd sewed maself, and woollen stockings
that I'd knitted on winter nights.  I dare not think what ma mither
would have said of Jenny's nightgowns, and as for chemises Jenny never
heard tell o' them!  She wears coloured rags o' things--cammy
something--that are done after a few turns in the wash-tub.  My clothes
lasted for years and got whiter wi' every bleach...  "I agreed with her
about the lasting quality of the underclothes of her youth, and told
her not to worry about Jenny, who is really a very nice girl, and she
said, 'Ay, it's little it matters to me.  Let the young folk go their
ways, they'll learn sense in time, poor things....'  It was rather
pathetic--Jenny beginning, the grandmother ending, and so life goes on."

"Yes!" said Katharyn, "and we're told that the end of things is better
than the beginning.  Surely Solomon forgot, when he said that, the joy
of new beginnings.  To me one of the most wonderful things in life is
the zest with which we can begin again.  No matter how badly we failed
last time we start again with high hopes."

Alison nodded.  "As a child I looked forward to things so immoderately
that nothing could possibly come up to my expectations.  I remember
more than once weeping bitterly on the evening of Christmas Day because
it had fallen so far short, but once it was behind me I began dreaming
about how perfect it would be next time.  Is this going to be a gay
Christmas with you?"

"No, not particularly.  Car is bringing a friend home with her, a Miss
Davis.  They study together at the Dramatic College.  George knows her.
When I was in London we all dined together and went to a play.  Car is
devoted to Miss Davis: I can't quite think why."

"Is she pretty?"

"Very."

"Clever?"

"I hadn't much opportunity of judging, but Car tells me she acts quite
astonishingly well.  She is going to help Car with the show she is
getting up for the Kingshouse party ... Oh, I must show you my present
for Car.  I've just finished it."

Katharyn took a box from a drawer in the bureau and opened it
carefully.  "There!" she said.

"K., you are clever!" Alison said.  "That blouse in a shop would have
cost pounds.  The work you've put on it!"

"I loved doing it.  And I've made a dressing-gown for Helen.  I got the
idea from one I saw in Debenham's.  It is a help to be able to make
things; I bless my mother for having me taught."

"But no amount of teaching would have done any good if you hadn't had a
natural gift for it.  I, for instance, might receive tuition from the
most skilful French _modiste_ for months and come away without knowing
how to put in a sleeve!  You know, K., you really have rather an
unusual combination of gifts.  You dream dreams and see visions, but
you are practical too, good in a house, clever with your needle----"

"Oh, a paragon, without doubt," Katharyn scoffed, "a non-such!  No, but
seriously, Alison, you talk about realizing your deficiencies.  I'm
sometimes appalled at mine.  The ocean of anxiety and care I have for
my own concerns, and the miserable trickle which is all I can spare for
the world at large!  Even when terrible things happen they don't seem
to matter anything like as much as the fact that the boiler is leaking,
or that cook has influenza.  Is it that we have supped too deep in
horrors since 1914?  When the _Titanic_ went down the world was
solemnized.  I don't know what would solemnize us now for more than a
minute.  Aren't you amazed at yourself knowing that people are dying
for food in some parts of the world and doing nothing about it?"

"What about people in one's own country who have been on the dole for
years, never getting quite enough to eat, growing shabbier and
shabbier, losing self-respect--all those villages in Wales, the Durham
coalfields, places on the Clyde?  Of course the majority of us don't
think about it at all, we're thankful that our own small corner is
fairly snug and secure."

Katharyn sighed.  "It's true," she said, "though we ought to be ashamed
to own it.  We haven't even the right to admire the people who are
putting up a fight to make things better.  It can't be easy to go on
with housing schemes, and attempts to better the lot of the poor,
knowing all the time that at almost any moment all their little schemes
may be demolished and the world laid waste again.  They're like spiders
weaving their webs regardless of the menace of the housemaid's broom."

"But that's life, isn't it?  We're all spiders, and Fate is the
housemaid's broom.  No use puckering your brow about it, K."

Katharyn put up a rather dirty hand to smooth her brow, and said:
"D'you know what I did in London, Alison--I went to see a beauty
doctor!!  It was my mother.  She was shocked at my haggard and ageing
look and commanded that I should do something about it.  She knew of
this woman, and made an appointment there and then.  I can't tell you
what a fool I felt about going.  I imagined a terribly smart and
supercilious person who would gaze in horror at my neglected face and
unadorned nails."

"Poor K.  I hope the beauty doctor was merciful!"

"She was.  D'you know the big pink cabbage-roses that grow in cottage
gardens among the berry-bushes, I never see them anywhere
else--delicious things that you can almost put your face into?  Well,
my beauty doctor was like that.  Large and pink and sweet-smelling and
kind.  She seemed to know just how tired I was--I'd been trailing about
London all day with Tom and Rory in the rain--and she 'happed' me up
with rugs on a most comfortable couch, and did delicious things to my
face, and talked about soothing things like the Exhibition of 18--.
She had been looking up old diaries to get information for a friend who
is writing a book about that time, and told me such a lot of
interesting things.  Her name is Deborah Rideout."

"Her professional name, you mean?"

"No.  Her real name.  She's a Quaker.  I'm afraid if I were much in
London I'd haunt her beauty-parlour for the pleasure of her society."

"You must give me the address.  Not that I'd expect her to work a
miracle on my face.  Did she give you a heap of toilet creams and so
forth?"

"I asked her for something, and she sent me a pot of 'skin food' she
makes herself, but I keep forgetting to use it.  Car does a turn of me
'caring' for my face, taking a handful of cream and savaging myself,
stretching the skin round my eyes and so on, desisting in about a
minute and washing my face with soap and hot water to get rid of the
greasy feeling!"

"Very funny, no doubt," said Alison.  "I wonder if these young girls
who take such care of their complexions will be any better looking than
we are--once they have come to fifty years!  Look at Jean Douglas.  She
has never fussed about her face and no one looks better.  And what a
spirit!  She's as excited as a girl about her party.  Having Phil has
given her an excuse, she says.  But Thomas is full of gloom at the
prospect, or pretends to be!"




CHAPTER XIX

  "We have cull'd such necessaries
  As are behoveful for our state to-morrow...."
                            _Romeo and Juliet_.


Gwen Davis was sitting in her mother's bedroom, putting some stitches
in the frill of an evening frock, the evening before she left to spend
Christmas at Eliotstoun.

Presently she snipped off the thread, and letting the dress slip to the
ground, said: "I almost wish I'd never fished for an invitation to
spend Christmas with Car Eliot in Scotland.  I'm pretty sure I'll hate
it."

"I hope not, darling," said her mother, who lay propped up with pillows
on a rose-coloured couch.  "It'll be a nice change for you, and all so
new.  And you like Car."

"Oh, I like Car all right, though she's a funny sort of girl in lots of
ways.  Sometimes when you think you're getting on swimmingly with her,
suddenly you're pulled up short and put about a hundred miles away!
I'm streets ahead of her as far as acting goes, but I feel an awful
fool when it comes to knowing about things--books, you know, and old
plays and poems.  Car can tell you where almost every quotation comes
from.  No wonder!  She reads every spare minute she has.  She'd far
rather read than dance or play badminton."

"Isn't that odd?  Kind of unnatural.  And she's quite young, isn't she,
and pretty?"

"She's a year older than I am," said Gwen; "and quite passable as to
looks, in fact some of them think her very pretty.  She certainly has
moments when her face lights up and she looks lovely, but she sometimes
has a sullen look and then she's definitely plain.  I'd call her
distinguished looking rather than pretty.  Her mother writes."

"Writes what?" Mrs. Davis asked, rather startled.  "Novels?"

"Nothing so frivolous, Mums.  Lives of people, Car says, but what
people I don't know, for I've never so much as seen the books.  You
read a lot, ducky, did you ever hear of a Katharyn Eliot?"

Mrs. Davis shook her head.  "Can't say I ever did.  But I don't care
much for 'Lives,' they're generally so dull.  I like something that
makes me forget I'm lying here ill, and passes the time.  Like this--"
she held up a book with a vivid jacket.  "What I'd do without these
crime mysteries I'm sure I don't know.  How clever these people must be
who are able to think out these plots: any one, I suppose, could write
somebody else's life.  You met Mrs. Eliot, didn't you?"

"Yes.  You remember Car asked me to dine and go to the play with her.
Really it was Mr. Lockhart's party.  I told you about him.  He's an old
friend of the Eliots, a barrister in the Temple.  I told him I wanted
terribly to see the Temple, and he said Car must bring me to tea, but
she never has."

"Wants to keep him to herself, does she?"

"No," said Gwen, "I don't think so.  Car's not like that.  He was nice,
Mr. Lockhart.  George, Car calls him; different from the boys I play
about with."

Mrs. Davis cast a glance at her daughter's face as she said: "I expect
he's what you call a man of the world.  I meet a lot of them in the
books I read.  Attractive, of course, but not altogether to be trusted.
Gwennie, dear, I don't ask anything better for you than a man like your
own father, not showy on the surface but warranted to last.  A delicate
wife's a great test of a husband, I've heard my mother say that, and
nobody could blame him if he made excuses and stayed a lot in town.
But not father.  He comes home as quick as the train can bring him, and
always so bright.  'Cheerio, Mums, what sort of day have you had?' and
always something in his hand.  And the way he tries to make the best of
it!  When I was complaining about not being able to go out with him or
have people in to make things bright, he said, 'Well, there are points
about having a wife that must stay put.  There's poor Edwardes spends
most of his evenings alone, while his wife gads about with her own
friends, and here I am sure that I'll have my wife to myself all
evening.'  And then he said, and I couldn't but believe him, 'Why, my
dear, I look forward all day to my evenings.  Dull?  Not a bit of it.
I get enough of the city.  I don't want to stay and eat my dinner
deafened by an orchestra.  My old slippers, a good fire, and
you--that's all I want.'"

Gwen picked up her dress from the floor and deftly folding it said: "Of
course I know Dad's one of the best, and you and he are so happy
together you don't really need me at all.  You'll keep your Christmas
quite alone--not even Auntie Gladys--and you'll miss nobody."

Her mother shook her head.  "We'll miss our little girl.  This will be
the first Christmas we haven't spent together.  I remember the very
first Christmas you could take it in--you would be three, such a sweet
little tot in muslin and blue ribbons--and Dad and I trimmed a little
tree for you, sparkles and candles and a fairy doll for you on the top,
all tinsel, with a wand--fairy dolls were all the fashion then.  And as
you grew older we had a big tree and a party of all your friends, and
then we began to go away for Christmas, so that you might have as gay a
time as possible, you being an only child....  Daddy and I must try not
to be selfish.  Home must have been very dull for you lately."

Gwen had been rather restive during her mother's reminiscences.  But
now she sat down on the floor beside her couch and said: "Cheer up,
Mums, you'll soon be better.  The spring is bound to set you up.  When
the good weather comes Dad and I'll take you away somewhere, South of
France, perhaps: I'm sure that's what you need.  And you needn't get
worked up about my leaving you.  After all, I'll only be away for a
week; it's all I've asked for and I expect it'll be more than enough.
I've rather gloomy thoughts about this visit.  Come to think of it,
Mums, I've been very little away alone."

"No, you always had your mummy and daddy with you.  Oh, my darling, how
different it would have been if I'd been well.  You remember what fun
we had two Christmases ago at the Metropole?  I feel dreadful failing
you like this; many a cry I have about it; darkening your life when all
I want is to make things bright for you."

Gwen patted her mother's hand.  "Well, of course, it does make a
difference, but it isn't your fault, ducky.  You set your mind on
getting better, that's your job."

"I do try, Gwennie.  I take all the doctor's bottles, and do everything
he tells me, but somehow I don't seem to get any stronger, in fact ...
Oh, I don't know, I daresay I am...."

"If you'd rouse yourself, Mum."

"Yes, perhaps--but, you know, Gwen, the last time I tried to go into
the drawing-room I fainted, and had to stay in bed for days afterwards."

Gwen nodded gloomily.  "I'm afraid there's nothing for it but rest.
D'you suppose Dr. Thorne knows anything whatever about it really?"

"Oh, he's clever, Gwennie, everybody has a good word for him, and he's
so kind.  And the specialist who came, Sir William Goodyear, seemed to
think his treatment absolutely right, and altered nothing."

"He wouldn't," said Gwen darkly, "they all play into each other's
hands, these doctors.  Thank goodness, I've never needed one."

"Not since you had measles, and that's--why, it must be sixteen years
ago.  Time does fly.  You weren't at all ill, I remember, but when you
were getting better your eyes were affected.  That's the worst of
measles, it nearly always leaves something.  But you were no trouble to
bring up, darling, nothing but a pleasure.  A picture to look at, and
so entertaining.  You could dance and sing when you were little more
than a baby.  I remember a lady in a hotel saying to me that you were a
show-child.  And that's what you were, a show-child.  But as I often
said to people when they were praising you, you had to be a bit extra
seeing you were all we had.  You often see an only child prettier and
cleverer than other children.  I said that once to old Dr. Arnold, and
he said: 'Ah, Mrs. Davis, if it works one way isn't it as likely to
work another, and all the original sin that would have been distributed
among three or four be concentrated in one?'  He was a great man for a
joke, Dr. Arnold, but very fatherly.  I thought I'd never get used to
Dr. Thorne, he was so different, so quiet and almost distant, but I've
come to like him very well, and your father says he's a sound fellow."

"Ye-es," said Gwen absently.  "Mum, d'you think three evening frocks'll
be enough for a week?"

Her mother considered the question before she said: "Oh yes, Gwennie, I
should think so.  It's a quiet country house you're visiting, not a
smart hotel, and I've never heard that the Scotch are very dressy as a
nation, though, of course, with cinemas and so on they must have learnt
a lot.  I'll be glad when you're home again, darling.  Lying here,
thinking of you and Daddy going about in trains and motors and buses, I
get quite nervous.  When you both come home in the evening my heart's
at rest--but there's always the morning again.  D'you think you'll be
able to wire when you arrive to-morrow evening?"

Gwen knelt to lift back a flaming coal, and with the tongs still in her
hand, said: "I think you'd better not expect it.  I may be miles from a
post office and they may not have a telephone, and anyway I don't want
to make a fuss at the very beginning.  I'll try to wire the next
morning.  Anyway, I'll write at once and you'll get the letter on
Thursday morning.  You mustn't be fussy, you know."

"No, Gwennie.  But you will try and not catch cold, won't you?  I've
always heard that Scotland's bitterly cold in winter."

Gwen laughed as she idly snapped the tongs.  "Any one would say I was
going on an expedition to the Antarctic instead of taking a journey of
eight hours or so!"

Her mother persisted.  "Yes, but you know, darling, these old country
houses are very often damp and cold and bare, and you've always been
accustomed to a warm, well-carpeted house with every comfort.  I do
hope they'll give you a fire in your bedroom.  Will there be electric
light, d'you think, or only lamps?"

"Why, Mums, what does it matter anyway?  I'm only going for a week.
You talk as if I were settling down at least for the winter.  I'll tell
you all about fires and draughts and damp in my first letter."

"You'll write every day?"

"Perhaps not every day, but very often.  It'll depend on what I'm
doing.  I may not have anything to write about.  The first day or
two'll have to be spent rehearsing: I'm going to learn my part in the
train to-morrow.  You know that Car wants me to help her get up a show
for a Christmas party?  It should be rather amusing, and you and Dad
must write to me, and be sure to send on every single thing that comes,
so that I may have a decent mail.  It makes me laugh to think of the
idea most people have of an actress, or even a girl training to be an
actress, that she spends her days opening a wonderful fan mail, and
dining, dancing, frivolling at night.  My goodness!  Hard work and
little play's liker it.  If ever I do get a chance to play in the West
End, I'd have a flat in town and give myself some fun."

Mrs. Davis raised herself from her pillows in horrified protest.

"Gwennie, I hope I'll be away before that happens.  The thought of you
living alone in a flat would kill me: nearly all the horrors in the
papers are connected with flats.  I never did like you going to that
Dramatic College.  I pled with Daddy to refuse his consent, but he
never can deny you anything, and he said as you seemed to have a talent
it would be wrong to keep you back.  To comfort me he added you'd
probably tire of it quite soon, and I hoped he was right."

"Now, now," said Gwen, "don't get into a state.  It's true I love to
act, but I'm sick to death of the training, and I may give it up if I
find something more interesting to do.  You never know."

"You might marry," said her mother hopefully.  "Tommy----"

"_Mummy_!  As if I'd _look_ at Tommy Bridges."

"He's such a dear boy, Gwennie, and you were sweethearts when you went
to your first parties.  His mother says he worships the ground you
tread on."

Gwen only remarked "More fool he!" and added, "When I marry, it'll be
somebody worth giving up a career for, a man, not a silly boy.  You and
Mrs. Bridges are a pair, Mums, as sentimental and Victorian as you can
possibly be, both of you, though you should really be Edwardian.  Mrs.
Bridges positively winces when I mention the D.C., as if it was a
shameful subject, and I believe you and she have great talks about how
different it will be when I settle down--with Tommy.  My goodness!"

"My darling, I didn't mean to hurt you," Mrs. Davis cried, and
dissolved into tears.  "I'm silly and childish," she cried, mopping her
eyes.

"It's because you're weak," Gwen told her.  "Smile now.  I hear the dad
coming, and he'll be furious with me if ... Hallo, Dad!  You're not as
late as you expected, are you?"

Mr. Davis, a neat dapper little man with dark hair and eyes, came
forward to the couch.  "I hurried off," he said, "the first moment I
decently could.  Well, my darling, and what sort of day have you had?
You haven't been mopping about this creature's departure, I hope?
We'll be far better without her.  It'll be like our first Christmas
together.  D'you remember?"

He drew a chair up to the sofa, and took his wife's hand as he
recalled: "We couldn't afford a turkey, d'you remember that?  So we had
a fowl--or was it a pheasant?  I forget.  And you made a plum pudding."

Mrs. Davis smiled.  "Which was like a cannon-ball, because I forgot
suet or something.  But we had your mother's mince pies to fall back on
and they were lovely.  And, oh, Wyndham, you gave me a brooch, far more
than you could afford, and I had saved up to buy a box of cigars.  You
said you liked them, but they disappeared mysteriously soon after."

Gwen watched her parents with a slightly patronizing sympathy.

"You two old dears don't need a daughter," she told them at last,
"you're quite sufficient to each other.  I was inclined to pity you
because you were to be left alone, but I can see you're going to have a
lovely time talking about what you did before there was me at all."

Her mother shook her head, while Mr. Davis said: "Don't say that,
child, your mother and I'll be lonely enough without you, but we can't
keep you if you want to go."

Gwen stood shifting the little china ornaments on the mantelshelf (when
Mrs. Davis went on holiday, she brought a memento in china from every
town visited, so that her bedroom mantelpiece was dangerously
overcrowded) and said, "Well, Dad, it's time I saw something of the
world.  The Eliots are different from us, and I want to see how they
live.  I don't mean to stick in a suburb all my life.  I'm going to
better myself, as the servants say."

"I thought you were going to be a star actress," said her father mildly.

"Well, I was, but now I'm not so sure.  Perhaps I'll be a county
lady...."




CHAPTER XX

  "Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind...."
                                            _King Lear._


To spend Christmas away from home, and so far away from home as
Scotland, had seemed to Gwen Davis a great adventure, and she was
somewhat surprised and disappointed to find that no one at Eliotstoun
seemed surprised at her daring.  The last hour or two of her journey
north she had spent in a fever of anxiety as to what she would do if
there should be no one meeting her at the station.  Car had promised to
be there, but anything might happen to prevent her, in which case Gwen
felt she was lost.  There would be no taxis at a country station, and
even if there were, how could she possibly arrive alone at a strange
house?  Her relief at seeing Car on the platform was so great that
minor troubles like meeting a crowd of strangers and not being sure how
to treat upper servants paled into insignificance.

By the light of a paraffin lamp, to the accompaniment of Border voices
discussing the price of "beasts" at the market, Gwen's cases were
collected and delivered over to a middle-aged chauffeur with a fatherly
manner, who shepherded the two girls into the car and set off for
Eliotstoun.

"Isn't it dark?" said Gwen.  "How do the people find their way?"

"They're used to it," Car told her.  "The moon's an important thing in
the country: all the junketings, concerts, dances, and so on, are
arranged for moonlit nights, for some have to come a long way over the
hills.  But not perhaps as important as it once was, for now that all
the farmers have got cars the people get a lift.  Village life's a very
different thing now, with buses, and motors, and W.R.I.s."

"Oh!" said Gwen, not much interested in rural life.  "How far is it to
Eliotstoun!"

"About three miles.  Your train was well up to time in spite of
Christmas traffic.  How's your mother?"

"Pretty much the same," said Gwen.  "She keeps on like that, some days
better and some days worse."

"How sickening for her!  Is she very energetic, your mother, when she's
well?  Does she hate having to stay in bed?"

"She isn't altogether in bed," Gwen explained, "mostly on the sofa in
her room.  The doctor gives in to her about it for it makes her feel
less of an invalid.  She isn't dressed, you know, but she can wear
pretty gowns and caps, and she thinks it makes things a little more
cheerful for Daddy sitting with her in the evenings."

"Won't your mother miss you badly?"

"No," said Gwen, "not as long as she has Daddy.  You never saw such a
pair, they're like boy and girl together.  I mean to say, being married
umpteen years hasn't made any difference, they look at each other as if
they were both eighteen.  I tell them it makes me feel an intruder.
Mummy's being ill and all that has made her look older, sort of
pinched, you know, but I'm quite sure Daddy thinks she's as pretty as
she was when he married her.  And Dad isn't what you'd call handsome,
except to Mums, who thinks him better than any film star."

Car laughed.  "That's rather nice, isn't it?  Nice for them and nice
for you.  It makes such a wretched atmosphere in a house when the
parents either avoid each other or meet and snarl....  Oh, do tell me,
did you give Mademoiselle roses after all?"

"I did," said Gwen impressively; and gossip about the Dramatic College
occupied them till the car stopped at Eliotstoun front door.

Gwen, when she had pictured her arrival at her friend's house, had
always seen herself as the centre of a crowd of people all excitement
to see the stranger, but she found herself on a stone-flagged hall,
empty except for an elderly man in a white tie who came forward to take
her wraps.  There were dark pictures on the walls, wreathed now with
evergreens, and a wide bowl of red-berried holly stood on an oak chest.

From the hall she followed Car up a shallow staircase and along a
twisting passage that seemed endless.  At last Car opened a door,
saying, "I'm next to you.  I don't know whether you're a 'scared cat'
(I am), but this is rather a frightening old house to people who don't
know it, so come in to me if you think you hear a noise in the night."

"If I hear a noise in the night," said Gwen, "I'll go underneath the
blankets, it's the safest place.  I'll like to feel you're near, and
know that if I yell you'll hear, but nothing would induce me to leave
the refuge of bed.  Oh, what a sweet room!  Such pretty chintzes!"

"You'll like the view in daylight," Car told her.  "Your things'll be
up immediately, and here's Janet to unpack for you.  It's only a
quarter to seven now, and dinner is at eight, so you've lots of time.
Keep a good fire, Janet.  This is Miss Davis's first visit to Scotland
and we mustn't starve her.  I must fly, Gwen.  I'm not nearly ready for
to-morrow.  I'll call in for you.  It's lovely to have you here."

The cases came up and Gwen watched Janet lift out her clothes, and
arrange them in the wardrobe and drawers, but said nothing, as Janet's
face did not seem to invite conversation.

"What will you be wearing to-night, please, Miss?"

Gwen turned from studying the dressing-table, which was an old walnut
chest of drawers, with plate-glass top and a standing mirror, and said,
"Oh--that white one, I think."

"Very good, Miss," said Janet, and having laid out underclothes and
slippers, she glanced round to see that all was right, and left the
room.

Gwen gave a sigh of relief when the door closed behind her.

"Now," she thought, "I suppose I must find out where she's hidden my
things.  What a farce!  Much easier to do it myself.  And those aren't
the slippers I want."  She pitched the offending slippers into the
corner, where the rest of her footgear had been tidily arranged by
Janet, and surveyed the underwear lying on the bed.

"I'll tell mum about this, it'll amuse her.  Where on earth? ... Oh,
here's my dressing-gown.  I'll lay out what I want for to-morrow
morning before I go to bed, and she'll have no excuse for making her
own choice.  It won't take me long to dress.  I believe I've time to
begin a letter now."

She got a pad from the writing-table and her fountain pen, and sitting
close to the fire she began:


"DARLING MUMS,

"Here I am!  The journey didn't seem at all long--that was a good
thriller you gave me--and the meals were quite good.  Dad put me into a
Ladies Only (!!) and there were two females with me all the way,
middle-aged and frumpish and as Scotch as they could be.  I wish you
had heard them.  They made several efforts to start a conversation with
me and find out where I was going, but I wasn't having any.  Old women
are always so inquisitive.  I managed to change all right, and then it
was only a short bit on a branch line.  Car was waiting for me on the
platform in very shabby tweeds.  I felt far too smart in mine.  I can't
tell you what the house is like for I've only seen the hall, which
seemed pretty bare and gloomy though there was a fire.  I mistook the
old family butler for the master of the house, wasn't it awful?  But I
don't think he saw me hold out my hand.  There's electric light all
right, for which I'm thankful.  I'm glad to say my room is next Car's,
for it seems a big rambling sort of house, fearfully old and rather
ghosty.  My room is very nice, with lots of old furniture and bright
chintzes and a lovely fire.  I'd have enjoyed unpacking my things in
peace, but as I feared, a maid (middle-aged and dour) came and took
possession of everything.  I've just got rid of her.  I am writing this
before the fire.  Once I've got the introductions over I'll feel
better.  I hope you're not worrying, or thinking it selfish of me to
leave you.  I can't believe that it's Christmas Eve.  I hope you'll
like my present.  Yours to me will arrive to-morrow morning, I hope.
Now I must dress.  Cheerio, ducky."


Gwen was ready in good time, and when Car came for her she expressed
approval of her appearance.

"I never saw you in white before, Gwen.  You look charming with your
frills."

As they were about to descend the stairs a boy came tearing along a
passage, and, on seeing a stranger, turned to fly, but Car called,
"Rory, come and be introduced," so wearing a sheepish smile, he shook
hands, and the three went together to the drawing-room.

Gwen found that there was no ordeal about meeting her host and hostess.
They welcomed her warmly, and Sandy, the only other person in the room,
if he said little, at least smiled kindly.  Helen and Tom were late and
slipped into their places after dinner had begun.

"We make it a rule to wait for no one in this house," Tim Eliot told
Gwen as they began their soup, "for I've a most unpunctual family.
It's odd, but the arrival of the stated time for a meal is enough to
disperse the lot.  They'll be lying about the place all morning, but
when the gong sounds for luncheon there's not a soul in sight."

Gwen smiled non-committally, uncertain whether her host was being funny
or simply telling the truth, and said, "I've learnt punctuality, if I
didn't know it before, at the Dramatic College.  We daren't be a minute
behind time for anything."

"That's capital," said Tim.  "You and Car are both earnest students of
the dramatic art, I understand.  Are you in the same class?"

"Yes," said Gwen, but Car leant forward, "We've the same classes,
Father," she said, "but we're not in the same class.  I'm quite
mediocre, but Gwen's an actress."

The eyes of every one at the table were turned on the stranger.

"How wonderful!" said Helen.  "It must be so amusing to be able to act.
I can't think how you do it."

Gwen, who felt that the admiration expressed was more seeming than
real, blushed prettily, while Car broke in,

"Not much amusement about it, nothing but hard unceasing work."

"Oh, well," said Helen lightly, "I suppose you like it or you wouldn't
do it," and Car did not pursue the subject.

Back in her room that night, although it was nearly midnight, Gwen sat
down to finish the letter she was writing to her mother.


"Here I am again!  And I've got the worst over, and it wasn't at all
alarming really.  I like Mr. Eliot very much, he's a dear, large and
kind, and easy to talk to.  You can see that he admires his wife
enormously, and I must say there is something very charming about Mrs.
Eliot.  I like her much better in her own house than when I met her in
London.  Then she seemed rather stiff, but she's ever so kind to me
here.  She's still handsome, I think she must have been lovely when she
was young.  The way she looks at you, and listens so intently when you
tell her anything, makes you feel that she really cares what you think
and feel and isn't being just polite.  I should think she is more
sincere than most people, and she has a young infectious laugh which is
very jolly.  I mustn't forget to tell you that Mrs. Eliot asked a lot
about you and sent civil messages about your kindness in sparing me.  I
felt rather guilty about that, for I didn't ask if you could spare me,
did I?

"Two of Car's brothers are nice, the eldest and the youngest, the
middle one, Tom, fancies himself a lot.  He's much too clever for me
(though he's only sixteen) and talks about pictures and books that I
never heard of.  I'll avoid Tom!

"The other girl, Helen, is adorably pretty and beautifully dressed, and
is of the minx tribe, I think.  She seems to live a great deal away
from home, and has masses of smart friends and cares for nothing but
gaiety.  Not in the least like Car, who is a real worker, and certainly
not like her mother.

"We had a very good dinner, and afterwards sat round the drawing-room
fire, and played games to amuse Rory, the youngest boy--a lamb.  I
think the playlets we are doing on Thursday night are going to be quite
good.  Tom and Rory are acting with us.  Sandy, the eldest, won't help.
He hates acting, Car says, and is a perfect dud at it.  He only cares
for things like hawks and going on trawlers.  He talks in a slow,
gentle voice, and, Car says, uses Johnsonian English, whatever that may
be!

"Car has just been in to hang up a stocking for me beside the chimney,
already filled (she says with the merest trifles), rather sweet of her,
don't you think?

"I hear a clock striking twelve, Merry Christmas, Mummy and Daddy.

"From your
    "GWEN."




CHAPTER XXI

  "What, are you busy?  Need you my help?"
                              _Romeo and Juliet._


Tom and Rory were in the old nursery, now used as a workroom, busy with
preparations for the theatricals that were to take place the next night
at Kingshouse.

Rory was on the floor, with Buster beside him, whistling softly as he
worked.

Presently he said, "D'you like that girl Car's brought?"

Tom, absorbed in his task, did not lift his head as he said: "It's not
my business to like her; she seems quite harmless."

"I think she's nice," said Rory.  "I took her round the place this
morning.  She liked the dogs, but the hawks scared her, and she
wouldn't go up beside the horses, that's because she's never lived in
the country."

Tom grunted, profoundly uninterested, but Rory went on: "I asked her
what she did in London, and she said her home wasn't in London but in a
suburb--I forget its name--and she plays tennis a lot and badminton,
and swims and fences--I expect she's really good too.  She says they've
great fun in suburbs for there are crowds of young people to do things
together.  She's the only one, no brothers or sisters."

"Lucky for her!" said Tom.  "But why am I hearing the life-story of
your girl friend?"

"She told me to call her Gwen," Rory continued.  "I hadn't called her
anything for I wasn't sure what to call her, and she said she'd rather
like to have a brother like me."

"Ho, ho!" scoffed Tom.  "How little she knows!"

Rory grinned, and after a pause said: "She's been very kind about
teaching me my part.  She's Emily Bront, you know, and I'm Anne."

Tom groaned.  "As if I didn't know that!  The trouble I've had to get a
wig for you.  Here, try it on!  Oh, Lord, I hope to goodness nobody's
expecting anything from this performance.  It's the feeblest thing.  I
say, don't forget the rehearsal at twelve.  Have you finished with
that?  You might put the jewels in this!"  He pointed to a small pile
of glass jewels and added, "Don't let Buster swallow them."

"Been looting King Solomon's Mines?" Rory asked.

"Only Woolworth's," said Tom.

Rory, very willingly, if not very skilfully, set to the task Tom had
entrusted him with, until his father came in to see if there was a boy
available to take a message.

"What on earth are you doing?" he asked, surveying the jumble of sham
jewels, tinsel, paints and clothes with which the room was littered.
"Doggie Buster, are they going to make you act to-night?"

"Half a sec," said Rory, "I only want one more emerald to finish this
crown.  That'll do.  If they come off it won't matter.  Is that the
note, Father?  Come on, Buster boy."

Katharyn, in Jane's Parlour, working at garments for the show, thought
what a blessing it was when some one had the energy to get up a party
in Christmas week.  Jean Douglas had made Phil Armstrong the excuse to
invite the whole neighbourhood to a house-warming, and the theatricals
that were to be part of it were keeping not only Car and her friend,
but Tom and Rory happily employed.  Sandy, who did not shine as an
actor, could always be trusted to amuse himself.  Katharyn had enjoyed
Christmas almost as much as she had hoped to.  It was such a delight to
have all the children at home again and to find them essentially
unchanged.  Even Helen, that Will-o-the-Wisp, seemed very content to be
again in the bosom of her family, though she was full of tales of the
luxury that abounded in the house of the Deelings, and of the exciting
things that happened there.

She was at the moment descanting on it to Sandy, who listened
absent-mindedly, merely remarking, and his tone implied that
degradation could go no further, "It sounds like Hollywood."

"I do hope Mother won't make difficulties," Helen went on.  "Mrs.
Deeling wants me to go with them in February on their yacht to the
Mediterranean.  Won't it be marvellous?"

"Rotten," said Sandy.  "I can't imagine anything I'd hate more than to
be on a luxury yacht, nosing round horrible sophisticated places like
Monte Carlo."

Helen laughed with perfect good humour.  "Darling!" she said, "we
haven't all your passion for living hard.  I'm a sybarite unashamed.
Eliotstoun with its stone floors and long unheated passages makes me
shiver.  Of course it's lovely, and it's my home and I'm proud of it,
but for living in give me a modern house, or at least a modernized
house, with bathrooms galore, and the very latest comforts in the way
of beds and armchairs, hot pipes everywhere and no draughts."

Sandy eyed his sister.  "To hear you talk you'd think you were about
seventy years of age.  If you pamper yourself now you will have nothing
to occupy age with.  When are you going to endure hardness if not when
you're young?"

"I don't see that I need endure it at all," said Helen.  "I must say
I've got a most comfortless family.  The way you all work is a constant
amazement to me.  Father--well, men are meant to work, I suppose, but
Mother spending her time writing books that no one makes her write, and
Car killing herself learning to act, for no purpose that I can see, and
you spending your holidays working on trawlers or whalers or something,
living like a savage.  I'm bound to say Tom, so far, shows no desire to
imitate you.  I suspect him of liking his comfort."

"What you need," said Sandy, in his gentle, deliberate voice, "is to
marry some one holding up the flag of Empire at some outpost of
civilization.  You'd be quite a nice person, you know, Helen, if you'd
a reason for living."

Helen laughed.  "Funny you should say that.  Some one else said
something very like it to me the other day.  But I couldn't do it,
Sandy, I'm not big enough ... By the way, talking of marrying, I always
thought of George Lockhart as Car's property.  Miss Gwen Davis doesn't
seem to think so.  I saw her looking very come-hitherish last night,
and George didn't seem reluctant either.  She's certainly very pretty,
but rather second-rate, a suburban siren.  Don't you think so?"

"What?" said Sandy, who had ceased to listen and was thinking of his
hawks.

"Don't you think Gwen Davis is rather second-rate?"

"I don't think about it at all," said Sandy.  "She seems all right.
Doesn't talk as much as some girls, which is all to the good."

"Meaning me," said Helen, giving him a hug.  "If I talk as if I were
seventy, you sound very much as you did when you were about seven--just
a funny little innocent boy, caring for nothing but birds and beasts."

"Rot," said Sandy, much affronted.  "I'm only a year and a half younger
than you."

"That ought to make you sixty-eight and a half."  Helen made a face,
then grew suddenly grave.  "Oh, Sandy, mustn't it be awful to be old?
Everything finished, nothing more to look forward to."

"Oh, I don't know.  If you've had a good full life it must be rather
nice to have time to think it all over.  And a man who's done his
country's work in far parts must feel a special right to the beauty of
his own land, and enjoy it accordingly.  Some, of course, work right up
to the end; missionaries, splendid fellows, who have given all their
lives to it can't bear to stop.  The other day I read about an old chap
of ninety going off to explore.  I expect he wanted to die at his
favourite job."

Sandy's philosophy seemed to give small comfort to his sister.  "Well,"
she said, "it may be different for men, what, they look like doesn't
matter, but when a woman's looks go----"

"The people who like her will go on liking her, they won't notice,"
said Sandy.

"Oh, but she knows herself.  She looks in the glass and sees--eough!
However, I've twenty years yet if I'm careful, and the world may have
ended before then."

"Or," said Sandy, "you may have learned sense and ceased to care."

"I may.  Anyway, I've a lovely frock for the Kingshouse party to-night.
Mrs. Deeling gave it me for one of the Highland balls.  It came from
Paris--Worth, and I look like a moonbeam in it."

She danced across the floor, while Sandy smiled tolerantly at her.
"Come and see my hawks," he said.

"Not I.  I loathed your filthy vultures, and it's perishing cold
outside.  I'm going to see if I can help Mother with the costumes.
Rory, as Anne Bront in a crinoline and a fair wig, is the funniest
thing I ever saw.  I heard him rehearsing with Car who, as Charlotte
Bront, confesses to him that she is writing a book.  Very impressively
she says, 'I will take a pseudonym.'  Rory, as Anne, gives a startled
squeak and says, 'What's that?'  I'm looking forward to the
performance."


Colonel Douglas had no right to enjoy the party, having been
consistently disagreeable about it since it was first mooted.  When
details were discussed before him he had thrown cold water on every
suggestion, had insisted that the last thing he desired was to see his
friends and neighbours gathered under his roof, indeed he couldn't be
sure that he had any friends, anyway if he had, the less he saw of them
the better.  Surely, he said, addressing his long-suffering wife, a man
might be allowed to enjoy his few remaining days in peace and not be
forced to take part in an orgy.

When he found that even his own sanctum was to be taken from him for
the evening and arranged for bridge-players, he gave up expostulating,
and retreated into what he called dignified silence, and his wife
described as sulks.

But when the evening came and the party arrived, in spite of himself he
became infected by the spirit of jollity in the air.  It was pleasant
at a time, he owned to himself, to see all those people enjoying his
hospitality.  And when you came to think of it they weren't bad people.
Some were his own contemporaries, and it was gratifying to notice that
most of them had lost their hair and their figures and confessed to
various ailments, whereas he, except for a touch of rheumatism now and
again, was as good a man as ever he had been.  It was pleasing, too, to
see the happy young people, and he was surprised and delighted at the
cleverness of the show Car Eliot produced.  He had never seen the plays
they were parodying, but he chuckled over them, and he highly approved
of the scene from _Little Women_.  Women were women in those days, not
imitation boys.  That little friend of Car's--he didn't know her
name--was a pretty creature: full of tricks too, he added, as he
watched her dancing with George Lockhart and looking up at him through
her eyelashes.

Colonel Douglas took Miss Lockhart into supper, and pointed out to her
that George had not only danced repeatedly with the young woman, but
was now attending to her wants with the greatest assiduity.  Waxing
jocular--a thing, to do him justice, that he seldom was--Colonel
Douglas continued, "Looks like a case, Alison.  Well, she's a
good-looking girl.  Clever, too.  I'm told Car thinks a lot of her.
Funny, now, I had an idea that it was Car George liked.  Something must
have put it into my head, but you can't tell with the young people of
the present day, they all behave as if they were engaged to each other."

Alison regarded her companion coldly as she said:

"What are you talking about, Tom?  Can't George be civil to a girl
without people imagining absurdities?  Miss Davis is the Eliots'
friend, a stranger, and naturally he wants to make her enjoy herself."

Thomas chuckled.  "I don't think he's finding it difficult!"  Then,
seeing from his companion's face that his jesting was ill-timed, he
straightened his face and said, "I daresay you're right, and he's only
being civil.  Car has got lots of other squires.  But she's a pretty
girl, Miss Davis."

"You think so?" Alison said indifferently.  "It's not a type of looks
that I care much for.  Helen Eliot, now, is lovely, though I think I
prefer Car's looks to either.  But I'm too old fashioned, Tom, to
admire the looks of the girls of to-day.  To me they all look the same,
with their surprised eyebrows and reddened lips.  And their expressions
are pretty much the same, rather sulky and bored, yet watchful, as if
they were afraid of missing anything.  I don't know when I saw a girl
with eager, happy eyes."

"I daresay you're right," said Thomas, looking round the room.
"Barbara Jackson's looking well to-night.  Is that a coat of mail she's
wearing?"

"Something of the kind," said Alison.  "Very effective.  Nicole's not
here."

"No.  Jean did her best but she wouldn't budge.  Said her mother didn't
want to leave home at this time of year, and, of course, the boy is
home for his holidays.  Jean was very disappointed, unreasonably so, I
told her.  She had hoped to get John Dalrymple too, but he
refused--just as well when Nicole wasn't coming.  I wish Jean would get
it out of her head that she can understudy Providence.  If she likes
people she will try to mould their lives for them: ridiculous I tell
her, and rather impertinent.  If Nicole doesn't want John then more
fool she, but it's no business of ours.  All the same, I sympathize so
far with Jean, it would have been a most suitable arrangement, Nicole
at Newby Place with John.  The place stands there, no good to any
one--John seems to have pretty well deserted it--and with Nicole there
it would have been a centre for the whole neighbourhood.  There are so
few of the old lot left.  I feel a sort of survival."

"You're not the only one who feels that," said Alison, watching George
go out with Gwen Davis, smiling down at her as she made some laughing
remark.  "Some one said that John Dalrymple was ill."

"We heard that too, but he didn't say anything about it when he wrote,
so it can't be true.  I say, wasn't that skit on the Bronts good?
_Wuthering Heights_ you know.  A dreary work.  I once tried to read it.
That wind effect was very clever--wuthering, wuthering, jolly good."

Later, as Alison and Katharyn Eliot stood together watching the
dancers, the latter said: "I'm glad Car's friend is having such a good
time.  She and George seem to get on well together."

"Yes," said Alison.

"She's very pretty, don't you think?  And she does act amazingly well.
Car said so, but she was so--well so ordinary to speak to that her
acting was a revelation.  She seemed to become suddenly some one quite
different.  Oh, look at Rory dancing with that large woman.  There's
nothing that child won't attempt, unlike Sandy who won't even try to
dance.  It's a good party, don't you think?"

Alison Lockhart stifled a yawn.  "I suppose it is," she said, "from
every point of view, but I'm not enjoying it.  I feel like a sort of
ghost lingering reluctant to go yet hating to stay.  I ought never to
have come."

"But, Alison, you always used to like to see the children enjoy
themselves."

"Yes, but now I don't, it irritates me.  I'm sorry, K., to seem so dog
in the mangerish, but I'm becoming a cankered, jealous old woman, a
death's head at the feast."

"Can you be both a dog in the manger and a death's head at the feast?"
Katharyn asked mildly.

"I can," said Alison, "quite easily."  Then, relenting, she said, "But
I confess I did enjoy the theatricals, especially Rory's squeak.  And
Car as Jo in _Little Women_ was perfect.  Don't wrinkle your forehead
at me, K.  You'll undo all the effect of your skin food....  How
becoming that wide green ruffle is: you look charming, my dear."




CHAPTER XXII

              "Odds my little life,
  I think she means to tangle my eyes too!"
                                  _As You Like It._


Gwen Davis spent the morning after the party writing a description of
it to her mother.

"... You were quite right when you said I'd be sure to enjoy the party
because the things we dread nearly always turn out well.  I was scared
stiff at the thought of going away among so many strangers and having
to entertain them, for I know how awful that kind of audience can be,
but everything was splendid.  The little show was really very good.  I
told you, didn't I, that Mrs. Eliot helped Car and Tom to write the
plays, and they were very cleverly done.  (Tom is terribly brainy and
has a real gift for producing.)  One was a sort of take-off of a Bront
play, and the other was adapted from _Little Women_.  I did two short
things by myself, and they seemed to go down very well.  The dresses we
wore were real period dresses, and we did look a scream, especially
Rory, who had to be Anne Bront because we hadn't another girl.  My
flame-coloured chiffon was lovely to dance with, and Car said it looked
so graceful when I recited.  It certainly has lovely lines.

"The lady who gave the party is a Mrs. Douglas.  Her husband is a
colonel and has a very red face, and the name of their place is
Kingshouse.  It's a great big house, and they had a stage put up in the
billiard-room, quite a convenient place, as it happened to have doors
at both ends, and the actors could get in and out without being seen.
We danced in the drawing-room, and fed in the dining-room--a
frightfully good supper--champagne and everything nice to eat that you
can imagine.  Mrs. Douglas, they say, is like that, does everything
very well.  She seems a great friend of the Eliots, but I can't say I
care much for her.  She has white hair and very blue eyes, and dresses
quite absurdly well for her age--she must be sixty, I should think.
She was quite nice to me, and said kind things about my acting, but
I've a feeling that she didn't like me much.  I caught her once or
twice looking at me 'very old-fashioned' as Nannie used to say.  And
there's another friend of the Eliots I don't like at all--a Miss
Lockhart.  She's the aunt of the nice George Lockhart I told you about,
and a jealous, old cat any one could see with half an eye.  When I
danced with him (which I did pretty often!) I could positively feel her
eyes boring into my spine, and we had the bad luck to be near her at
supper, so that was my meal spoiled--and such a good meal too!  George
didn't seem to notice anything (men are the densest things!) and
actually suggested to her, when we were saying good-night, that we
should all go over to Fairniehopes to-day.  She was very polite, and
said it would be delightful and would we come to lunch or tea, but she
looked as if she'd rather offer me a cup of cold poison!  I said
something about it afterwards to Car, but she said it was only my vivid
imagination and changed the subject.  In these 'suckles' it seems one
mustn't venture to criticize any one, it's regarded as impertinence--so
now we know!  Anyhow, we're all going over to tea at Fairniehopes this
afternoon.

"It's surprising how quickly the days pass here.  I had an idea that
days spent in the depths of the country must be endless--no shop
windows or cinemas, nothing to look at but scenery.  Of course we've
been rehearsing these last three days, and nothing runs away with time
like that, but there always seems heaps to do.  I've never been bored a
minute.  The meals are rather fun, so many talking at once.  After our
quiet little meals at home it's quite a treat.  Mr. and Mrs. Eliot are
both very nice to me and talk about things they think will interest me,
but generally I've to sit pretty quiet because, when they all talk at
once, it's generally about books and people that I know nothing about.
It's amusing, though, just to listen, for they rag each other, and are
really quite entertaining.  I still feel that they're quite different,
the Eliots and their friends, from us, but I'm beginning to think that
I wouldn't mind being like them!  You and Daddy will be saying, 'That's
like Gwen, always wanting what some one else has.'  And, of course, I
couldn't be like the Eliots, for I don't in the least understand the
way they look at things, so I'll have to go on being myself.  I'm glad
to think you're quite contented with me as I am!

"Well, this time will soon be over and I'm glad I came (you didn't know
how I had to screw up courage to make the effort!), for it's been well
worth while, and I think I've been a success.  But you shall hear all
about it when I'm back with you and talking cosily by the fire, with no
one criticizing.

"And the old grind will soon begin again.  Do you know, actually Car is
keen to be back at the D.C.!!

"I'm hoping to find you much better and Daddy flourishing.  What is
Auntie G. like these days?

"Your loving
   "GWEN."


Gwen was right in her suspicion that Miss Lockhart had resented her
appropriation of George at the Kingshouse party.  As she and George
drove home together it was with difficulty that she prevented herself
from saying things she might have regretted.  That George should have
made himself conspicuous with this girl!  George, who had so recently
been in love with Car!  Unstable as water, she said to herself,
bitterly, and hardly answered when George, innocent of wrong-doing,
wanted to discuss the evening.

Next morning, as they sat at a late breakfast, George asked if she
still felt tired.

"Not in the least," she told him, "though I'm getting rather past that
sort of thing.  It amazed me to see Jean Douglas enjoying everything as
much as the youngest there.  She had taken endless trouble, and had
every right to be proud of the success of her party.  It was a good
plan, don't you think, to vary the evening, and I must say I enjoyed
Car's show.  That Miss Davis acts uncommonly well, and she's uncommonly
pretty too."

George agreed, and Alison went on: "Her eyes are quite lovely, and her
little heart-shaped face.  It's a pity her voice is so ugly."

"Her voice!" repeated George.

"Surely you noticed!  It's inclined to be shrill, and has some sort of
common intonation, Cockney, is it?  I couldn't quite make out.  Car,
though she can't act anything like as well, has a lovely voice.  It's
K.'s voice, one of her greatest attractions."

Alison took an oat-cake, buttered it and went on:

"I confess I'm very much influenced by voices, more than by faces, I
think.  Besides, faces age and alter, a lovely voice goes on to the
end.  I was taken to visit Ellen Terry once when she was old and ill
and changed, but when she spoke all the old magic was there."

"I heard her voice once by the merest chance," George said, balancing a
bit of toast on Sammy the Sealyham's nose.  "It was when I was here for
holidays from school, going back probably, and I was walking along
Princes Street on the garden side, when I met an old lady with black
spectacles, a wide hat, and voluminous cloak.  As I passed she said
something to her companion, something quite commonplace, about trains
from the Caledonian, but I stopped dead and turned round, arrested by
the beauty of the voice, and in a flash I realized it was Ellen
Terry....  I can't say I noticed that Miss Davis's voice was shrill,
but I thought it arresting.  You had to listen: she's got a lot of
personality."

"I daresay," said Miss Lockhart carelessly, beginning to look over the
letters that had been brought in.  "I mustn't forget the tea-party this
afternoon.  Rory loves a good tea, and even Tom's not beyond enjoying
stuffed rolls and cake with almond icing."

It turned out a very successful party, and Alison herself was the life
and soul of it.  She knew what hungry boys liked, and the dining-room
table, lit by candles and groaning under every sort of bake-meat, from
iced Christmas cake to Selkirk bannock and black bun, was a sight to
rejoice Rory's heart.  That youth was in great form, having been much
complimented on his performance the previous evening.

"It was very difficult," he told his hostess, "for my voice is
breaking, and I'd either to squeak or growl."

"It must have been _very_ difficult," Miss Lockhart agreed, "but you
made a nice girl."

"A very nice girl," said Tom.  "You're what's known as a female
impersonator, Rory."

"I'm not," said Rory, becoming very red and angry.  "Anyway, I'll never
be a female again, for next Christmas I'll be too big--my feet are
enormous now."

"Of course we Won't ask you again," Car broke in soothingly.  "You only
did it this time to get us out of a difficulty, and we couldn't have
managed without you."

"And, anyway," said George, "there's no disgrace in playing a woman's
part.  In Shakespeare's time all his heroines were played by boys."

"Were they?" said Rory, brightening.  "I wouldn't mind playing Lady
Macbeth."

"How confusing it must have been," said Sandy, "for a boy to play
Rosalind or Viola--a boy pretending to be a girl pretending to be a
boy!"

"Awful!" said Gwen.  "I never thought of that."

After tea Rory begged for games, and for 'Sardines' in particular,
because, he said, Fairniehopes seemed to have been specially built for
that game, and was full of hidey-holes.

"All right," said Alison.  "Go over all the house, but not into the
servants' rooms.  Yes, mine if you like, but if you make a dreadful
mess I'll send you back to tidy it, and I'd rather you didn't go inside
my wardrobe; a lace dress suffered heavily last time."

"We'll play in stocking-soles," Rory promised, and rushed away whooping.

"But what do we do?" Gwen Davis asked plaintively.  "I've never played
before."

"We hide," Car told her.  "George, you take Gwen, she doesn't know the
house....  Tom, I know a splendid place."

After a strenuous hour they all came to rest in the drawing-room.  Tom
seized a book he liked the look of and was immediately engrossed: Helen
and Sandy carried on a wordy war on the sofa: George showed Gwen the
pictures, and Rory refreshed himself from a large box of chocolates.

Car found herself beside her hostess.

"Well, Car," said Alison, "I never seem to have had a word with you
since you came home.  Congratulations over your show last night; it was
excellent.  But it must have meant a lot of work."

Car shook her head.  "Not really.  And Tom is clever at making stage
properties and scenery.  He likes doing it, fortunately.  The chief
difficulty was teaching Rory.  Gwen and I are so accustomed now to
getting up parts quickly that it meant little or nothing to us."

Alison turned round and deliberately inspected Gwen, who was listening
with flattering interest to what George was telling her about a family
portrait, and then said:

"You and Miss Davis are studying together, your mother tells me."

"Yes," said Car.  "Gwen is my great friend at the Dramatic College."

"Who is she?" Miss Lockhart asked.

Car flushed at the tone.  "Must she be anybody?  I don't know anything
about her except that she's the most talented girl at the College, and
I'm proud to be her friend."

"I see.  I didn't mean to be rude, Car.  You've every right to be proud
of your friend, she's both clever and charmingly pretty.  I should
think she might make a success on the stage, if she's determined to get
there, but she may weaken on it and decide to marry instead."

"She might do both," said Car, still very much on the defensive, "and
make a success of both."

"Only if she married an actor.  Then they'd endure the discomforts
together.  I can't imagine anything more miserable for an ordinary man
than to be married to a successful actress.  They'd never see each
other except on Sunday!"

"Would that be a bad thing?" Car asked.  "It might keep them keen on
each other longer."

"Well, that's one way of looking at it," Alison agreed, and went on:
"But tell me about Cambridge Gardens.  You think Mrs. Armstrong is
really making a success of her venture."

"I do indeed.  And she deserves to.  She's putting every ounce of
herself into it.  The trouble she's taken!  I know, for she let me help
her a little with her Christmas preparations.  The 'perms,' the
boarders who are there for the winter, about a half-dozen, weren't
going away for Christmas, and Mrs. Armstrong was making little surprise
gifts for them, and arranging treats.  I know she wanted terribly to
come to Kingshouse to the party, and see Phil in his new surroundings,
but it was impossible, and she never said one repining word.  You've no
idea how hard she works to keep everything running smoothly and make
the place homelike and comfortable, and I honestly think she's getting
a certain amount of satisfaction out of it, and even happiness."

"Of course she is," said Alison.  "You can't be unhappy if you've a job
that's worth doing, and now that Alice Armstrong's mind is at rest
about her boys, she can give her whole energy to her job.  Phil will be
with her now, I suppose."

"Yes, he was to leave this morning.  I do hope nothing'll happen to
spoil his visit--sometimes things are a bit volcanic in the
kitchen--for his mother was just living on the thought of it."

"I hope not indeed ... Well, Helen, it's nice to have you with us
again."

"It's lovely to be here," Helen responded sweetly, "and this has been a
most gorgeous tea-party....  We ought to go, though, Car, or mother'll
think we're all in Tweed.  Detach Gwen from George, will you?  I always
adore this room, Aunt Alison.  And you don't turn your rooms about as
so many people do.  It is just as I remember it when we came here to
tea as children--always such a treat the Fairniehopes parties were."

"It's very nice of you to say so, Helen, and we'll hope to see
something of you now that you're back at Eliotstoun."

"I'm afraid I'm not back for long," said Helen, looking wistful.  "Mrs.
Deeling made me promise to go with them on a yachting cruise....  You
see she has no daughter of her own.  She's been so good to me, and I
can help her with the entertaining and in lots of ways."

"I see," said Alison, her tone somewhat dry.  "And what about your own
mother?  Isn't it rather hard that having brought up two daughters she
should get no help from either?"

"Oh, but, Aunt Alison," Helen said, "Mother doesn't need us.  She's so
splendidly independent; and then she's got Daddy."

"Hasn't Mrs. Deeling a husband?"

Helen laughed.  "A perfectly good husband.  But Mr. and Mrs. Deeling
are an ordinary couple, not like Mother and Daddy who mean all the
world to each other."

"Well, well," said Alison rising, "I don't pretend to understand this
generation.  George, you might ring the bell, the Eliotstoun car's
wanted.  Good-bye, Miss Davis; it was nice of you to come.  You haven't
chosen the best time of year to see the Borders, but I hope you've
enjoyed yourself."

Gwen smiled and murmured something, while George said regretfully,
"Miss Davis hasn't really seen Fairniehopes, nor the surroundings."

But the hint was lost on his relative, who only said briskly, "She
couldn't very well in the dark, could she?" and turned away to say
good-night to Rory.




CHAPTER XXIII

  "How now, my headstrong!  Where have
  You been gadding?"
                                _Romeo and Juliet._


Gwen Davis was frankly sorry to leave Eliotstoun, and told her host at
breakfast on the morning of her departure that she had never enjoyed
herself so much anywhere.

"You see," she said, "it's all new and different--a big house full of
young people.  At home there's only Dad and Mums and me--and Mums is
ill."

"That's hard lines," said Tim.  "It must keep you anxious."

"Yes," said Gwen, "and it makes everything so dreary."

Katharyn looked kindly at the girl as she said: "How glad your mother
will be to have you back!  It was very good of her to spare you to us,
and you've been a great help.  I wish I could think of something to
send your mother.  Any flowers we have wouldn't carry, I'm afraid.  Is
she able to read?"

"A little," said Gwen quickly, aware that her mother's taste in books
and Mrs. Eliot's were probably poles asunder.  "Sometimes she knits,
and if she's fairly well she likes to talk.  We've an aunt lives with
us, and Dad and I are there in the evening, and there's always the
nurse, so between us she doesn't do too badly.  She says you get used
to being an invalid, and the days go quite fast."

"Your mother must be blessed with a contented spirit," Katharyn said.

"I suppose so," Gwen agreed.  "We tell her that she has the best of it,
lying comfortably in bed hearing us stumbling down to an eight o'clock
breakfast on cold mornings, and nothing to do all day but be taken care
of.  I don't think I'd mind being bed-ridden myself."

"When I had measles," said Rory, "it was grand.  I got hot lemonade, as
much as I could drink, and everybody gave me presents, and I didn't
feel a bit ill."

"You had the luck to get measles at home," said Tom; "you'd have found
it pretty grim at school, I can tell you.  One got off lessons, but
that was about all."

Rory got up importantly.  "I must get Buster to say good-bye to you,
Gwen.  He'll be sorry to see you go, he likes a lot of people.  Mother,
isn't he terribly lonely when there's only you and Daddy?"

"Well, he does wander about at first looking very disconsolate, and he
keeps a watchful eye on Daddy and me, and shows relief when we return
from an outing, but I think on the whole he's happy.  Janet is very
good to him, and cook makes him welcome, and Phil often comes over on a
Sunday to take him for a walk.  But the holidays are his great time."

Car and Rory, with Buster, went to the station with their guest.  As
she talked to them Gwen's eyes wandered often to the station entrance,
but no one else appeared, and soon the train came in and she was gone.
As she settled herself comfortably in a corner Gwen looked back on the
day that she had travelled up, feeling that she had been rather a fool.
How happy she should have been with everything before her!  Instead,
she had tormented herself with fears about not being liked, of not
knowing what to talk about, of feeling herself an outsider.  Why,
nobody could feel an outsider at Eliotstoun, so full it was of dogs and
boys and laughter.  Everything had been delightful, and every one (more
or less) had been kind and flattering; but it was on George Lockhart
that her thoughts dwelt.  She had been attracted to him the first time
she had met him, and now she liked him so much that the thought of
leaving him positively hurt.  Could it be that she was in love with
George?  She had been what she called "in love" more or less
continually since she was sixteen, with film stars and actors, and boys
with whom she danced and played games, but this, she thought, must be
the real thing at last.  And George was a Prize.  To begin with, he was
County.  Prior to her visit to Eliotstoun Gwen had had the haziest
notion of what constituted "County," but now she knew.  It meant having
a Place, not a suburban villa with a garden, but a house set among wide
stretching parks and moors, lonely, certainly (Gwen shivered a little,
remembering the drive to Fairniehopes on that winter afternoon, the
cold glimmer of the river, the wildness of the surrounding country),
but so stately.  She could see herself as mistress of Fairniehopes,
going out with George in the smartest of tweeds, or presiding under the
portraits in the dining-room in velvet and pearls.  What fun it would
be!  And it wasn't as if they need stay always in the country, George
had his profession, and they would be in London a large part of the
year.  As long as Miss Lockhart lived, and, Gwen reflected, she looked
as much like living as any one, they would not be much at Fairniehopes.
Quickly she snatched her thoughts away from the present owner, who had
been only coldly kind, and remembered how interested George had been in
everything she told him about life at the D.C., in all she and,
incidentally, Car did, how delighted he had been to dance with her, to
show her everything he thought would please her.  Certainly he hadn't
_said_ anything, that was hardly to be expected perhaps, but he had
suggested a dinner and a play when they were all back in London.  Of
course he would have to include Car, but he would invite a fourth for
her, otherwise the evening would be a failure.  He might have said
something about writing to her, but probably it hadn't occurred to him;
he wasn't as well up to things as her boy friends, and she liked him
the better for it.  It was odd, now that she thought of it, that no one
had chaffed her about her conquest.  The Eliots were really very odd,
taking some things so quietly, and becoming so violently excited about
others.  Probably they had never even noticed that George was paying
her attention.  On the other hand they might have noticed and not
approved.  He was so much the friend of the family, so much a sort of
big brother to the young Eliots, that they might resent it.  Well, she
couldn't help that.

Gwen opened her dressing-case and took out a book Car had given her for
the journey.  After regarding it rather dubiously, she began to read
with determination, but when the train stopped at York she laid it down
with an air of relief and asked a newsboy for the _Daily Mail_.

Her father was waiting for her and she sprang at him.

"Here I am, Dad!  Mum all right?  Hold on to those, will you, till I
show the porter my luggage.  Uch! it's foggy.  And it was quite bright
in Scotland."

When they reached home Gwen ran up at once to the bedroom where her
mother, almost tearful with excitement, was waiting for her.

"Here's your bad penny back again, Mums."

"Oh, my darling, how glad I am to see you.  Aunt Gladys thought I'd be
better in bed, but I wouldn't go till you'd seen me in the new
dressing-gown Daddy gave me for Christmas.  Bought it himself--and you
know how shy he is about going into shops.  He told them quite firmly
that it must be pale pink satin--wasn't it sweet of him?--and slippers
and cap to match.  He said the young lady suggested them, he wouldn't
have thought of it himself.  I am so pleased with them."

"And you look a picture in them," Gwen assured her.  "You've got the
prettiest pink colour in your cheeks that exactly matches everything
else."

"That's pleasure at seeing you.  I'll be grey enough in the morning.
Darling, I've missed you so.  But you had a good time?  No, don't tell
me about it till you've had your dinner; you must be tired out after
such a journey.  Run now, like a dear.  I hear Aunt Gladys coming to
say I must go to bed."

"Hullo, Auntie," Gwen said, as her aunt, an older, plainer edition of
her mother, came into the room, "you've been doing well with Mums, she
looks ever so much better."

Her aunt glanced at the invalid and said, "I'm glad you think so.  You
look all right, anyway."

"Oh, I'm crashingly fit.  Well, I suppose I'd better change."

"Gwen's coming up later, Gladys," the invalid said, with a note of
pleading in her voice.

"Well, only for half an hour.  You won't sleep a wink if you listen too
long to her chatter."

"Oh, what does that matter?  I can sleep all day!"

An hour later, warmed and fed, Gwen curled up on her mother's bed, and
proceeded to give her a highly coloured account of her time at
Eliotstoun.  She finished with: "I really liked it _awfully_, Mums.
Car was angelic to me and made everything so easy, she really is a good
sort.  I like her heaps better than I did, though I'm still rather in
awe of her.  Helen, the other girl, is much easier, but not nearly so
trustworthy, if you know what I mean.  She's out to charm, and so
pretty that every one falls for her, but I wouldn't trust her a yard.
Car would never let you down."

"She must be a fine character," said Mrs. Davis; "all the same I think
I'd get on better with the sister.  What is Mrs. Eliot like in her own
house?"

Gwen folded her hands and looked solemn as she said, "A perfect lady.
No, that's not meant for cheek.  I wish I thought she'd ever feel me
worth while getting to know.  She was very kind to me as Car's friend,
but I don't think I myself meant anything to her.  It must be wonderful
to have Mrs. Eliot for a friend.  'K.' Miss Lockhart calls her."

"I expect she's stiff a bit--Mrs. Eliot, I mean."

"No, not the least.  She talks to her servants and the people about the
place as if they were blood relations, but I never felt intimate with
her.  It wasn't likely that I would.  She asked a lot about you, and
wanted to know if there was nothing she could send you."

"That was kind.  You said it was a fine house?"

"It's large enough," said Gwen, "dozens and dozens of rooms, but it's
very old and pretty shabby.  Car says they aren't a bit well off--poor,
in fact, though I don't see how you can be very poor and keep a butler
and a lot of other servants.  But they've a lot to keep up.  It must be
an awful burden, a place like that.  Daddy grumbles about the upkeep of
this villa, says it's always needing something.  I wonder what he'd say
if he had a great tumble-down place, and cottages by the dozen, not to
speak of acres of garden to be kept, and walks to be weeded and raked.
It was a revelation to me what a Place meant."

Mrs. Davis pushed her pillows into a more comfortable position as she
said, "I'd hate it, Gwen, wouldn't you?  To live in a house at the end
of a long avenue, miles from anywhere."

"Well, I don't know, Mums.  The life has points.  I'm not sure one
wouldn't get to like it: it's a dignified sort of life, and it must be
nice to be somebody in your own county, not merely an unnoticed little
person in an unnoticed little house.  I told you about going over to
Fairniehopes.  It's a marvellous old place, and George told me about
all the pictures, and showed me family heirlooms, and never looked at
any one else.  You should have seen his aunt glare at me!  She didn't
half like his paying me so much attention.  He's the heir, you know,
and gets everything."

Gwen chuckled, but her mother said, "Darling, you should have tried to
make friends with his aunt, if you like the young man."

"Oh, I like him all right.  That's one reason why I went to Eliotstoun,
I wanted to see more of him."

"Oh, Gwen!"

"Well, why not?  There's nothing like being frank.  And I must say he
was sweet to me."

"But not--I mean, he didn't _say_ anything?"

"Oh, no.  He's Scotch, you see, so naturally cautious, and we've only
met half a dozen times."

Mrs. Davis sighed.  "I'd rather have Tommy Bridges, a boy I've known
all his life, but that's silly, I daresay, and if this Mr. Lockhart is
a good man I ought to be thankful.  I'd be glad to see you done with
this acting business.  I want to leave you safe."

Gwen bent and kissed her mother, remarking:

"You're not going to leave me, safe or otherwise, don't you believe it.
I'm not as keen on acting as I was, but don't imagine I'm going to get
engaged right away to George Lockhart.  I think he liked me.  I know he
found me easy to look at, but for all I know he may have forgotten me
already.  There are lots of pretty girls about--Car and Helen to start
with.  I'm only telling you, Mums, because I always tell you
everything.  Have you kept count of my affairs?  They've given us many
a good laugh, anyway.  Oh, here comes Auntie G., walking like a
policeman.  No, I haven't excited Mums the least bit."  Yawning.  "Oh,
I'm falling to pieces with sleep.  No wonder, after so many late
nights.  How queer it seems to have only a step or two to go to my
room, instead of miles of passages."

"Back to villadom!" said her aunt.

"And very nice, too," said Gwen.  "Good-night, ducky.  Be sure and
sleep so that Aunt G. won't be able to say, 'I told you so!'"




CHAPTER XXIV

"I am a rogue at egotism myself; to be plain, I have rarely liked any
man who was not."  R. L. STEVENSON.


The day after Gwen left Eliotstoun there was a sherry party at
Ruthurfurd to which all the country-side was bidden.

Tim Eliot protested bitterly when told by his wife that he must really
put in an appearance.

"Why should I?" he asked.  "What's the sense of it?  Five-thirty to
seven-thirty?  The time of day I like best.  Why should I leave my pipe
and a book and a good fire and go and stand about with a glass of
sherry which I don't want, talking to a lot of people I don't like?"

"That's nonsense, Tim," his wife told him.  "You like them all--or most
of them, and you needn't drink sherry; probably there'll be tea and
coffee."

"The point is, it's an hour when I don't want anything except to snooze
over a book."

"Don't be aggravating, Tim.  We've just got to go."

And of course Tim went, and, meeting the Douglases on the door-step, he
was inveigled by Thomas (also an unwilling reveller) into the library,
where they sat smoking and gossiping by the fire while their womenfolk
performed their social duty.

"Every one's here," said Jean Douglas, putting up her glasses to survey
the scene.  "I feel almost indecently intimate with all my neighbours
at the moment, we've been meeting so frequently this festive season."

"It _has_ been festive," Katharyn agreed, "thanks to kind people like
you and Thomas."

"Yes," said Jean complacently, "ours was a good party.  I don't know
when I enjoyed anything so much, but what I endured with Thomas
beforehand no one will ever know.  And the amusing thing is I believe
now that he thinks the whole success of the evening was due to him!"

"He did make a most delightfully encouraging host.  And you are the
queen of hostesses, for you give the impression that it's your pleasure
not your duty you are doing."

"Well, it is," said Jean.  "I love at a time to fill the house and have
a real carousal, if I may have long intervals of perfect peace between.
And, of course, it makes all the difference having some one young to
entertain for.  Phil was so pleased about it, and helped in every way
he could.  He's a nice boy that.  I do hope he and his mother'll have a
good time together.  By the way, where are your boys?"

"Sandy was the only one invited and he wouldn't hear of coming.  Rory
begged to take his place, finding something thrilling in the name
'Sherry party.'  It seems he pictured a company sitting round a table
with goblets of wine before them, indulging in song and jest!  When it
was explained to him that it meant nothing but a dullish party with
sherry and sandwiches, and perhaps sausages, instead of tea and cake,
he cooled off and said he'd rather stay at home with Buster.  Oh,
here's Alison."

"I've been searching for you," said that lady, looking for a place to
put down a coffee cup, "among masses of people I never saw in my life
before.  Our hostess has thrown her net wide."

"Barbara's looking very handsome to-day," Jean Douglas said, and
"she'll be pleased to see such a crowd.  I heard her mother-in-law was
to be here.  Has any one seen her?"

At that moment the crowd was cleft by a stout figure, and a loud
cheerful voice cried, "Is that my dear Mrs. Douglas?" and Lady Jackson,
resplendent in a red and gold brocade tea-gown, swept down on them.

"Now, isn't this _nice_?  Father and I just arrived this afternoon by
car, and it's grand to have a party right away and see all you people
again.  I'm so thankful I brought this dress.  My dressmaker called it
an afternoon dress, though I thought I'd never use it except in the
evenings, but it's quite right for a big party, and awful kind of
cheery, don't you think?

"Indeed I do," Jean assured her.  "It's the perfect garment for a
Christmas or rather a New Year party.  You look like the spirit of the
season."

Lady Jackson beamed.  "Now that's nice of you.  I wasn't quite sure.  I
thought Barbara looked a wee thing startled when she saw it--not that
she said anything, you know, but a look's enough sometimes to
discourage you.  Doesn't Barbara look nice in that black velvet?
Father and I gave her that diamond brooch for Christmas.  Ucha!  It's a
lovely design, so chaste, something like one that the Duchess of Kent
has.  Aren't they a lovely young couple? ... How are you and your
circle, Mrs. Eliot?  All well, I hope.  Mr. Eliot with you to-day?
That's nice.  I hope Sir Andrew'll have a word with him.  He's not just
so awfully fond of parties, and he's glad of a man to talk to.  You
know what gentlemen are! ... Have you Mr. George with you, Miss
Lockhart?"

"I have, and he's here to-day, came like a lamb.  I hope, Lady Jackson,
you'll come and lunch with us while you're here.  It would be a great
pleasure to George and me.  I'll see if Barbara has a day."

"That would be nice.  It's great to be back among you all.  And, d'you
know, wee Andrew's grown quite a bit since we saw him last.  And he was
so pleased to see us, came running and threw his arms round my neck.
And what I like about him he's not a greedy child, not always looking
for sweeties and toys, you know.  In fact, he reminds me very much of
his father.  He was just the same kind affectionate wee fellow.  But
there--if I begin I'll never stop.  Father says I'm fair daft about my
one grandchild."

"And why not?" said Jean.  "You've every right to be 'daft' about
Samson and about Andy too.  I am myself.  Here's Sir Andrew."

A small dejected figure in a morning coat detached himself from the
crowd and shook hands, limply and without enthusiasm.

"It's an awful crush," he said, wiping his brow with his handkerchief.

"The more the merrier," said his wife.  "I like a crush, it's cheery.
But there's surely an awful lot of strangers here, I hardly know any
one."

"Nor I!" said Miss Lockhart.  "It shows what a wide circle Barbara has."

Car found many friends, and as she laughed and talked to one and
another, she was aware of George Lockhart wandering in the vicinity
looking slightly disconsolate.

As her companion of the moment was suddenly reft from her by her
hostess, George took his place.

"Hallo!" she said casually.  "So you're gracing this festive scene."

"Alison felt it her duty to come, and didn't want to come alone."

Car nodded.  "It's quite amusing to meet so many people from a
distance."  She smiled and nodded to some one.  "There's Archie Blake,
I haven't seen him for ages.  I'd like ... Oh, Mrs. Jackson has pounced
on him.  She's a good hostess, isn't she?  Introduces a lot.  Doesn't
simply invite a mass of people and leave them to welter--I'm sorry Gwen
has gone.  This might have amused her."

"Yes," George agreed, and Car went on.

"It's not much fun for her to go back to sickness in the house.  Her
mother is very ill, you know, and though Gwen doesn't say much I'm sure
she must feel very bad about it.  And it must make it much harder
having no brothers or sisters to share the anxiety.  I never thought
about it before, but it must be ghastly being the only one in a family."

"Well, you gave her a good time, anyway.  I think she enjoyed herself."

"She loved the Kingshouse party, and the acting.  She does act well,
doesn't she?

"Very well," said George.  "But I think she enjoyed most being with you
all.  It was a new sort of life to her, living with a big family, and
she told me that it was actually the first time she had ever lived in
the country, and seemed so surprised to find that there were points
about it, even in the winter."

"Poor Gwen!  We must ask her back in the summer, and let her see it at
its best.  When d'you go back?"

"Not for another week.  Your mother has asked me to lunch to-morrow."

"Car," said Barbara Jackson, "you know Mr. Blake, I think.  Mr.
Lockhart, I want you to meet...."

Jean Douglas and Katharyn drifted together again and found haven on a
settee in a corner.

"This is a very successful party," said Jean, "just listen to the
noise!  Quite a lot of people present have come at least fifty miles.
They're surely _het at hame_, to use a good Scots saying....  How Lady
Jackson is enjoying herself!  She talks to every one whether she knows
them or not, and that's so wise.  How a person like that warms the
world!  What does it matter though the rigidly correct look down their
noses at her.  She has the laugh of them all the time for she gets more
out of life than they ever knew was in it.  It's the difference between
a fiddling little electric heater and a leaping fire of logs that never
falls to cold ashes--am I getting hopelessly mixed?"

"I know what you mean, anyway," said Katharyn, "and I agree.  It does
warm one to be beamed on by Lady Jackson.  I don't know her nearly as
well as you do, but it's always a pleasure to meet her....  What is it?"

"Don't look.  Barbara is hovering.  Wants this seat for some one
perhaps, but I won't be dislodged, and I won't be introduced to another
single person.  I'm tired of hearing how many miles this one or that
has come, and I don't care.  I simply wonder at them...."

That night Katharyn Eliot said to her husband, "Tim, did you notice
that George Lockhart seemed very attentive to Car's friend?"

"Well," said Tim, and stopped.

"So you did, and it wasn't just my own imagination?"  Katharyn sighed
as she added, "I always hoped that George and Car would marry.  I'm so
fond of George."

"You talk as if it were an accomplished fact.  There's probably nothing
in it.  Gwen Davis is very pretty and very forthcoming and I've no
doubt George was flattered.  But very likely she was only keeping her
hand in and has forgotten him by this time."

"I wonder what Car's thinking!" Katharyn said.

At Kingshouse, about the same time, Jean Douglas and her Thomas were
talking about the same thing.

"I expect," said Thomas, "George Lockhart was missing that pretty young
woman, Miss What's-her-name, to-day.  Car didn't seem to have much time
for him."

"George," said Jean Douglas, "is either being very clever, or else he's
a fool; I don't know which; time will tell."




CHAPTER XXV

  "Alternate times of fasting and excess
  Are yours...."
                          GEORGE CRABBE.


The end of the holidays is, to all the most philosophic, a trying time,
and there is something peculiarly deadly about going back to work in
January.  No one could feel brisk under skies persistently dull and
grey, and Tom and Rory were in the depths.  When their mother suggested
mildly that there was a pleasanter side to the picture they protested
hotly.

"Arctic cold and privation," said Tom, "that's what we're going back
to."

"Mummy," said Rory, with a bitter smile, "perhaps you call it comfort
to get up and study in a room without a fire, and never get anything
decent to eat unless you buy it yourself, and that's very expensive."

"It's odd that you come home looking so well," said his mother unmoved.

"It _is_ odd," said Tom, "a case of the survival of the fittest; the
weak succumb."

This statement was received by Rory with a loud guffaw, and he fell on
Buster in a frenzy of affectionate regret, assuring him that he was not
only the best dog in Scotland but in the whole world, and it broke his
master's heart to leave him.

"It's a lucky thing to be a dog," he finished, glancing at his family
in a challenging way.

No one was rash enough to ask why, and Car, who was trying to write
letters at the bureau in the window, said:

"Why don't you take Buster for a good long walk?  You won't have
another chance."

"That's right, rub it in," said Rory, and began again addressing his
beloved dog, "A walk then?  A walk?  Come on then, old chap, come _on_."

They left in such a flurry of flapping ears and waving tail and
sprawling paws that it seemed as if several dogs had been in the room.

"Dear me," said Katharyn, as she smoothed the sofa cover and replaced
cushions that had been thrown on the floor, "how horrid it'll be
to-morrow to look round at a tidy room....  You look worried, Car.  Can
I help you?"

"Oh no, thanks.  I'm only scribbling some notes of thanks.  It's
hopeless to go back with a load of letters on one's conscience."

Katharyn left the room and presently Tom followed her.  Car finished
her letters, put her fountain pen into her writing-case, with some
notes and addresses she wanted to keep, and then sat staring before
her, doing nothing.

Car, like most of us, had prided herself on being completely free from
jealousy.  She had been brought up with a sister much prettier and more
alluring than herself and had been conscious of no pang of envy.  At
school she had been able to admire quite sincerely the brilliant girls,
and when she grew up and came out had been quite satisfied to be more
or less ordinary.  Her one great desire had been to act really well,
and the Dramatic College had taught her that that dream was not likely
to be realized.  She was keeping at it, however, because she could not
at once relinquish her dream, and the work itself was a delight to her.

She had been happy working with all the others, with Gwen as her
special friend.  She had admired her so whole-heartedly that she never
let herself admit any blemish.  But at Eliotstoun things forced
themselves on her notice.  Gwen's manner changed when she spoke to men.
Polite and attentive when talking with her hostess, she became in a
moment coquettish and sprightly when addressed by her host, or even by
one of the boys.  The first time George Lockhart had come to dinner
Gwen had greeted him as an old friend and proceeded at once to
monopolize him.  And, oddly, thought Car, George seemed to like it.  It
wasn't, of course, that she minded George being attracted by her
friend: seeing she had refused him herself it was petty in the extreme
to object to his caring for some one else.  Only--George was such an
old friend, and it was irritating to see him looking so complacently
silly when Gwen looked up at him through her eyelashes.  She couldn't
have meant anything by it, it was quite ridiculous to think of Gwen as
George's wife--and yet, was it?  Perhaps they were both in earnest, in
which case ... Oh, but it was absurd.  George could not mean to bring
Gwen to Fairniehopes: she would be hopelessly out of place there, she
belonged to a different world.  It was such a delicious place,
Fairniehopes.  As it rose before her mind's eye Car realized how much
she loved it, the long stretch of moors; and the house itself--the
white-panelled drawing-room that had been a delight to her since, as a
child, Aunt Alison had allowed her to wind up the tinkling musical box,
and open very carefully the little gold box that held the singing bird
with jewelled plumage.  George, then, had been a big boy, big enough
not to mind being kind to a smallish girl.  He had taken her to fish
with him in Tweed, put on the worms for her, and laughed good naturedly
when by chance she caught a tiny trout and, weeping bitterly, made him
put it back in the water.  He had always been her friend.  When most
people had fallen before Helen's childish charm, he had stuck stoutly
to her.  Aunt Alison, too, had been kind to her as a child, though she
didn't seem to like her so much now that she had grown up and begun to
decorate her face and insist on being allowed to study acting.  Miss
Lockhart was old-fashioned and prided herself on the fact.  And then,
she was devoted to Mother and hated her to be worried, and (Car
supposed) it really had worried her mother, the thought of her girl
being in London, working on her own.  Parents had such a dreadful way
of seeing no point of view but their own.  After all, Mother had done
what she wanted--married Daddy: and all she (Car) asked was to be
allowed to live her own life.  And it wasn't such a great expense,
keeping her in London.  After all, if children are brought into the
world it's the parents' job to do their best for them.  And Helen was
doing what she wanted, luxurious little creature, living with rich
people, not working at all, unless exploiting her charms could be
counted as work.

Car felt very world-weary.  She had meant simply to be kind when she
asked Gwen to Eliotstoun; her mother was ill and she was going to have
a dull Christmas, though there had been, too, the thought that Gwen
would be invaluable in the show she had promised to give for Douglas.
And she had made it a success, Car owned but who would have thought of
her flinging herself patently at George's head--and who would have
thought that George would have responded!  That was what rankled.  But
no one must know.  She must struggle to appear completely indifferent
to two facts, that George was a weathercock, and her friend Gwen a minx.

Mrs. Armstrong welcomed Car back to London with real affection, and
went up with her to her room to hear her news.  Here Car found the
gas-fire lit, and roses on her dressing-table.

"I couldn't resist them," Mrs. Armstrong told her; "I thought you'd
hate coming back after your happy family party, and flowers make a
welcome."

"They do," said Car, bending over the roses, "and thank you for
thinking of them.  But, d'you know, I wasn't sorry to come back.
Pleased, rather, at the thought of beginning work again."

"Oh," said Mrs. Armstrong, and after a pause, "Phil told me all about
the theatricals.  The whole thing had been a great success.  Did Miss
Davis enjoy her visit?"

"She seemed to.  And she was a tremendous help, as you can imagine."

Mrs. Armstrong nodded.  "I wish I could have gone to Kingshouse even
for a few days, but it was just impossible, and Phil and I had a very
good time together: we managed to do a good many shows, and Phil was
glad to see some old school friends who happened to be in London.
Remind me to show you the present Ralph sent me--a silver fox,
extravagant boy....  We really had a very nice Christmas, and the
'perms' as you call them, were so appreciative.  Mrs. Eridge said it
was heaven compared to trying to entertain at her own house with most
inadequate service, and Miss Dennistoun most kindly told me that she
hadn't enjoyed a Christmas so much for years.  D'you know, Car, I find
it's wonderfully repaying work keeping a boarding-house."

"Even with all the worries?" asked Car, as she lifted things out of her
trunk.

"They are many," Alice Armstrong confessed, "and it's a constant strain
wondering how long Mrs. Archer's patience will last.  Things have been
better since we got the girls from Wales.  Of course they had to be
taught everything; but Mrs. Archer doesn't mind that, so long as they
leave Archer alone.  They seem nice gentle girls, and thankful to be in
a place where they get a certain amount of consideration.  They may
turn and rend me later on, but 'sufficient unto the day....'"

"Poor Mrs. Archer!" said Car.  "It's so funny for onlookers and so
tragic for her.  Archer so blythe and debonair.  The way he replies,
'That I will, my lady,' when he's asked to do anything melts the
stoniest heart--and his wife so heavy and dull and weighed down with
care."

"Poor Mrs. Archer indeed!  It must be ghastly to be jealous all the
time, even if you've no reason to be.  Some people are naturally
jealous.  I've known women make themselves absolutely miserable about
little things that matter nothing--like a friend having a finer pearl
necklace or a more expensive car, and men, wretched because an
acquaintance had got some good post, even though they know themselves
quite incapable of filling it.  But the cruellest jealousy is between a
man and a woman.  To see the love that means life to you given to
another....  Dear me, Car, how have we got on to this topic?  I'm
wasting your time and my own.  You're to be in to-night?  That's good.
The 'perms' are all longing to see you.  They really have missed you,
Car."

Car, left alone, put away her clothes and arranged her toilet-table,
and got out a pretty rose-coloured dress, determining to give her
friends in the drawing-room a happy evening if she could.  It was nice
to think they were glad to see her back, and she was grateful.  It must
be grim to be old, and glad to find refuge in a boarding-house, to have
nothing much but meals and the morning papers to look forward to; to
see the death announced of one and another with whom you had begun
life, to be done with things and yet cling to them, remarking in a
self-congratulatory way, "Four deaths over ninety in _The Times_
to-day: there's no doubt people are living longer."  And yet--Car stood
still as the thought struck her--wasn't youth even more pathetic?
These old people had had their good times, they had known the world
before 1914, and had been too old to be carried away by the flood of
the Great War: they were finishing their lives without discontent,
still enjoying it in a way, though, if the truth were known, not too
ill-pleased at the thought of leaving a world so criss-cross.  But
youth had never known a happy world.  Car reflected that her family was
one of the lucky ones.  The war had only been a dim shadow on her early
childhood.  Peace had meant iced birthday cakes, and Daddy at home.
But how many had never known a home with a father?  From the start life
to them had been a struggle, a struggle to get themselves educated,
knowing perhaps that their education was being paid for by some one's
charity, and once educated, there was the anxiety about ever getting a
job, the fact more and more borne in on them that they weren't wanted
in the world.  And so many were not as strong and well equipped as they
ought to have been, coming into the world as they had done, in
nerve-racking times of endless casualty lists from the battle-fronts,
and air-raids at home.  No wonder many were bitter and vindictive,
"angry and defrauded young!"

And between the elderly and the young was a generation awanting, men
who would now have been in their prime, men whose death had left the
nation so definitely poorer.

"War," said Car, brushing her hair with vigour.  "Well, anyway, _that_
can't happen again; it mustn't."

But that evening by the drawing-room fire, she was horrified to hear
Colonel Eridge talk as if war might be expected in the near future.

"I don't believe it," Car said.  "The League of Nations would manage to
stop it."

Colonel Eridge shrugged his shoulders.  "What could they do?  Europe is
like a bomb that a touch may explode."

"But nobody would be so wicked as to supply the match.  Just think of
it, we're only creeping back to life now, we've neither the money nor
the spirit to fight, any of us."

"Are you a Pacifist, Miss Car?" the Colonel asked, with a kind smile.

"Yes.  No.  I don't know.  But I _hate_ war."

"So do we all, but there's something we ought to hate more--peace with
dishonour."

"But where's the dishonour in keeping the peace?" Car asked.  "When
difficulties come why can't we meet and talk them over?  Force is no
remedy.  If one nation gets warlike suppress it."

"How?  By force?"

"N-o-o.  By moral force."

Mrs. Eridge patted Car's hand.  "My dear," she said, "don't let's think
about it.  It's too difficult.  Leave it to the men."

Car smiled at the old lady as she said, "But isn't it at least as
important to women as to men?  Women have to give their flesh and
blood, and wait alone, and listen."

"True," said Miss Dennistoun, "and every woman must throw her weight
against war.  But it's all too terribly difficult.  I know one or two
splendid men who fought all through the war and were decorated for
gallantry, who say that if war came again they would rather be shot in
gaol than lift arms.  They mean it, but if our country was invaded and
they saw women and children in danger, could they keep their vow?  I
hardly think so."

Car merely looked unhappy and made no reply, and Colonel Eridge said:
"I've been a soldier all my life and it seems to me the only way to
keep the peace is to be able to enforce it.  There's no logic in
anything else.  The people who deplore force don't realize what it
means, our ships couldn't sail the seas, our lives wouldn't be safe at
home but for force."

Mrs. Ireland, looking out from her shawls like an ancient tortoise,
said: "There's always been war somewhere since ever I remember, and I
can go back a long way.  The Franco-Prussian ... and the poor young
Prince Imperial, I think that was the Zulu?  And General Gordon, that
was an uproar, everybody blaming Mr. Gladstone, though what he'd done I
never could quite make out.  In the Bible, too, at least the Old
Testament, they were always fighting, so God must have ordained it so.
Now Car must tell us all she has been doing in Scotland to cheer us up.
The very word war seems to make things go dark to me, and when one is
old one is afraid of the dark--like the children, you know."




CHAPTER XXVI

  "I am born happy every morning,"
                    EDITH WHARTON.


January, a particularly dreary, foggy month, drew to its close.  To Car
the days seemed to drag a little, the work at the College appeared
harder, perhaps because she did not bring to it the same zest.  To all
appearances she and Gwen were as friendly as ever, but now Car was
aware that she had constantly to make an effort to appear to have a
warmth she did not feel.  The qualities she had admired in Gwen were
still there, the beauty and grace, her seemingly effortless mastery of
parts, her good-humour and careless kindness, but other traits, not so
admirable, were becoming apparent.

One morning she appeared, radiant, and said with an air of triumph:
"You wanted to see the new play at His Majesty's--well, we're going on
Friday."

Car hesitated.  "But, Gwen, you shouldn't have taken seats.  I'll----"

But Gwen interrupted.  "I didn't, not likely!  I wrote and told George
Lockhart that we both wanted to see it _frightfully_, and he's asked us
to dinner before.  Isn't he a _dear_?"

Car suddenly was filled with such hot anger that she could not for a
minute trust herself to speak.  "What right----"

Then she said coldly, "I'm afraid I'm not free on Friday.  I wish you'd
asked me before you wrote."

"Oh, what bad luck!  He won't probably be able to change the seats now.
Couldn't you put off your engagement?  It can't be so very important."

"Afraid it is rather.  But I'll see the play some other time, it'll run
for ages.  Tell George to ask some one else."

"But it looks so odd," Gwen complained, "after I'd told him you were so
keen, and it won't be the same having a stranger with us.  But," she
added, brightening, "perhaps he won't trouble to ask any one.  After
all, he and I are quite old friends now, aren't we?"

"I suppose you are," said Car carelessly, and began to study her part
with such a show of concentration that further conversation was
impossible.  Gwen watching her, pursed her lips, and that evening said
to her mother, "D'you know, Mums, I'm not sure Car Eliot's as nice a
girl as I thought her.  Definitely not.  To-day she was quite snubbing
to me because George Lockhart has asked us to go with him to the play
on Friday, and she happens to have an engagement.  Didn't even ask me
to stay the night, when she knows how horrid it is for me to come home
with the late train."

"But, darling," said her mother, "you can't come home alone, not with
all the dreadful things happening every day in the papers.  I'd be
half-mad with fear."

"Oh, Mums, you wouldn't.  That'd be too cruel when I get so few bits of
pleasure now.  Couldn't Daddy stay in town and come home with me?"

"Well--I suppose he could do that if you're so set on going, but it's
hard on poor Daddy after a long day in the office.  And it isn't as if
it was any pleasure to him to go and see a show.  He says he's waiting
till I'm able to go with him again--but when that'll be I don't know.
I can't help feeling a bit down-hearted sometimes, Gwennie.  I haven't
gained anything at all this last month, indeed I think I'm losing."

"Not you," said Gwen.  "Look, I think your wrist's a tiny bit thicker,
my fingers and thumb don't go round it quite so easily.  You do look a
bit waxy, but that's because you're never out of a hot bedroom.  When
the spring days come and you get out drives you'll soon get your pretty
colour back again.  Well, that's all right about Friday?  I'll ask
Daddy to wait and see me home.  You can spare him for one evening,
can't you?  You've always Auntie G."

"Oh yes, I'll spare him willingly, and I hope you'll enjoy yourself,
darling.  You won't be able to dress, will you?"

"I'll take a little frock with me and change at the College.  It is
mean of Car not to get out of her engagement.  I'm not even sure that
she has one.  I believe that she was peeved at finding that George and
I were such good friends.  Jealous, that's what she is.  I do despise
that sort of thing."

It had been a momentary gratification to Car to say she had an
engagement for the Friday evening, and it was true as it happened, for
she had invited Miss Dennistoun to go with her to see a film.  Of
course she could have got out of it with the greatest ease, for any
other evening would have suited Miss Dennistoun equally well, but Car
preferred to leave it.  Let Gwen go alone with George; if they really
did care for each other she would only be in the way.  So on the Friday
evening she dined at Cambridge Gardens, and afterwards took Miss
Dennistoun to the film.  That lady was happily absorbed, but Car hardly
took in what she saw on the screen, her thoughts were constantly with
George and Gwen.  Now they would have finished dinner, now they would
be in the theatre--stalls probably, and Gwen would have a box of
chocolates: George knew that she liked to munch sweets as she listened.

Car feared next morning that she would have to listen to a highly
coloured account of Gwen's evening and Gwen's enjoyment, but to her
surprise and relief, Gwen had not very much to say.

It had been lovely, too perfectly gorgeous, and Car had missed a lot.
No, they hadn't been alone.  George had asked a Mrs. Arbuthnot, a young
married woman, very smart.

"I didn't like her at all," Gwen said.  "There was she, beautifully
dressed, probably a maid and everything, and there was I not even
properly _washed_ after a day in this grimy place, my hair awful, and a
dress that had been crushed in a case all day.  It wasn't fair.  Mrs.
Arbuthnot took in every crease, you may be sure, she was one of that
kind.  And she simply monopolized George.  He must have been sick of
her, poor fellow, and I don't believe she appreciated the play one bit.
Kept me from enjoying it too.  You know how impossible it is to get the
proper feeling about a piece if you haven't some one congenial with
you.  I'm sure George must have felt it too."

Car longed to know if George had seemed to regret her absence.
Probably not, she thought: forgotten that he'd even asked her.  But it
wasn't very clever of him to bring Mrs. Arbuthnot to meet Gwen.  Car
knew the lady a little and could understand Gwen's feelings about her.

A few days later Car was rung up by George, who said that Nicole
Ruthurfurd was in London for a short time, and was dining with him the
next night at Claridge's, and would Car come too, as he was sure Nicole
would like to meet her, and Car accepted.  She felt a little shy about
the evening for Nicole Ruthurfurd was little more than a name to her.
She remembered going as a child to parties at Ruthurfurd, and a big
girl called "Nikky" who had played games and laughed and danced with
them, but since then she had never happened to meet her.

She had quite a good frock for the occasion--the one she had worn at
the Kingshouse party.  She dressed carefully and went to the expense of
a taxi, for it wasn't every evening she dined at Claridge's.

It was a small party, she found, the fourth being a young man called
Walter Maxwell, not very long down from Oxford, who had got a job on a
paper as a dramatic critic.  George had chosen well, for Car and the
youth found abundance to talk about.

There had been no stiffness from the first, for when George said,
"Nicole says you can't possibly remember her, Car," she found her hand
taken in a firm cool grasp, and a friendly voice said, "The last time I
saw this young woman she was dooking for apples at a Hallowe'en party
at Ruthurfurd.  You and your brother quarrelled about whose turn it was
and nearly shared a watery grave in the apple tub."

"I remember," Car said.  "Sandy nearly jabbed his fork in my eye."  She
smiled at Nicole as she added, "And I remember you put the apples very
thick, and stopped whirling them round so that I shouldn't miss."

"I was always rather a cheat at games," Nicole confessed.

"And I'm glad to hear it," said Mr. Maxwell kindly.  "It's absurd the
fuss we Britons make of games."

As they took their places at a table Car cast many glances at Nicole;
she was surprised to find that though she must be thirty and more she
still looked quite a girl.  Not really very pretty, she decided, but an
interesting face to watch, very much alive.  Her hair was pretty, and
her clothes.  She tried to remember what she had heard of her--a tale
about John Dalrymple remaining unmarried for her sake....

The talk at dinner was general.  Young Mr. Maxwell gave his opinion as
to what were the best plays, and Nicole listened attentively and
professed to find it of value.

"Talking of plays," said George to Car, "you let me down badly the
other night, and Miss Davis too.  I had to get some one to take your
place, and it wasn't at all a happy party."

"Wasn't it?" said Car innocently.  "What a pity!  We got things mixed
up somehow and Gwen fixed an evening when I had already an engagement.
It was my fault entirely."

"We must be more careful next time," said George.

While they were drinking coffee in the lounge Nicole said to Car: "I'm
so interested to hear that you're living with Mrs. Armstrong.  I'd love
to see her again.  Is she very busy, or might I call, d'you think?"

"What about coming to dine with me," Car suggested, "and afterwards we
might go to Mrs. Armstrong's own room and have a talk, the boarders sit
in the drawing-room."

"That," said Nicole, "would be delightful, then I'd see the house and
be able to tell people about it.  You like being there?"

"Yes, I do, and I'd love you to come and see for yourself and then, as
you say, you might perhaps tell people about it.  Would Wednesday
evening suit you?"

Nicole thought for a second.  "Yes, Wednesday would be perfect.  And
you'll come and see me, won't you?  I'm in Upper-Brook Street with my
aunt, and she tells me to invite any one I please to any meal.  What
about Sunday lunch?  I know you're engaged all the week."

"Next Sunday?  Yes, I'd love it.  And you'll come on Wednesday at 7.30?
Mrs. Armstrong will be pleased.  It's a great pleasure to her to see
friends from the old days."

"Maxwell and I are feeling neglected," George broke in.  "What about a
cinema?  I know Car prefers a play, but I didn't dare book seats for
anything, not knowing what you'd seen."

"I've seen nothing," said Nicole, "and I'd love a cinema.  We haven't
such a thing in Kirkmeikle."

"Where is this blessed spot?" asked Mr. Maxwell.

"In Fife," Nicole told him.  "A small town tumbling off a brae into the
sea."

Mr. Maxwell cast up his eyes.

"Heavenly!" he ejaculated.  "How can you bear to leave it?"

"As a matter of fact, I can't very often--not nearly as often as I
ought.  My mother and I often feel like limpets on a rock, one with the
sea.  I know I'll be overjoyed to be back, but meantime I'm prepared to
enjoy to the full all the rush of London life.  I don't suppose in my
case it'll be a torrent, but the days and evenings are getting rapidly
filled up.  I'm glad you've told me what are the best plays, Mr.
Maxwell, for now I'll be able to answer intelligently when I'm asked
what I want to see.  The only film I've seen for ages is _Little
Women_.  I made my mother go with me to Edinburgh to see it.  It was
good, I thought, but Beth shouldn't have been given what amounted to
two death-beds, and Laurie was as wrong as he could be.  It's a bold
thing to film a story that so many know by heart and love.  We all know
exactly what each one ought to look like, Jo and Amy, Beth and Meg and
Marmee....  I grew up with _Little Women_.  Is your generation too
sophisticated for it, Car?"

"No, indeed," said Car indignantly.  "I don't remember a time when I
didn't know _Little Women_.  We acted a scene from it at the Kingshouse
party at Christmas."

"Jolly good it was," said George.

"I know," Nicole said.  "Mistress Jean told me it was perfect.  How
interesting your work must be, Car.  I want to hear all about it.  And
I would like to know how Mr. Maxwell manages to see a play one evening
and have an intelligent and well-balanced criticism of it in the next
morning's paper.  That to me is a most puzzling thing.  I can
understand a critic on a weekly paper, with time to think and form an
opinion, but how one manages to arrange one's thoughts, and put them on
paper in the small hours of the morning----"

"The point is," said Mr. Maxwell, "is it well balanced and intelligent?"

"I wonder!" said Car.  "I shall watch the _Daily Standard_ now."

"If you notice," said George, "most of them don't do more than indicate
what the play's about, mention the principals, and say if it was well
received.  D'you remember in _Fanny's First Play_, the critic who said
'How can I say whether the play's good till I know who wrote it?'
There's a lot in that."

"I think critics of plays are generally pretty just," said Car, "much
more so than book-reviewers.  So many of them give you the impression
that for some reason they're boosting the author."

"Thank you, Miss Eliot," said Mr. Maxwell meekly.  "I'll remember your
kind words, and if ever I have the good fortune to see you act----"

"You'll remember that Maxwellton braes are bonny," suggested Car, "and
that one Scot should help another.  Are we going?"

Car went home that night feeling, almost in spite of herself, warmed
and comforted.  She liked Nicole, and looked forward to seeing her
again, and she had enjoyed young Walter Maxwell.  One thing rather
disturbed her, the fact that George seemed to be growing nicer every
time she met him.  Till Gwen's advent she had taken him more or less
for granted, some one who had always been there, kind and faithful but
not very interesting.  That he had had the good taste to want to marry
her had given him a certain value, but not nearly so great a value as
the fact that he obviously no longer wished it.  As he receded from her
his gifts and graces became more apparent.




CHAPTER XXVII

  "Happy the craw
  That biggs in the Trotten shaw
  And drinks o' the Water o' Dye
    For nae mair may I."
                    LAMMERMUIR.


It was a pleasant excitement to Alice Armstrong in the monotony of the
daily round to see an old friend from her own country-side, and she saw
to it that her new home looked as attractive for Nicole as she could
make it.

Flowers were bought with a more lavish hand, and arranged with special
care.  Mrs. Archer put on her mettle, produced an excellent dinner, and
after a short time in the drawing-room with the other boarders, Car
took Nicole to Mrs. Armstrong's own room, where she was waiting to brew
coffee herself, and they talked.

"I call this delightful," said Nicole, holding out her foot in its gold
slipper to the fire.  She was wearing a dress of gold brocade with long
tight sleeves, very becoming to her slim figure and bright hair.
"Three wanderers from Tweedside foregathered in London."

"You still feel yourself of Tweedside?" Mrs. Armstrong asked, "in spite
of making your home across the Firth."

"Surely," said Nicole.  "Kirkmeikle is a dear place, and I've a great
affection for the Harbour House.  It's our own now, we got the chance
to buy it, so we feel definitely settled--but Tweedside'll always be
home to mother and me.  Not Ruthurfurd you understand, our Ruthurfurd
went with my father and the boys, but the country-side which can never
change."

"I know," said Alice Armstrong, "I feel that too.  We've no foothold
there any more, Armstrong means nothing to us now; I'm told that it's
so changed we'd hardly recognize any of the rooms--but the spirit of
the place will always be ours.  Perhaps the exile remains the spiritual
owner, and gets more pleasure from it than the man living in it, who
has to fight with rough weather and poor soil."

They talked of old days at Armstrong and at Ruthurfurd.

"I remember," said Nicole, "the first dinner-party you came to at
Ruthurfurd when you were married."

"Oh, no, you couldn't.  Why, that's--let me see--more than twenty-one
years ago."

"Oh, my dear," said Nicole, "it's nothing to me to remember twenty
years.  You forget that I'm thirty past.  I'd be about nine when you
were married, and I was greatly excited to hear that a bride was coming
to dinner.  I'd never seen one except in pictures, with long veils, and
it was a great disappointment to me as I peered through the banisters
to find that you had nothing on your head but a diamond ornament.  I
was most indignant, and the boys had to pull me back in case my
protests were heard by the procession going into the dining-room."

"I remember that dinner quite well," Mrs. Armstrong said, "a most
shy-making occasion.  But your father took me in as the bride (I wish
I'd looked up and seen your peering face) and was so kind to me, and
your mother made me feel at home at once.  Alison Lockhart was there, I
remember, and Mrs. Douglas and her husband and a lot of others; 1912
that would be, wouldn't it?"

"Yes," said Nicole slowly, "1912, for Archie was sixteen and Ronnie
fourteen, growing up for the Great War."

"Ah! my dear!"

"It was the year I was born," said Car.

"Yes," said Alice Armstrong, "that was the reason your mother wasn't at
Ruthurfurd that evening.  And here we sit, the bride, the little girl
that peered through the banisters, and the tiny baby!  Life really is a
very queer thing."

"Queer indeed," said Nicole, "and so immensely interesting.  I'm glad,
Car, that your people are still firmly settled at Eliotstoun though we
others have lost our heritage."

"I don't know about firmly," said Car.  "Father often says he doesn't
know how long it can go on, running everything at a loss, but I know
he'll make a determined effort to keep it on if only for Mother's sake.
I can't imagine her away from Eliotstoun.  The world would totter for
us if Mother weren't in Jane's Parlour."

"Oh," cried Nicole, deeply interested.  "I've heard my mother speak of
Jane's Parlour.  It's your mother's own room, isn't it?  The place
where she writes."

"Yes, a little circular room at the end of the passage."

"And who was Jane?"

"Nobody knows.  Her harp is there, and her bureau with scrap-books in
it and a delicious recipe-book.  Jane's Parlour has always been a sort
of sacred room to us, for we never were allowed to run in and out of it
like an ordinary room.  When any of us were recovering from childish
ailments we were carried in there to the big sofa, and allowed to look
at the scrap-books, and at special picture-books Mother kept there.
She used sometimes to make up stories for us about Jane, so Jane has
always been a figure in our lives."

"But what luck for you," said Nicole, "to have had your childhood in
Eliotstoun, and a mother like Katharyn Eliot.  I've always wanted to
know her better.  My mother has told me so many nice things about her,
and of course I've read all her books.  I can never make up my mind
which are the most delightful, the biographies or the children's books.
Is it distance lending enchantment or are the Tweedside people really
among the nicest on earth?"

"There's no enchantment about it," said Alice Armstrong, putting down
her coffee cup with decision.  "I can testify to their kindness and
loyalty.  Where would I be now, Car, if your mother hadn't taken Ralph
and Phil to Eliotstoun this summer, and while they were there moved
heaven and earth to get them a start in life?"  She turned to Nicole.
"I could do nothing for them--I've no people but an aged aunt, and my
hands were more than full starting this venture--but Mrs. Eliot and
Colonel Douglas between them got Ralph just what he wanted, a post in
the Hudson's Bay Company, which took him out to Winnipeg, where he is
absolutely happy.  And you know, of course, that Phil is being looked
after by the Douglases."

"Yes," said Nicole, "and I can tell you one thing, Jean Douglas and her
Thomas feel they owe you a debt.  Life's a different thing for both of
them with Phil coming and going, telling them the jokes of the
classroom, and interesting them in his studies and in the people he
meets, and we know what it means, mother and I, because we too have a
boy.  There's no doubt that the giver often, almost always I think,
scores heavily.  Mistress Jean never writes a letter now without saying
something that shows how much richer life's become for them.  The only
thing that worries her is the thought of what you're missing."

Mrs. Armstrong shook her head.  "Phil would have been at Oxford, or
perhaps abroad on a job, so I wouldn't have had much of him anyway, and
it's a comfort to me to think of him in the place we love most on
earth, with his father's friends."

"It's an ideal arrangement," said Nicole.  "And your work occupies all
your time.  Car here tells me you run the place beautifully, and manage
to satisfy even the permanent boarders.  Tell me, how do you do it?"

"Well," said Mrs. Armstrong, smiling at Car, "I can only think it's
because I've found easily pleased boarders, for I fall lamentably short
of my ideals.  I do try to make it as much as possible like an ordinary
house, it's small enough to be homelike.  I try not to let the paying
part of it embarrass me, for that would be simply silly.  After all,
I'm not taking their money for nothing; they're well-fed and
comfortably housed, and have (I think) a peaceful atmosphere about
them."

"That counts for a lot.  How d'you manage about servants?  Are they
mere difficult than in a private house!"

"They're certainly mere difficult than they were at Armstrong, there
was no servant problem there, but at the moment I'm very well off, a
good cook----"

"Certainly that," agreed Nicole.  "I thought the dinner to-night was
delicious, and a most competent man-servant surely."

"Archer," sighed Mrs. Armstrong, while Car laughed.  "He's the husband
of the cook and they're both treasures, if only one could do with them
alone.  As it is, I could wish Archer a little less alluring, a good
deal less respensive.  Then there would be less trouble below stairs.
But if I hadn't that there would be something else, and I'm learning to
take things as they come, without worrying overmuch.  And the amazing
thing is I do really enjoy running this place!"

"That's why you're succeeding," Nicole told her.  "I don't believe one
ever does anything really well that one doesn't enjoy doing.  You make
me feel a sluggard.  And Car, too, is working so hard."

"But I only do it because I like it," Car protested.  "And I'm a
shirker in a way, for I ought really to be at home giving Mother a
hand.  I sometimes have qualms of conscience about it; she looked so
tired when we were all there at Christmas."

"But, Car," said Alice Armstrong, "I'm sure your mother would hate to
stand in your way.  You have talent----"

"A very little," said Car, "only about as much as one would lay on a
threepenny bit!  I seemed good at home, but at the Dramatic College
though there are some worse there are so many better.  Out of us all
there are only one or two who may prove to have something more than
talent."

"Your friend, Miss Davis," said Mrs. Armstrong, "you think her very
good, don't you?

"Very.  But the funny thing is that Gwen's gift seems something
entirely apart from the rest of her.  I mean, that, except for her
beauty, she's rather commonplace and ordinary.  But when she acts she
really seems to become the person she's supposed to be."

"That sounds like the real thing," said Nicole.  "How she must love to
act!"

"She does," said Car, "but not so much as one would think.  And she
hates the drudgery of the training."  Car gave a sigh.  "I'd grudge
nothing if I were Gwen.  As it is I don't think I can let Daddy go on
paying for a training that may lead to nothing.  I may have to go sadly
back to Eliotstoun and be the daughter at home."

Nicole turned to Alice Armstrong.  "Sadly back to Eliotstoun, she says.
Poor sweet!  She doesn't know how lucky she is to have an Eliotstoun to
go to."

"But I do," Car cried.  "At least I'm beginning to.  Now that I'm away
and see it from a distance I appreciate it more.  I confess I used to
think it deadly dull, and all the people round stodgy and
uninteresting.  Perhaps they aren't as dull as I thought, but I do
think you two, looking back, have given them all haloes."

"Perhaps we have," Mrs. Armstrong said, and turning to Nicole added:
"Talking of Tweedside people, d'you hear anything about John Dalrymple?"

Nicole's face clouded.  "Very little lately, and I'm so very
disappointed to find that he's gone abroad, only left last week.  I
rang up when I arrived, hoping to see him, for we've been worried at
his silence."

"He sent us game and flowers at Christmas," Alice Armstrong said, "but
I haven't seen him for months.  It would be like him simply to go away
and trouble no one if he were ill.  Yet I expect there's quite a simple
explanation."

"I expect so," said Car as she rose to go.  "Well, I've had a
delightful evening.  I only wish Mother had been with us."




CHAPTER XXVIII

  "I'll write it straight;
  The matter's in my head and in my heart."
                            _As You Like It._


Nicole to her mother:

"Darling, I'm so glad to hear that all is well at Harbour House and
that you aren't at all lonely.  I didn't think you would be with Althea
and the babies, and Esm Jameson, not to speak of Mrs. Heggie and
others.  I only hope they give you a little time to yourself.  Tell
Mrs. Heggie, please, that I've seen Joan.  She and Nol have got quite
a pretty flat, and seem to be getting on together fairly well.  Joan
certainly looked much more equable and settled than she did in those
first hectic days at Kirkmeikle.  She showed me over the flat with
quite a house-proud air, and she seems to have taken to mothering her
husband, which, I think you will agree, is a change for the better.  If
she can regard herself as the feeder of the sacred flame, so to speak,
the homemaker to whom the worker returns for rest and sustenance, she
is less likely to eat out her heart with jealousy.  When I asked her if
she were writing she said quite impatiently that she had little time
for that sort of thing, she was learning to cook as it was so necessary
that Nol with his nerve-racking work and late hours should have his
appetite tempted.  So there is something of Mrs. Heggie in Joan after
all!  And she isn't nearly so untidy as she used to be, her complexion
seemed clearer, her hair better cared for, and in contrast with the
emaciated appearance of three months ago she looked positively
cushiony.  Nol came in while I was there and seemed quite contented.
He said it was great luck for him that the play he's in should be
having a decently long run, and he has hopes, he tells me, that he may
be taken on by a company playing in Scotland for some months, and have
a chance of visiting his mother-in-law.  Tell Mrs. Heggie that.  Last
night, you will be interested to hear, I dined with Car Eliot at Mrs.
Armstrong's boarding-house.  I never was in a boarding-house before,
and I must say I was agreeably surprised.  I don't think I'd at all
mind ending my days in some such place, if I had to.  It's a fairly
big, airy, cheerful house, with clean paint and chintzes, and good
fires, the dinner was excellent, and the boarders seemed pleasant
companionable people.  Mrs. Armstrong says she finds them easy to
please, and appreciative.  A few are here for the winter, retired
Anglo-Indians and such like, who have had a good deal of buffeting from
life and are glad to find themselves in comfortable and fairly cheap
quarters, where they haven't to grapple with the servant problem.  Car
Eliot is a great favourite with them all, her youth and vitality
delight them, and they are interested in all she tells them of her life
at the Dramatic College.

"We didn't stay long with the boarders but went to Mrs. Armstrong's own
little sanctum (christened by her boy Phil 'the dowie den'), where she
has her meals, and grapples with her accounts (poor dear!).  I expect
she sees personally to pretty well everything.  She was recalling a
dinner-party given for her as a bride at Ruthurfurd in 1912, and I
remembered it vividly.  Archie and Ronnie and I were all peering
through the banisters!  And Car said that was the time she was born.  I
wish you had been there to reminisce with us!

"I knew you'd be dreadfully disappointed to hear I had missed John, and
I can't find out anything about him.  George Lockhart knows nothing,
Mrs. Armstrong hasn't see him for months.  When I rang up his rooms I
didn't like to appear inquisitive, and the house-keeper (I suppose it
was) was not communicative.  I did ask her if he had seemed quite well,
and she rather hesitated, and then said she thought the change would do
him good, which wasn't very reassuring.  I'm worried."


And Lady Jane, reading the letter in the Harbour House, could have
echoed the words.  John Dalrymple was very dear to her, and had been
since, on the death of his parents, he was left a lonely little boy at
Newby.  Ruthurfurd had been his real home, he had grown up with her own
boys.  As a big boy he had been a slave to the child Nicole, and as she
grew up he remained so devoted that it seemed as if the long
companionship would end in wedding bells.

But the war came, Sir Walter Ruthurfurd died, broken by the loss of his
two sons, the Ruthurfurds had to leave their home on Tweedside.  They
settled on the Harbour House, and it so happened that in Kirkmeikle
that winter Simon Beckett was spending a few months, recruiting after
taking part in an attempt on Everest, and writing an account of it, and
Simon and Nicole met, and looked, and loved.

Lady Jane had seen John Dalrymple's chance go with a sad heart.  Not
that she had anything against Simon Beckett whom she both liked and
admired, but he was pledged to dangerous work, and she saw anxiety and
perhaps lasting sorrow before Nicole--poor Nicole--who had so early
become acquainted with grief.

Simon had gone away with the second expedition to Everest without
anything being said about an engagement, but when the news of his death
came, she knew that Nicole's life was shattered, and when, months
later, John had asked her to marry him, her mother was not surprised to
see him sent away.

She could not blame Nicole, though the girl blamed herself bitterly.

"It's so selfish of me," she lamented.  "I ought to marry John if only
for your sake, Mother.  You're so fond of John and would be so happy
back in Tweedside at Newby, and John would make up to you in a measure
for all you've lost.  But I can't, I just can't.  It's not that I'm
pretending to be more constant than other people, but it's simply that
to me Simon is there, a little farther on, out of sight, but there, and
when my time comes I'll go to him.  You feel the same about father and
the boys, don't you?  They are as much yours as ever they were....  Say
you understand, darling."

And Lady Jane had said, "I do understand, Nikky, and so, I'm sure, does
John.  You mustn't think that he feels himself ill-used and is
resentful.  He's far too fine for that.  If he can't be anything else
he will always be your best friend."

And friends they were.  John visited them at intervals, took a great
interest in Alastair's doings, and was always ready to help Lady Jane
with advice, and laugh at her very muddled ideas of finance.  She told
him that where her lawyer only confused her he made things clear.
These last five months John had written little, had refused all
invitations to visit the Harbour House, and they heard from Kingshouse
he had never been near Newby, which was perplexing.  Both Nicole and
her mother were becoming anxious, and one of the reasons for Nicole's
visit to London was to see John and assure herself that he was well....
Lady Jane took up the letter again.  She remembered well that
dinner-party for the young couple at Armstrong.  Nicole had begged to
be allowed to stay up till eight and see the bride arrive, and the boys
had been there too, scuffling and giggling.  Her thoughts went back to
Ruthurfurd, with its memories of happy days.  And now all that she had
of that life was a row of miniatures.  Here she sat, an ageing woman,
thinking sentimentally of the past, without much interest in the future.

Lady Jane pulled herself up.  This was sheer base ingratitude.  She had
still Nicole, and they were happy, or if happy was too rich a word,
contented, in their present life, with much to be thankful for,
sufficient means, good health, kind friends.  No interest in the
future, with Alastair growing up!  People had told her at the time how
foolish she was, how rash to burden herself with a boy to educate and
launch in the world.  It had been Nicole's idea, and Lady Jane smiled
to think how truly wise and good the idea had been.  Alastair had been
their greatest delight for the past seven years, some one to think for
and plan for, to keep them from growing stagnant and set in their ways,
their chief interest in the future.  He meant Ronnie and Archie to Lady
Jane.  In looking after him, in listening to his enthusiasm about his
pets and his hobbies, she lived again her young married days.  Indeed,
she confessed to herself, she lived too much in the past.  It was hard
on Nicole, or would have been had Nicole had a less buoyant nature.
Happily, she found pleasure and interest around her, in common things
and ordinary people.  She was never at a loss for something to do, and
the days seemed all too short for her.

Lady Jane walked over to the bureau, meaning to reply at once to the
letter she still held in her hand, but the door opened and Mrs. Heggie
was announced.

That lady came in, as usual, rather deprecatingly.

"I'm not interrupting you, am I, Lady Jane?" she said, as she selected
a high chair at some distance from the fire.  "Miss Nicole said I might
look in and see you now and again, just in case you were feeling lonely
without her, you know, though, as I told her, you always seem very good
friends with yourself."

"I hope I am," said Lady Jane, smiling at her visitor, "but that
doesn't mean that I'm not very pleased to see you, Mrs. Heggie.  As it
happens I'm particularly glad to see you at this minute, for I've just
had a letter from Nicole which I think will interest you."

"Is that so?" said Mrs. Heggie, all attention.  "Has she seen Joan?"

"Yes, let me read you what she says," and with a little editing Lady
Jane gave Mrs. Heggie Nicole's description of Joan, her husband, and
her flat.

Mrs. Heggie drew a long breath as she looked at her hostess.

"Well," she said, "it's a great relief to me to hear that.  It's the
best news I've heard for a long time.  Pretty, she says the flat is,
and comfortable.  That must mean that Joan is taking an interest at
last.  I never could get her to care anything about a house; it was
nothing to her what her own room was like.  You could never interest
her in fresh paint and new chintzes; she didn't even care for antiques,
and that's quite a high-brow taste, I always think.  The cooking really
astonishes me.  She liked good food, but she knew nothing and cared
less how anything was made.  But, as Miss Nicole says, there must be
something of her mother in her after all!  Isn't it like Miss Nicole to
put it like that?  I can just see her sitting, noticing everything so
that she could tell me--she'll have a lot more to say once she gets
home that she wouldn't have time to write....  I can't tell you how
relieved I am to hear all she tells you, for Joan's no great hand at
writing letters--literary and all as she is, I suppose it doesn't
always follow--and I've had many an anxious thought about how things
were going with that witless couple.  Oh, I know Joan's clever and all
that, but she has very little common sense, and Nol, poor fellow,
hasn't much either.  To tell you the truth, Lady Jane, how that
marriage came to pass will always remain a mystery to me, and I could
see nothing but shipwreck before them.  But now, Miss Nicole's given me
some hope.  If Joan stops nagging at Nol and tries mothering him and
making a comfortable home for him--for, mind you, Nol's like a cat for
comfort--things may go well yet.  I like Nol, though he's selfish and
lazy; he has pleasant manners, and if Joan was nice to him he'd be nice
to her.  Indeed, I thought him wonderfully patient with her, and when
he couldn't stand her any longer he simply up and left her.  Getting
the offer of a job, of course, gave him a good excuse.  But it's a
great world for surprises, and that Joan has started taking an interest
in cooking is a big one.  Fancy Joan!  I just hope she'll keep it up,
for the woman who can cook well is a queen among women.  No good cook
can ever feel herself a 'surplus' woman, as they talk about.  And if
Joan can't keep Nol by her looks she may keep him by her cooking."

Lady Jane laughed, and protested.  "There's nothing wrong with Joan's
looks, but she was listless and uninterested and let herself go.  Now
that she has got an object in life she ought to be a different
creature."

"If it lasts," said Mrs. Heggie.

"I don't see why it shouldn't.  Cooking, I should think, is a very
gripping thing once you get keen about it, and her husband's
appreciation will keep her going.  And you will be able to give her so
many hints----"

"Oh! me!  I've been collecting recipes for years, and tried most of
them.  I'll away and copy some out for Joan.  I know the sort of thing
Nol, poor fellow, likes.  It's nice of him, isn't it, to want to come
to Edinburgh to be near Kirkmeikle.  There's a lot of good in Nol.
Well, I must go, and not put off your time.  Thank you very much for
reading me the letter.  Miss Nicole'll be enjoying her time in London,
but you'll be glad to see her home.  Indeed, we all will.  Kirkmeikle
seems empty to me when there's no chance of meeting Miss Nicole in the
streets...."




CHAPTER XXIX

  "I am as fair as I was erewhile."
                    _A Midsummer Night's Dream._


Nicole stayed in London for about ten days, and managed to enjoy the
many people and plays and pictures that she saw.  At dinner one
evening, at a relative's house, she met an old friend--Alison Lockhart.

Nicole greeted her with joy, and at the first opportunity got her into
a corner where they could talk undisturbed.

"This is grand," she said.  "Already I've seen Mrs. Armstrong, and Car
Eliot, and your George, but I didn't hope to see you.  When did you
leave Fairniehopes?"

"Only yesterday," Alison told her.  "I've been there solidly since last
September--a long time for me to stay in one place.  And the odd thing
was I didn't a bit want to leave.  It was Katharyn Eliot who pushed me
off, insisting that I needed a change of scene and society.  I know I
was a dull companion, but, as I told her, it wasn't boredom that ailed
me but approaching age."

Nicole scoffed at the idea, but Alison held to it.

"You often see it in people who have kept their youth long; quite
suddenly, almost in a night, they became old.  I've lost all desire to
wander, far places no longer fascinate me, and even London that always
held delight means nothing to me."

"Perhaps you need a tonic," Nicole suggested.

Alison sniffed.

"Or rather," said Nicole, "a new interest to lift you out of yourself.
It's horrid to hear you talking of being old and done with things.
You, the luckiest of women, with a place of your own that you love,
with means to keep it up and some one to follow you.  And George will
marry, and that will mean a whole host of new interests for you.  I
wish he'd hurry up and find some one very nice.  I wondered the other
night if he and Car Eliot ... That would be ideal for you."

"For me?  Why?"

"Well, you've known Car all her life, and her mother has always been
one of your greatest friends.  A stranger, a girl accustomed to London
life, knowing nothing about country ways and traditions, might be more
difficult--but, of course, it's absurd to try to arrange people's lives
for them.  You are much too sensible to try."

Alison said nothing but "You've seen George?"

"Yes, I dined with him at Claridge's, and Car was there."

"No one else?"

"A man--I forget his name--who knew everything about plays; Car and he
had a lot to say to each other.  I hadn't seen Car since she was a
child and I found her delightful.  Isn't she like her mother?  She
seems very keen on her work, but I don't believe she will go in
seriously for acting; it would be a pity if she did.  I'm going
to-morrow night to see her act.  There's a show on at the College she
attends.  George is taking me.  Why don't you come too?"

"Why should I?" Alison asked.  "Watching amateurs act is one of the
dreariest of pastimes."

"Not when you're interested in the actors.  And you could tell Mrs.
Eliot what you thought of her girl's performance."

"That depends," said Alison dryly.  "But I'm not doing anything
to-morrow evening; I'll see what George says when I ring him up in the
morning....  Here comes General Goring to finish the tale he was
telling me at dinner."

Alison Lockhart had put in a somewhat miserable winter at Fairniehopes.
It was true that for the time being she had lost interest in the things
that hitherto had meant much to her.  Ashamed of her own jealousy when
she had first discovered that George cared for Car, yet she was
aggrieved when Car had refused the offer made to her.  Having persuaded
herself with some difficulty that it would probably be a good thing for
George to marry Car, and that she must try and get him his heart's
desire, she found when they all met at Christmas that his desire seemed
to have gone in another direction.  Disgust at herself, surprised
indignation at what looked like George's fickleness, and an intense
dislike to the amiable and talented Miss Davis, combined to make her so
wretched that in desperation she had torn herself away from
Fairniehopes and come to London to try to find, if possible, how things
were with George.

With so jaundiced an eye had she been regarding him in his absence that
it was quite a shock when he appeared, no perfidious monster but the
same George that she had always known, kind and ordinary, delighted to
see her and make what plans he could for her amusement.  He had
suggested several things they might do together, but he had not
suggested that she might go with him to the College and see Car
and--she supposed Gwen--act, and that, Alison thought, was suspicious.

But when she rang him up next morning and asked if he could get a seat
for her at the performance, he answered readily that he thought he
could.  He explained that he couldn't ask her to dine beforehand as he
had to be out of London that day and would only get home in time for
the play, but he hoped they would all have supper with him afterwards.
Alison next rang up Nicole to ask her to dine at the Connaught with
her, but Nicole said she must dine that night with the aunt in whose
house she was staying.  "Already," said Nicole, "Aunt Blanche complains
that I treat her house merely as a place to sleep in, and I'm afraid
she's right.  I'll meet you at the door at five minutes to eight.  I'm
so looking forward to it."

The play to be given was _Trelawny of the Wells_.

"I saw it," Alison told Nicole, "when it was first produced, and again
in 1913, with Irene Vanburgh as 'Trelawny.'  I'll be interested to see
what these young people make of it!"

"I believe Miss Davis takes the part of 'Trelawny,'" said George.  "You
know her, Alison, she was at Eliotstoun for Christmas."

Nicole was reading her programme, and asked, "Is Miss Davis the girl
Car said was so good?  Oh, I see Car is 'Avonia Bunn.'  Is that a good
part?"

Alison shook her head.  "I've no idea.  The character I remember best
is the old lawyer who says '_I've seen Kean_.'"

Nicole sighed contentedly.  "I love any sort of show," she said.

"Then you must miss a lot at Kirkmeikle."

"No, that's the odd thing about it, I don't.  We could go so easily to
Edinburgh for a matine any time, and we never think of it.  It's only
when I come to London that I have a real orgy of plays and pictures and
music; and it lasts me about a year.  Isn't it thrilling seeing some
one you know act?  I wonder if Car's nervous?"

The curtain rose on the scene in the lodging-house dining-room, on the
landlady and the greengrocer-butler laying the table.  Car flounced in
as "Avonia Bunn," comic and almost unrecognizable in her weird
garments; one after another made their entrance, and then, with a swirl
of petticoats and a pork-pie hat, radiating triumph and happiness, came
"Trelawny" herself, Gwen Davis at her most radiant.

Even Alison Lockhart had to admit to herself that the girl could act.
With her entrance everything was changed.  The other characters ceased
to behave like people in a charade, the whole scene gained meaning,
came to life.

Nicole was enchanted, and when the curtain fell at the end of the first
act, turned to George, crying, "Oh, I think 'Trelawny's' charming.  Did
you say you knew her?"

"Yes.  Gwen Davis is her name.  Car brought her to Eliotstoun for
Christmas.  She certainly can act."

"And she's lovely," Nicole went on.  "I hope Car'll introduce us.  And
Car was very good too."  She turned to Alison.  "Aren't you liking it
frightfully?"

Miss Lockhart smiled rather grimly as she said: "People of my age don't
like things 'frightfully.'  I think it's quite well done.  But it's
such a good play, it's almost fool-proof.  Certainly 'Trelawny' has a
most effective entrance in that first scene.  You could see how Miss
Davis gloried in it."

George turned and looked round the little theatre.

"Is it worth while going out, I wonder?  The waits are generally
prodigious at an amateur show, and we mayn't smoke here."

"I don't smoke anywhere," said Nicole, "and I'm quite happy here.  What
about you, Alison?"

"I'd much rather remain where I am.  But you go, George.  Nicole and
I'll entertain each other."

The two women smiled at each other as George left with alacrity.

"Restless things men are!" Alison said.  "But I'm glad to get you to
myself for a little, I've a lot to ask you."

They talked of this and that, and then Alison said: "By the way,
Nicole, can you give me any news of John Dalrymple?"

Nicole flushed at the suddenness of the question, and a distressed look
came into her eyes.

"No real news," she said.  "He hasn't been to see us for an age, and
though he's answered our letters, he's told us nothing about himself.
As you know he was never given to talking about himself, but we've felt
vaguely anxious about him, I don't quite know why.  As a matter of fact
my chief reason for coming to London just now was to see him, for I saw
Mother was worrying, especially after Mistress Jean told us they had
heard from some one that he wasn't well.  But when I rang up his rooms
in Jermyn Street I was told that he had gone abroad.  It was a blow."

"Was it the landlady you spoke to?"

"Yes.  You know he's been in the same rooms for years--all the time
he's been working in London.  I asked if he had been well, but she
replied in a reserved sort of way that might have meant anything, and I
didn't like to go on asking questions.  It's very worrying."

Miss Lockhart's face wore a determined air as she asked:

"What's the number in Jermyn Street?  I'll call to-morrow morning?"

"Oh, will you?  That would be kind.  I think she thought I was a
pushing young woman by my voice, but you will be sure to get attention
with your air of authority.  How thankful I'd be for some reassuring
news to send to Mother."

At the close of the play George said: "Car is coming to supper with us,
and Miss Davis too.  We are highly honoured."

Nicole exclaimed in delight, Alison said nothing, but when the two
girls appeared, laughing and excited, she congratulated them both with
sufficient warmth to pass muster.  Nicole and George were exuberant in
their praise.  At supper Gwen Davis sat beside George to whom she had
much to say, and Nicole on his other side was able to hear from Car her
views on the part.

"I enjoyed 'Avonia,'" Car declared.

"When you were a baby I saw Hilda Trevelan play it," Alison told her.

Car was all interest in a moment.

"Oh, did you?  Tell me about her.  Was she frightfully good?"

"Frightfully funny with her 'What part, Ferdie?' Gerald Lawrence, I
remember, was 'Ferdie.'"

"And who was 'Trelawny'?  Irene Vanburgh.  She must have been
wonderful."

"She wasn't as radiant as Miss Davis was in the first scene, but of
course she had depths--experience brings that--and infinitely more
artistry.  But Miss Davis' performance was excellent, I thought.  She
is the bright particular star of your year, I suppose."

"Oh, yes.  At her best no one can touch her, although there are some
very clever girls.  The men are few, and all fairly good.  Didn't you
like Arnold Baxter as old 'Sir William'?"

"Yes.  I was telling Nicole it was his part I remembered most clearly.
'_I've seen Kean_.'"

Car leant forward.  "Aunt Alison, I didn't know you cared about
play-going."

"Didn't you?  Oh, I've enjoyed many a play in my time."

Alison glanced across the round table at the heroine of the evening,
bright-eyed and flushed with success, speaking to George with something
proprietary in her air (did Car notice it?), and turning to the girl,
who was looking tired and rather untidy, she said in a softer voice
than usual:

"You and I, Car, must go to some plays when I'm in London.  You'd help
me to enjoy them.  It's not amusing for me to go by myself, or with
some one blas and bored."

Car looked both grateful and surprised as she said promptly: "I'd love
to go with you.  I haven't seen many, not having much money to spend on
outings.  I'm expense enough to Daddy as it is.  In fact--" she
hesitated, then went on, "I've been thinking I oughtn't to come back
next term.  I'm beginning to see I'll never be much good."

Nicole protested, and Miss Lockhart said: "We enjoyed your acting
immensely.  You were as good as could be in the part.  But I see what
you mean.  Unless you feel you can reach the top it isn't worth while
going on.  Does Miss Davis mean to reach giddy heights?"

"I'm not sure," said Car.  "She's been saying lately that it's all too
much of a grind, and she doesn't think she'll go on with it."

"What are you saying about Gwen?" that lady asked.

Alison replied, "Hoping that you mean to go on with your career until
you've reached the top."

Gwen nibbled a salted almond and looked round the table.

"Well, I'm not sure," she said.  "It's all very well at a moment like
this, when a performance is well over and if you've got applause and
bouquets, and have forgotten all the hard work and the dreariness and
rehearsals, but--" she turned and looked at George--"I can imagine a
much more amusing life."

George smiled politely but made no reply, and Nicole, aware of
something in the atmosphere, broke in hurriedly: "But could a real
artist ever be content with a life that would satisfy an ordinary
person.  Don't actresses always regret the stage?"

"Perhaps," said Gwen, "but I'm not a real professional actress yet, and
so far I've seen very little to regret, not life at the Dramatic
College certainly."

In the pause that followed Miss Lockhart said: "George, late hours
don't agree with me.  I almost think I should be getting back to bed.
Can I give any one a lift?  Nicole?  Car?  Miss Davis?"

"Car has asked me to stay the night with her," Gwen explained.  "I live
quite a bit out.  Will you see us home, Mr. Lockhart?"

"There's no need," Car broke in hastily, "we get a tube quite close."

"Of course I'll see you home," said George.  "Could I do less after the
pleasure you've given us all?"

"Then," said Alison, "you'll come with me, Nicole.  Good-night, Miss
Davis.  Thank you again.  Car, you won't forget your promise?  I'll
ring you up."

George saw his aunt and Nicole into a taxi, and got another for himself
and the two girls.

Gwen was in high spirits all the way to Cambridge Gardens and seemed to
amuse George, but Car was quiet and inclined to yawn.

"Tired, Car?" George asked.

"A little, though I don't know why I should be.  It was Gwen who had
the heavy part.  But I did enjoy my good supper.  Thank you very much
for asking us."

"See that you don't sit up half the night talking," said George.

"Not likely.  I'll be only too glad to tumble into bed.  After all,
there's another day beginning, isn't there, Gwen?"




CHAPTER XXX

  "Love's not Time's fool."
                SONNETS OF WM. SHAKESPEARE.


Though spring had come to London with golden daffodils and primroses at
every street corner, it was still winter at Eliotstoun.  True, the
snowdrops were white by the burn-side, and if you looked you found grey
velvet mice on the willows, and, here and there, celandines almost
buried away among autumn leaves; scillas were making corners of the
garden deeply blue, and across the hilltops lay the smoke of burning
whins and heather.

Katharyn Eliot, coming home from visiting the ailing wife of a
shepherd, stopped on the bridge that spanned the river half a mile
above the house to look.  She loved the first breathings of spring in
the bleak uplands, the clear thin February light, the colours the sun
drew from the ram-soaked hillsides, the drifting smoke.

How beautiful it was!  She was conscious of a deep affection for this
country-side of her adoption.  From the first, when she came as a
bride, she had felt its spell, and now, to her as to her husband, there
was no place like it on earth.

There had been much heavy rain, and as she watched Tweed wide and
brown, racing seawards, she recalled the beloved river in many moods--a
silver stream in April sunshine, shrunken in summer drought, a drumly
water in winter spate--and could almost have echoed the words of the
old man who had once said to her: "I paidd'lt in't as a bairn, I
guddled in't as a laddie, I've fish't in't for sixty years, an' if it
was the Lord's will I'd like rale weel to dee in't."

Buster was snowking after rabbits, but when he was called he came at
once, and looked up into her face with his trusting eyes.

"Dear Buster," she said, patting him.  "Good Buster!  Rory'll be home
soon now and you'll get all the walks you want," and as she said it
Katharyn felt her heart leap.  The winter was over, the time of the
singing of birds was at hand, the everlasting miracle of spring had
begun.

She walked across the park to the house and at the door found her
husband waiting for her.

At the sight of him her eyes lit.  "Why, Tim," she cried, "I thought
there was no hope of you till dinner-time."

Tim, a stocky figure in rather shabby tweeds, poked a weed out of the
gravel with his stick as he said:

"There was nothing going on but talk, so I came away.  I want to see
Laidlaw before it's dark.  Could we have tea now?"

"This very minute.  Had you any lunch?  I thought not.  It's silly of
you, Tim, to have too long a fast."  She put her arm into his and
together they went up the shallow stair.

Tea was laid in Jane's Parlour, which a wood-fire and the westering sun
combined to fill with brightness.  A copper kettle was boiling on the
hob and the comfortable Georgian tea-pot was waiting ready.  Katharyn
made the tea, and went into her own room to take off her hat and wash
her hands.  As she did so she talked through to her husband.

"That's Buster, Tim; let him in, will you?  He was so good this
afternoon, let the sheep alone, and never left me.  I'll be able to
give Rory a good account of him.  All Rory's letters conclude, 'Tell me
about Buster.'  He cares far more about him than about his family!"

"Yes," said Tim, "it's because he feels Buster needs his care and
protection, and we don't."

"I believe you're right.  Ready?"

There were daffodils on the round table, and honey in a yellow dish,
and green-dragon china, and Katharyn felt absurdly happy.  She had
expected to have tea alone and Tim was here.

"Where were you this afternoon?" he asked.

"Up the glen, seeing Mrs. Bertram.  I'm afraid she's pretty ill, and
she's worrying so, poor dear!  She has been such a good wife and always
kept things so clean and bright, and given Jock the best food she could
manage, and that she should lie in bed in 'the lambing' and fail Jock
when he needs her most is a bitter grief to her."

"The lambing isn't started yet," said Tim.  "Won't she be better soon?"

"I'm afraid not, it looks like being a long thing.  She has a girl to
help--a niece, I think--who manages to keep the house going, but poor
Mrs. Bertram is making things much more difficult for every one.  While
I was there, the time she talked to me, she was watching the girl like
a hawk, and would suddenly shout, 'Jeannie, that's no the jug,' or 'Oh,
lassie, _synd_ the pot afore ye pit in the milk.'  I felt sorry for
them both.  I know exactly how helpless and impotent the poor woman
felt, and how provoked to see things done in a slip-shod way, and it
was hard for poor Jeannie, anxiously doing her best, to be pulled up
before a stranger."

Tim nodded, helped himself to a scone fresh from the girdle, and said,
"What's wrong with Mrs. Bertram?"

"I couldn't make out very well, but I think it must be anmia.  She
looks very yellow and pinched, and the doctor has ordered her liver.
She says she always liked liver, fried, and tasty with onions, but
loathes it almost raw.  (Can you blame her?)  I wonder if she could
take the stuff they make now, a sort of essence of liver.  We might get
some and try her with it.  I'd like to make some little effort to help."

"I thought there was a daughter."

"There is.  She's a teacher, a clever girl who has got herself on
wonderfully, and it would spoil her career, her mother thinks, to bring
her home.  She and Jock worship the girl--though not for a moment would
they admit it.  I remember when they used to come here to the Christmas
tree, Mrs. Bertram was always scolding the child for being what she
called 'forritsome.'  'Think shame of yourself, Agnes Bertram,' and so
on, though I'm bound to say Agnes took it very lightly.  I'm afraid
poor Mrs. Bertram has always been a fretful, worrying kind of woman.  I
doubt if Agnes--unless she is all the nobler--will want to come home
and nurse her.  And it looks as if it might be a long illness."

"Anmia is quite curable now," Tim remarked, "and she has the advantage
of pure air and good milk and so on.  Certainly get the liver stuff,
and a nurse, if you think it necessary.  The Bertrams are very much our
concern.  I can remember Jock's grandfather in that cottage."

"Of course, darling, they're our concern.  All the people on the place
are our concern.  Here's the post.  A letter from Car.  Now we'll hear
about her show.  How exciting!"

Tim lit a cigarette and prepared to listen, while Katharyn skimmed over
the letter to herself before she began to read it aloud.

"Alison and Nicole Ruthurfurd went with George to see _Trelawny_.
Wasn't it nice of them?  I see there's a letter from Alison....  Car
doesn't say much: '_The play went well.  Gwen was marvellous, as I knew
she would be.  I think I did "Avonia Bunn" as well as I could do it,
not being in the least soubrette-ish by nature.  George took us to
supper afterwards.  I think I'm glad the session's nearly over and I'll
soon be home._'"

Katharyn looked up.  "That's not like Car.  I hope the child is well!"

"Oh, she'll be all right," Tim said easily.  "Probably disappointed in
her part.  I can't imagine her as a soubrette.  And if Miss Davis was
getting bouquets all round it would be a little downing for Car."

Katharyn shook her head.  "Car's not jealously inclined, and she has a
great admiration for her friend's acting.  I wonder----"

"What do you wonder?"

"Oh, nothing.  Nothing we've any business with."

Tim smoked in silence, and Katharyn gave Buster some milky tea in the
slop-basin.

Presently Tim said, crushing his cigarette-end into his saucer, "You
worry too much about the children."

"Don't do that, Tim, _please_; there's an ash-tray for the purpose."

"Sorry," said Tim.

His wife laid her hand on his arm.  "Old Tim," she said, her voice an
embrace, "I'm peevish, I know."

"You work too hard.  Running a house and worrying about five children,
all sorts of outside things, and your writing as well.  It's too much
for one woman!"

"It's nothing to what some women do.  But I don't do any of my jobs
really well.  I'm oppressed by a feeling of incompetency.  My writing
amounts to very little.  It gives me so little pleasure that I can't
see how it can give pleasure to my readers.  Mine was a thin vein and I
feel I've worked it out.  It used to be almost a necessity to write,
now it's merely a labour."

"Stop it then," Tim advised.

"I know that's the solution, but just at present we really need the
money I make."

"It's living with me," said Tim.  "I expect your brain's atrophied.  It
would make a lot of difference if you could see some clever people at a
time, go to London and attend those literary dinners and so on, don't
you think?"

"Tim, you darling, can you picture me sitting eagerly picking up crumbs
of wisdom that fall from the lips of successful writers?  Why, when
literary lights get together, they talk more of royalties than anything
else.  No, Eliotstoun is the perfect place, and you the perfect
companion for me."

"Buster," said Tim, "if you lie there you'll get a cinder on your
back."  Then addressing his wife: "It beats me why you should feel
incompetent.  I wonder who else could run this house so competently on
the amount you do."

"Thank you, Tim, for your kind words, but I can't take the credit for
that.  I'm blessed with good servants--two we inherited from your
mother!  If they left I don't know where I'd be."

"Well, if you won't take credit for anything else, what about the
family?  Fairly satisfactory, don't you think?"

"It's there I feel I've failed most.  If I had been a proper sort of
mother, would Car have wanted to leave home and study acting--knowing
that you and I hated the idea?  And Helen cares so little for her home
that she prefers to live with strangers.  That hurts, Tim."

Tim grunted, and Katharyn went on: "My mother says we're foolish to
allow it, and I suppose it is weak of us, but it's so difficult when
Helen says quite frankly that she loves luxury and continual change and
that Eliotstoun to her is unspeakably dreary.  And it isn't that she's
lacking in affection, either; she declares we don't need her and these
people do."

"Helen always liked having the centre of the stage," said Tim, "and you
can't have that if you're one of five.  If she's got the sort of life
she wants let her alone.  She'll come back when she finds her need of
us, so will Car.  And you have always the boys--and me."

"And how rich that makes me!  Tim, I'm a wretch even to give a murmur
when I have so overwhelmingly more than most.  And indeed I'm not
ungrateful.  We'll have Tom and Rory for some time yet, and we must
enjoy every minute of Sandy, so long as we have him.  If he gets into
the Colonial Service it'll only be two years or so, and then the
farthest outposts for him.  Tom won't wander too far.  I see diplomacy
for him; and Rory--I don't know.  But, anyway, Tim, if I have you..."

Those two middle-aged people smiled at each other, then Tim got up
briskly.  "Well, if I'm to see Laidlaw, I must be going.  Oh, by the
way, Mrs. Douglas drove Tom and me to the meeting, and she gave me a
message to you about lunching with her."

"I am lunching at Kingshouse to-morrow.  D'you mean I'm not to go?"

"You're to go all right, but--were you to be alone?"

"We hoped so."

"Well, you're not.  That was the message.  It's to be a party, the new
people from Langlands and I forget who else."

"That's a nuisance," said Katharyn, "but let's hope they'll be
interesting and help to sharpen my wits, atrophied by living in the
depths of the country and----"

"And consorting with bumpkins," Tim finished.




CHAPTER XXXI

            "... Well read in poetry
  And other books, good ones, I warrant ye."
                            _The Taming of the Shrew._


When Katharyn Eliot arrived at Kingshouse at one-thirty the next day
she was shown into the drawing-room, instead of the smaller room, known
as the boudoir, which was generally used.

"It's a party," said Jean Douglas, as she walked carefully over the
highly polished floor to greet her guest.  "I expect you know every
one."

Katharyn Eliot shook hands with the women present whom she knew, and
was beginning to make conversation with one whom she did not know but
who happened to be seated next her, when the door was opened again and
the servant announced:

"Lady Jackson, Mrs. Andrew Jackson."

Their advent was heralded by a stifled shriek from Lady Jackson.

"My!" she said, "this floor's slippy," and she laughed aloud as she
grasped the hand of her hostess, and said cheerfully:

"Wouldn't it be awful if I slipped and grabbed at that cabinet to save
myself and brought it down?  All that precious china.  It's pedigree
china too, isn't it?  I mind Andy telling me something about it."

"Well," said Mrs. Douglas, "some of the pieces are mentioned in a book
on rare china, so we won't smash it if we can help it.  It is a
dangerous floor; they oughtn't to polish it so much."

"Oh, but it's lovely," Lady Jackson assured her; "more to my taste than
Ruthurfurd--not so old, you know."  Then, with a glance at her
daughter-in-law, "Of course Ruthurfurd's unique, I know that, but this
is so handsome, such fine big windows, and those cabinets and a grand
piano, and lovely chintzes and bright cushions ... I'll take your arm,
if you don't mind."

Safely seated, Lady Jackson beamed round at the assembled company.
"How d'you do, Mrs. Eliot?  It's nice to see you again.  No, we haven't
been at Ruthurfurd since yon time at Christmas.  Sir Andrew has had a
poor time since the New Year.  Yes.  Just one thing after another.
Influenza laid us both low in January, and that left Father with
sciatica.  Oh, it's a sore thing and terribly difficult to get rid of.
And then the doctor was afraid of phlebitis and kept him lying six
weeks, ucha.  It's bad enough for a woman to have to lie still, but she
can knit and keep her hands employed, a man's far worse.  And Father's
no reader.  Even thrillers don't thrill him.  He's no taste for
murders, and crime leaves him cold.  That made things much more
difficult.  He read the newspapers, and then lay and wearied for the
clerks coming up from the works to tell him about things and bring him
papers to sign.  A business man on his back's a sad sight.  And a real
trial in the house."  Lady Jackson turned to her daughter-in-law.  "Now
if it had been Andy, Barbara, it wouldn't have been half so bad.
Andy's real patient.  I nursed him through scarlet-fever when he was a
boy.  He and I were shut up for weeks with sheets hung before the door,
and we had a fine time, I can tell you.  I was quite vexed when it was
over, I was indeed."

During this recital luncheon had been announced, and Jean Douglas now
rose, and saying something regretful about Sir Andrew Jackson's poor
winter, helped his lady from her chair.

"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Douglas, I should have looked for a high chair.
Oh, we go into the dining-room through this door.  Isn't that
convenient?  I'm just as glad I haven't to pass that china cabinet
again."

When they were seated Katharyn glanced round the table.  Jean had Lady
Jackson on one side, and on the other a stranger whom Katharyn knew to
be a Mrs. Arthur, whose husband had taken Langlands on a three years'
lease.  She herself had Barbara Jackson on one side and a stranger on
the other.  Barbara was engaged with her other neighbour and Katharyn
began to talk to the strange lady, who, after a minute or two, said:

"I'm so stupid about not listening when I'm being introduced, d'you
mind telling me your name?"

Katharyn told her, and was surprised to see her face light up and hear
her say:

"I _thought_ so.  I knew we were to meet Katharyn Eliot, and you were
the only one that looked like her.  I've known you for years through
your books.  I've read every word you've written, and loved all your
books, but your last is your best."

"Do you mean that?" Katharyn asked, astounded.  She had felt in writing
it, and her mother had rubbed it in, that it was forced and thin: no
one had seemed in any way enthusiastic about it, and altogether it had
seemed to fall flat.

"Indeed I do.  It meant more to me than any of the others.  Your
'Lives' are charming, and so understandingly written.  I love to keep
them near to dip into, but this one seemed to come nearer, to be more
you yourself.  I'm one of the people who like essays, and _Afternoon_
appealed to me specially.  But why do you seem so surprised?  Weren't
the reviews good?  I never read reviews myself, they're generally so
misleading."

Katharyn laughed.  "I'm long past worrying about reviews.  It's odd to
remember that there was a time when one was sick with suspense before
one opened a paper.  No, it was more what I felt myself--that I had no
business to write because I hadn't anything of the slightest value to
say."

"You had, to me."

"Well, it's a tremendous comfort to know that.  Thank you for telling
me.  It was a kind Providence that brought us both here to-day, for
I've been feeling utterly discouraged lately.  I was telling my husband
so----"

"You have a husband alive?"

Katharyn, surprised, said, "I'm thankful to say I have; and five
children."

"My goodness, you've done a lot in the world, haven't you?  Somehow,
I've always thought of you as a woman alone.  Not acidulated, of
course, a gracious spinster, or perhaps a widow.  Now I've got to
readjust all my ideas, and regard you from a new angle.  Five children!"

"Three boys and two girls," Katharyn said, "the youngest fourteen."

"Now that I think of it, it took a woman with a rich full life to write
_Afternoon_."

"You'll come and see my home, won't you?" Katharyn asked.  "Are you
staying in the neighbourhood?"

"Yes, at Langlands.  Neta Arthur is an old school friend.  I'm called
Jenny Westwood--Miss."

"Well," said Katharyn, "I'm very grateful to you, Miss Jenny Westwood,
and I hope we'll see more of each other.  Are your friends liking
Langlands?  I've always been hoping to call on Mrs. Arthur but the days
go past so quickly, and I'm rather a busy woman."

"I hope you'll come.  I think you'd like Neta, she's full of common
sense.  It's very entertaining coming to a new neighbourhood, but we
haven't been besieged by callers exactly.  Not that it mattered, for
Neta has had a lot to do getting things to her mind.  She's a very
particular little lady."

"I'm glad to hear it," Katharyn said, "for she will be able to
appreciate all the Langlands' nice things.  We're all so thankful about
this good let, for like every one else they've been very hard hit
lately, and when Lord Langlands got this appointment it would have been
hard for them to leave the house standing empty."

"Oh, the Arthurs will be good tenants, and they count themselves lucky
to get such a charming place.  It's quite convenient, too, for George
Arthur getting quickly to London.  He has to travel about a lot, that's
why his wife likes to have some one with her.  I've let my London flat,
so I'm free as air and very glad to be with Neta."

They had been aware all through their conversation of Lady Jackson's
voice like a Greek chorus, and now, in a sudden pause, she was heard to
say:

"You've given us a grand lunch, Mrs. Douglas.  Asparagus!  Fancy.  Did
you get it from Edinburgh?  It couldn't be your own yet.  I'd far
rather have a good lunch than a good dinner, I suppose because for so
long I was used to getting my principal meal at one o'clock.  Indeed,
dinner in the evening doesn't agree with me very well--keeps me awake.
And then, you see, I enjoy my tea so much, and if you eat a big tea at
half-past four you're not fit for a big dinner in three hours.  When
Sir Andrew and I are alone we never have more than three courses."  She
looked round the table and repeated, "Never!"

"Quite enough," said her hostess.

"Uch, yes," said Lady Jackson.  "It's nothing but ostentation to have
more.  A wee bit of sole, a cutlet, and mebbe a fruit tart, with cream,
should satisfy anybody.  When Father and I first began (of course we
only kept the one girl) we never thought of anything but high-tea, and
very cosy it was.  I many a time think of our wee house and those meals
in the parlour kind of regretfully.  There's no doubt rising in the
world increases your worries."

"What a lamb," said Katharyn's neighbour.  "Who is she?"

"Lady Jackson--her daughter-in-law is on my other side."

No one could have believed from Barbara's calm demeanour as she ate a
good lunch, how molten was her interior.  Really, she thought, Andy
ought to tell his mother that when one went out to lunch it is not the
proper thing to monopolize the conversation, and recite incidents from
one's own squalid beginnings for the amusement of strangers.  Jean
Douglas ought to have had the sense to ask them alone, for she knew
that Andy's mother would talk, no matter what company she found herself
in, for she had an absurd notion that people were interested in her and
her doings.  Well, she must pretend not to care, so, smiling serenely
at the lady next her, who happened to be Mrs. Arthur, the new-comer,
she said, nodding across the table at Lady Jackson:

"Don't you think my mother-in-law is a most refreshing person?  Her
husband bought Ruthurfurd from my people, and when Andy and I married
they left us in possession and went back to Glasgow.  But Granny made
so many friends in the time she lived here that she loves to come back,
and of course we love to have her."

Mrs. Arthur, a small woman with a direct gaze, nodded, and said: "I'm
sure you do.  Lady Jackson seems a real person--so few of us are.
We're just bundles of likes and dislikes and opinions that we've
derived or acquired from other people.  Don't you think so?"

"I wonder," said Barbara, and turning to her other neighbour, she said:
"Do you believe that?  That few of us are real people?"

"Well," said Katharyn, "I think with most of us the reality is so
overlaid with veneer that it's not apparent to the naked eye.  That's
why it's so delightful to meet some one so utterly natural as Lady
Jackson."

"I _know_," said Barbara.  "It's so disarming the way she takes every
one into her confidence and expects them to be interested."

Lady Jackson was holding forth again:

"You're very fortunate, Mrs. Douglas, with your staff of old and valued
servants"--she glanced round to make sure that Lawson and the footman
were not within ear-shot--"but most people have an awful struggle with
maids.  We have only the three, for all the laundry's sent out, of
course, and we've a very good charwoman in to scrub three days a week;
nobody could call those girls over-worked and they're considered in
every way, good holidays and outings, not to speak of presents and so
on, but my word! they're as hoity-toity as they can be.  Spoiled,
that's what they are.  I can tell you it's a relief to get away for a
few days just to be quit of them.  And poor Barbara there, has her own
to-dos.  Such a duchess of a head housemaid!  When she brought me in my
tea this morning I fair cowered in my bed.  I hardly dared say
good-morning to her, me that likes a chat with the maids, just by way
of showing an interest, you know.  And it's not just show either for I
like to hear about their homes and if they've a mother living.  I was
awful pleased once when I was able to help a chambermaid in a hotel who
told me she'd got into a scrape.  But Barbara's duchess encourages no
liberties.  And she's not too awfully good at her work, is she,
Barbara?"

"Fairly efficient," said Barbara, who was neatly peeling a pear.  She
added smilingly, "and as I've no desire to be on confidential terms
with her, her hauteur doesn't matter to me."

"All the same," said Jean Douglas, "I agree with Lady Jackson in liking
people about me who are pleasant and forthcoming.  How do you like
housekeeping in the country, Mrs. Arthur?  Rather a change from London?"

"A pleasant change.  I like the country, and Langlands is a delightful
old house.  Already I'm so attached to it that I'm dreading the day we
leave!  You know we inherited some of the Langlands' servants?  It has
made a great difference to our comfort in settling in."

In the drawing-room later, Katharyn had a talk with Mrs. Arthur, and
apologized for being so dilatory about calling.

"Not," she said, "that I'm conceited enough to think you missed
anything, but it's what _I've_ been missing.  I find that your friend
Miss Westwood has actually read my books."

"That's nothing," said Mrs. Arthur, "so have I.  I don't wonder you
didn't trouble to call--I hate calling myself--but now that we've met
why not come comfortably and have a meal with us?  My husband's at home
to-morrow night, if you'd come to dinner?"

"No," said Katharyn, "we can't have the conventions flouted like that.
I'll come solemnly to-morrow afternoon, pay my call and leave cards,
and on Thursday--shall we say?--you will bring your husband and your
friend to dine with us."

"Very well," said Mrs. Arthur.  "Eight o'clock?"

"Sharp, please.  My Tim hates to be kept waiting."

"So does my George, so I expect they'll agree....  I ought to collect
Jenny, for we've to go a long way for our tea."

"Mrs. Eliot," said Lady Jackson, "have we not time for a wee talk?  I
want to hear all about the family.  And I won't see Miss
Lockhart--she's in London, I hear."

"Yes.  I heard from her yesterday.  Nicole Ruthurfurd's there too."

"Fancy!  I don't believe Barbara knows that, at least she never told
me.  I hope I'll see you again before I go, Mrs. Eliot."

"I wonder if they could bring you to lunch on Sunday.  I'll ask
Barbara."

"Yes, do," said Lady Jackson.  "I'll like awfully well to come.  Hasn't
this been a nice party?  All so friendly together, that's what I like."

"What was your lunch party like?" Tim Eliot asked his wife that same
evening.

Katharyn looked up from her book and laughed.

"_I_ found it very entertaining," she said.  "Lady Jackson was in great
form, pretty well monopolizing the conversation, Jean, of course,
leading her on.  I felt rather sorry for Barbara, but she took it very
well, showed no impatience, and appeared to listen with interest to all
her mother-in-law's outpourings.  Oh! and, Tim, the people were there
from Langlands; they're coming to dinner on Thursday--Mr. and Mrs.
Arthur and a friend--and what d'you think?  The friend has read all my
books and _likes the last best_!  Isn't that cheering after my grumble
to you last night?  My brain can't be so atrophied after all."




CHAPTER XXXII

  "So now I have confessed that he is thine."
                          SONNETS OF WM. SHAKESPEARE.


Alison Lockhart came home from London earlier than she expected and in
a much worse temper.  She had gone to try and reassure herself about
George, but had found the star of Gwen Davis very much in the
ascendant, and George apparently a worshipper.  To Car, who seemed
entirely eclipsed, Alison's feelings had undergone a complete change.
In September, Car had been a destroyer of her peace of mind, a usurper.
Then, when she refused George, she became an impudent, ungrateful missy
who did not know a good man when she met one.  Now she saw her as
forsaken and abandoned, to be comforted and made much of.

Alison could not but admire Car's dignified behaviour.  She gave no
impression of feeling herself superseded, talked freely of George and
of Gwen without a hint of disparagement.  When Alison said, "She's
certainly clever, but a common little thing, don't you think?" Car
would not agree.

"There are two Gwens," she said, "the Gwen who loves the life of the
suburbs, plays games and flirts with boys, and the other Gwen who can
so entirely lose herself in a part that she becomes capable of great
feeling.  Sometimes I can hardly believe it's the girl I know speaking."

"Have you been to her house?" Alison asked.

"No.  Her mother is an invalid and I don't suppose they want to be
bothered with visitors.  It must be dull for Gwen: that's why I asked
her to come to us for Christmas."

Alison suppressed the words that sprang to her lips and said:

"It must be dull for the invalid mother to have a daughter who's away
all day."

"I'm afraid she's getting worse," Car said.  "They've had another
specialist.  Poor Gwen!  I wonder what we'd do at home if our mother
was ill like that.  I don't think I could bear it."

"Don't say that, my dear, it's silly.  But I hope you won't be asked to
do without your mother.  The world would be a waste to some of us
without her."

"It's when you're away," said Car, "that you realize things.  When I
was at home I never really saw what the parents were or what they did
for us.  I used to think of them as sunk in dull content, letting life
go by, while all the time they were putting up the pluckiest fight to
keep Eliotstoun; Mother writing and saving, Daddy spending nothing on
himself and letting the shooting which he so hates to do....  Aunt
Alison, I don't mean to come back to the College after Easter, I ought
never to have come, I see that now.  I might have seen it before if I
hadn't been a self-centred idiot.  I'll never be any good as an
actress, so I must see if there is nothing I can do to help at home."

Alison nodded.  "I'm sure your mother will gladly give you some of her
jobs; she's far too many.  And if you want to make a little more
pocket-money I'd be most grateful if you'd come for an hour or two to
Fairniehopes several mornings a week.  I haven't enough work for a
whole-time secretary, but I'm often hard put to it to get through.  No,
don't say a word till you've got home and talked it over with the
parents.  It'll seem dull work to you after your acting, I fear....
Where is this play?  Ought we to be going?  I like to be comfortably
settled in before the curtain goes up."

When Alison got back to Fairniehopes she longed to talk over the
situation with Katharyn Eliot, but that she could not well do.
Besides, what was there to say?  That she feared George had fallen
under the spell of a pretty girl?  And if he had, what business had she
to make a fuss?  The girl was clever, well-mannered, good natured, and
anyway, Alison felt, it served her right.  She had been prepared to
resent Car, the daughter of her dearest friends, and now she was
probably to be asked to receive a stranger, a girl who knew nothing of
the country.  Car had refused George, proud, foolish child, but had she
not done it in ignorance of her own heart?  George must have seemed to
her like an older brother, kind, polite, willing to fetch and carry for
her, but still a brother.  To Car, with her head full of dreams,
imagining herself as a star and the world as an applauding audience, to
marry George, the brotherly old friend, must have seemed the most
absurd anti-climax.

But Car was not the rather hard little egotist that she had been last
summer.  These months in London had taught her much.  For one thing,
they had brought disillusionment about her own powers.  And whatever
she felt about George it could not have been very easy to see her
friend appropriate him.  And, Alison reflected, Car must have learnt
something from being with Alice Armstrong.  Her courage and good temper
in the face of difficulties, her patient acceptance of the hard things
life had dealt out to her, could not fail to make an impression.  The
people who lived in the boarding-house, they, too, were something of an
example.  Mrs. Armstrong had told her how good Car was with them, her
popularity she had seen for herself.  They greeted her with smiles, she
had small jokes and understandings with each of them.  To Mrs. Ireland,
who was so old that she had forgotten most of her years, but remembered
perfectly when she was eighteen and wore white muslin, well off her
shoulders, and her hair in a "mane," she seemed a playmate and
contemporary.

"You get on well with your fellow-boarders?" Alison had said, and Car
had replied.  "They're all so kind to me.  I like old people."

"I expect you find them pathetic?" Alison had suggested.

"Why should I?  Rather to be envied, I'm tempted to think.  For them
the tumult and shouting's over.  They've enjoyed life--are still
enjoying it, even old Mrs. Ireland.  They've given up expecting
miracles, but there's still lots to amuse and interest.  And they're
past being appalled--as youth is appalled--at the things that are
allowed to happen, they're only mildly amazed."

"In fact," said Alison, "they've learnt that a dream may begin with the
end of the World and end with a tea-party!  That's Chesterton, isn't
it?"

"It sounds like him.  D'you know, Aunt Alison, if I could choose I
think I'd rather be middle aged than anything; you've got over most
things when you're fifty-five."

"Don't you believe it, my dear!"  Alison's tone was emphatic.  "One may
not have the same sort of feelings one had at twenty, but one has
others just as unruly.  One can be jealous, bitter, grasping and
discontented--and those failings are so much uglier and less forgivable
in age than in youth.  I'm sorry to disillusion you, but I, personally,
don't find middle age (verging on old age) the calm and radiant thing
you seem to imagine it.  Don't miss a moment of your youth, child; age
comes soon enough.  'I was young once myself,' as the Moor-wife said."

After two days of her own society at Fairniehopes, where she upbraided,
quite unjustly, the head-gardener for negligence, nearly quarrelled
with her invaluable cook, and generally made herself thoroughly
unpopular, she determined to see if an hour or two of Jean Douglas
would do anything to restore her to a better frame of mind.

Jean was bracing but not very sympathetic.

She greeted her friend with--"Tom's in his room with lumbago.  It
seized him yesterday morning when he was turning on the tap to take his
bath, and he could hardly crawl to the door to let Lawson in.  He's up
because he can't lie in bed, but he says if a mad bull came into the
room he would just have to sit still and be gored; however, we needn't
consider such an unlikely contingency.  Poor dear fellow!  But he
brought it on himself by getting over-heated sawing wood and sitting
down to cool off in an east wind.  He swears he didn't, but I know he
did....  I haven't lived with him for nearly forty years for nothing.
They don't mean to lie but they've a convenient way of forgetting what
suits them.  But what are you doing here, Alison?  I thought you'd gone
to London till Easter."

"So I had," said Alison, finding, uninvited, a chair, "but I was liking
it, so I came home."

Jean looked at her friend in an exasperated way as she said:

"Really, my good woman, you don't appreciate your blessings.  Here am I
who would give anything for a month of shops and theatres and parties,
and you--  My goodness! ... How is George?"

"Perfectly well--in health."

"You're not implying that his mind----"

"To me it's the only explanation.  He's enamoured of that girl Car
Eliot brought here at Christmas."

"'Enamoured' is good," said Jean, "quite Shakespearian.  Titania was
enamoured of an ass.  Did you see them together?"

"Yes.  George took Nicole Ruthurfurd and me to see a play done in the
Dramatic College.  Pinero's _Trelawny of the Wells_."

"A charming play.  Miss Davis, I suppose, was 'Trelawny'?  She'd be
very good."

"She was," said Alison.  "So was Car, though she had a part that didn't
suit her.  After the performance we supped somewhere, and Miss Davis
behaved as if George were her property--and George didn't seem to mind."

"The girl would be rather above herself," Jean pointed out, "being
complimented all round doubtless, feeling her feet spurn the common
earth.  Make allowances, Alison."

"How can George be such a fool!  Pretending he cared for Car----"

"There was no pretence about that.  But as young Lochinvar said:

  'Love swells like the Solway,
  And ebbs like its tide.'

Car may have refused him."

"She did," said Alison.

"Oh!  Then why are you blaming poor George?  He was honourably off with
the old love.  Besides, Alison, you seem to forget that you didn't at
all like the thought of Car as George's wife."

"I don't forget," said Alison gloomily.  "I was jealous.  Jean, I lived
to be over sixty before I realized that jealousy can be sharper than a
serpent's tooth."

"Have serpents teeth?  I don't believe it.  Anyway, what's the use of
looking so tragic about it?  You're more fortunate than most in
escaping jealousy so long.  When I think how much of it there is in the
world, how much in our own small circle.  Yes, Alison, what is it? ...
Somebody wants me, Alison.  I'll be back in a minute."

Alison picked up the _Scotsman_ from a stool covered with papers, and
took a seat nearer the fire.  It was quite ten minutes before her
hostess returned.

She came in looking pale and distressed.

"Alison!" she said, "such sad news!  John Dalrymple is dead.  He died
yesterday in France."

The paper slipped from Alison's hands and she said in a low voice,
"John dead!  How dreadful!"

Jean Douglas walked over to the window, but in a minute she came back
to the fireside.

"I didn't like it, Alison, when you wrote that he had gone abroad for
his health.  It sounded bad, for John was the least fussy of people.
Tom heard a rumour that he wasn't well, and we wrote and begged him to
come here to be looked after, but he replied as if it were nothing and
said he'd come later.  I haven't told Tom yet.  It'll be a great blow
to him."

"And to Nicole and her mother," said Alison.

"Oh, poor Nicole!  I must wire at once.  It would be dreadful for them
to see it first in the newspapers."

"One wonders," said Alison, "if Nicole had married him if this would
have happened.  Oh, well, it's only another of the puzzles of this
perplexing world."

The two women sat silent for a minute, thinking their own thoughts.
"Where does Newby Place go?" Alison asked at last.

"I don't know.  There is no heir.  John was the last.  I remember him
telling me so once when we were talking of the future of the
country-side.  I suppose it'll be sold, and that'll mean more new
people.  It's all dreadful, dreadful!"

Alison thought, "If I had no George Fairniehopes would go to strangers."

Jean Douglas looked out at the first daffodils under the beech-trees,
and across the river to the pointed peaks of the Shielgreens, and tears
filled her eyes.

"John loved Newby and Shielgreens in spring time.  It's sad to die just
when everything is coming to life."

Alison's friend's eyes followed her gaze and presently she said:

"Life disappointed John.  But there's neither marrying nor giving in
marriage in Heaven.  I'm glad of that.  How small death makes our
little peeves at life."

"It strikes a silence," said Jean.  "Well, I must telephone a wire to
the Harbour House and go and tell Tom.--_Dear_ John!"

The March sunshine and a fresh salt smell from the incoming tide was
flooding the Harbour House.  In the little dining-room the windows were
wide open, and the sound of whistling came in, also a strong odour of
paint, from a fisher-boy busy spring-cleaning his boat.

Lady Jane and Nicole had finished luncheon and were dawdling over their
coffee, enjoying the first real spring day.

"I'd positively forgotten," Nicole said, "the marvellous feeling of a
spring day.  Whenever I woke this morning I knew something had
happened, the depressing greyness had gone and the time of clear
shining had come.  I jumped out of bed with jubilant feet, I can tell
you."

Her mother smiled.  "There's only one thing I miss about spring in
Kirkmeikle," she said, "hearing the cuckoo.  I used to listen for it at
Ruthurfurd."

"Well," said Nicole, "I'm afraid there's not much scope for a cuckoo at
Kirkmeikle, bare braes and sand-dunes, and no woods near, but we've
always the sea-birds, and at Kinbervie we've all the rest of 'God's
jocund little fowles.'  I wonder if Alastair'll be as keen on birds
this summer, or if he'll have got a new craze."

"He'll be home in another fortnight," said Lady Jane, "and seems to be
counting the days."

"D'you hear, Spider," Nicole said to the small black-and-white woolly
dog sitting by her side hoping for a biscuit.  "Alastair's coming home!
Alastair!  He understands, but he's pretty old, poor darling, to be
expected to rejoice about anything.  Isn't it a pity that Spring can't
renew humans and dogs as it does the earth?  What are you doing this
afternoon, Mother?"

"Nothing, so far as I know."

"Good.  Then let's have a walk.  Even in this quiet place the days fill
up, and we haven't been along the cliffs for ages.  In fact, I don't
know when we had a walk together."

"Well, darling, you've been away----"

"Of course I have; a whole fortnight.  Mrs. Heggie pretends to find me
what she calls 'awfully London' in my new coat.  She gave me such a
welcome when I went to see her that I felt like an intrepid traveller
returning from some dangerous mission."

"You gave her all details about Joan, of course."

"Every single one, a slightly touched-up picture, perhaps, but true in
the main.  I believe Joan and her mother are going to come together
over the fine art of housekeeping.  And it can be a fine art.  I do
admire those women who having to do their own housework do it with
gusto, and make a pleasure of it.  Some are ashamed of having to do it,
and do it perfunctorily; their china and glass is sticky, their flowers
wilted, their table-legs dusty.  Personally, I can't imagine a better
way of filling one's time than keeping the things that belong to one
polished and beautiful, thinking out interesting meals, and arranging
fresh flowers.  Just look at Mrs. Armstrong, she might have become a
discontented, idle woman with no duties, nothing to do but look into
shop-windows at things she couldn't afford to buy and go and sit in a
cinema.  Instead, every minute of her day is happily occupied and she
has the satisfaction of knowing that she is of real use in the world."

"She is to be envied, I think," Lady Jane said with a sigh.

"Not by you, darling.  This may be the day of small things with us, but
you manage to give a lot of help in one way and another, and you're
never idle.  Think how people love your letters and your visits
and----"  The door opened, and a maid entered with a telegram which she
handed to her mistress.

"Is some one coming?" Nicole asked, rolling Spider about on his back,
but a glance at her mother's face made her spring to her feet.

"Is it Alastair?" she asked.

Lady Jane held out the paper.  "It's John," she said.

Nicole read the message and repeated, "It's John!  Oh, _Mother_!"

In a little Lady Jane said, "I've been worried for months, but I was
afraid of fussing him.  If only we had insisted on him coming here."

"It would have done no good," Nicole said, rising.  "Mother, d'you mind
if I go for a walk alone to-day?"

"You won't go far, Nicole"; her mother's voice was anxious.

"Oh no, I'm only going to try to get used to the thought that----"  She
turned away.

The evening post brought a letter from John Dalrymple's lawyer
enclosing one addressed to Lady Jane by John himself.  It had been
written a few weeks before, perhaps when he became aware that he had
not long to live, thanking her for her goodness to him, and saying that
he had left to her what he loved most on earth, his home, Newby Place.

"Perhaps," he wrote, "it is selfish of me to give you what may only be
a burden to you, but it's something of a consolation to me in these
days to think that when I'm gone you and Nicole will be at Newby,
making it the home I hoped it would be.  Do with it what you like.  My
love to you both.  JOHN."

Nicole and her mother read the letter in their drawing-room in the
spring twilight.

"How can I take it?" Lady Jane said.

"How can you do anything else?" Nicole asked.  "You see John says that
it comforted him--and he needed comfort, poor darling--the thought of
your making it your home.  This afternoon I could see no light, it was
all bewilderment and grief, but this letter of John's brings me a
measure of comfort too.  He could think of you--of us--like that."

Lady Jane wiped her eyes.  "I know, Nikky, what you mean, and I'm glad
too, but at the moment I don't seem able to take it in.  All that
matters is that John is gone.  If only we had known he was ill, if we
hadn't been so afraid of worrying him, something might have been done.
He was so alone----"

Nicole took her mother's hand.  "What's the good of tormenting
yourself, darling?  I believe, in a way, it would make it easier for
John to be ill and to die alone.  You've often told me that even as a
child he hated to be pitied and fussed over.  The fact that he gave us
no hint shows that he didn't want us.  Do you suppose he didn't know
how welcome he would have been here?  How gladly we would have nursed
him!  Or at Kingshouse.  Mistress Jean and her Thomas would have run
their house as a hospital for him and counted it nothing....  It's sad
to die at forty with the earth still full of things you want to see and
do, but not so sad for some as for others.  John was never what we
Scots call _thirled_ to life.  It didn't absorb him as it does most of
us.  Though he enjoyed doing things and did them well something else
held his attention, something we didn't know about; I expect he has got
it now.  What we've got to do it seems to me, is to try and be happy
about his gift.  I'm afraid it'll be hard for you, poor Mother, to go
back, and I know you'll _hate_ leaving the Harbour House."

Lady Jane protested.  "But we won't leave it for good, Nikky.  We must
divide our time.  After all, John wasn't much at Newby, the place is
accustomed to running itself."

"Oh, I know.  But John hoped you'd make Newby your home.  It remains to
be seen if we can ever feel it that, and, anyway, we could never desert
this dear place, that took us in when Ruthurfurd turned us out, and the
people who have become our friends.  Dear me, Mother, we were thinking
of our life as rather cribbed and narrow, it's going to be widened and
enriched, and _by John_."




CHAPTER XXXIII

  "You, mistress, all this coil is 'long of you."
                          _A Midsummer Night's Dream._


Car Eliot missed her Tweedside friends when they left London, and told
Mrs. Armstrong one evening when they were alone together.

"It's different when people have known one all one's life, and one's
relations and so on.  You are friends by inheritance, so to speak, and
look on each other with kind eyes.  I've always heard a lot about
Nicole Ruthurfurd, and I wasn't sure that I'd like her.  You know how
you're often put off a person or a book by over-much praise?  But I did
like her.  A lot.  She's easily amused and willing to be pleased, and
she has the great gift of making people feel pleased with themselves."

"Is that a good thing?" Mrs. Armstrong asked, amused at Car's earnest
face.

"I think so," said Car with decision.  "Even the most conceited of us
aren't really so very sure of ourselves, and we're all glad of a little
support.  Nicole's like a flattering looking-glass, which is so much
better than one that tells the horrid truth."

"But the one that tells the horrid truth would make you try and rectify
defects."

"It would only insist on them," said Car, "and send you away with an
inferiority complex, whereas the other makes you pleased with yourself,
and gives you what the Americans call poise."

Alice Armstrong laughed.  "I daresay you're right," she said, and added
irrelevantly, "Mrs. Archer has got a new dress--bright blue.  I hope it
means that she's feeling brighter in spirits.  She is pleased because
Connie, the pretty Welsh housemaid, is walking out with the butcher's
boy.  It seems Connie confides in Mrs. Archer and is grateful for
advice.  I only wish the other two girls would find boy friends.  I can
see Mrs. Archer so happily engaged in match-making that she'd cease to
worry about Archer."

"Anyway," said Car, "it's a good sign that she's taking an interest in
her clothes.  Archer'll be quite proud to take out the blue dress of a
Sunday.  D'you realize that there's only another fortnight of term."

"Sorry?"

"Not altogether," Car confessed.  "Things have dragged a bit lately,
and now that I'm giving it up I haven't the same interest, naturally.
I'll be sorry to leave, for I've loved the work, and I'll be very sorry
not to come back to Cambridge Gardens."

"We'll miss you," Mrs. Armstrong told her.  "I don't like to think how
much.  Poor old Mrs. Ireland!  The Eridges are going back to Cheltenham
for the summer, and Miss Dennistoun to St. Andrews, but they both talk
of coming back next October.  I'm well booked-up for the summer, so I
ought to be thankful."

"Will you manage a holiday?  In August perhaps?"

"Well, the Archers must get their holiday in July, and the three girls
some other time, so before I work them all in----"

"It sounds pretty hopeless," Car said, "but I hate to think of you here
through the heat.  When the Archers come back, couldn't you get some
one to take your place and come to us for a fortnight?"

Mrs. Armstrong shook her head.  "Thank you, dear, but I'm afraid I
shan't see Tweeddale this year.  It will need to be a near-at-hand
holiday in case a speedy return is necessary.  I hope to have a week
somewhere with Phil--in September perhaps.  But some day I'd love to
see you all at Eliotstoun."

"I'd a letter from mother to-night," Car said.  "She's very sad about
John Dalrymple's death."

"John Dalrymple?  Oh, surely not!"

"Mother says the news came yesterday to Newby.  He died in France."

"I am sorry.  The _Times_ is there, Car; I haven't had time to look at
it to-day."

Car read the brief announcement.  "Thirty-nine," she said.  "He wasn't
even old.  It's very sad."

"Sad!  It's tragic.  I always hoped that he and Nicole would marry.  He
wanted her always.  But I suppose she didn't care for him in that way,
though they were always great friends....  He was so good to us when I
had to leave Armstrong; took Phil and Ralph to Newby, and helped in
every way.  I always felt that as long as John Dalrymple was in London
I had a friend to turn to.  It's as well, perhaps, to accustom oneself
to do without props, but I'll never cease to miss John."

"He seemed nice," said Car, "but I knew him very little.  Daddy, who
was devoted to him, always wished he'd settle down at Newby.  Why, it's
nearly nine o'clock!  And I promised Mrs. Ireland to help her with her
knitting: she's making herself vests for next winter.  It never seems
to occur to her that she's eighty-nine and may not be here when winter
comes."

Mrs. Armstrong took a bundle of papers out of a drawer.

"Off you go, sweet and twenty," she said.  "I ought to be tackling my
accounts.  One word of warning--_Youth's a stuff will not endure_."

Car found her fellow-boarders comfortably chatting while they waited
for the news.

"A wonderful young man, Mr. Anthony Eden," Colonel Eridge was
announcing, "his words carry weight, and he seems to have a real
passion for peace.  We shall hear to-night if the talks in Berlin have
come to anything.  There's a great deal in meeting and talking over
difficult situations."

"Indeed there is," his wife agreed, "and what a blessing Britain has
such a good-looking, well-mannered representative.  I'm told, though,
we're not liked by other European countries.  I wonder why."

"I'm afraid they don't trust us," said Miss Dennistoun.  "They think
we're smug and hypocritical.  We've got all the colonies we need (I
doubt if the League of Nations would always have approved of our
methods), and we object to other nations following our example.  You
remember Mark Twain's barbed jest?  He said he'd never understood
Britain's great position until he remembered the text, 'The meek shall
inherit the earth.'"

Colonel Eridge chuckled.  "That's very good," he said, "Very good
indeed.  Well, they may say what they like about us, but there's no
doubt we're the decentest nation when all's said and done.  What I mean
is, we honestly mean well: we're human and kind-hearted, and rule
justly up to our lights.  Isn't that so, Miss Car?"

Car, feeling that she had heard all this before, agreed, and Miss
Dennistoun remarked, "Oh, we are all you say, I honestly believe, but
it's such a pity that we should appear to our neighbours to be
hypocrites."

"But they're foreigners, dear Miss Dennistoun," Mrs. Eridge exclaimed;
"one can't expect them to understand our ideas of honour or humour or
anything, can one?"

"Perhaps not," said Miss Dennistoun, and bent forward to look at Mrs.
Ireland's work and praise the evenness of the knitting.

"I shall knit three," said the old lady, "one to wash the other, and
one in reserve.  They're for next winter, you know."

"Oh, don't talk of next winter when we're only just through this one,"
Miss Dennistoun pleaded.

"Well," said Mrs. Eridge, "the thought of next winter brings me a very
comfortable feeling.  I know I shall come back here with relief, for
summer is always a strenuous time.  I quite dread it, I assure you."
She sighed deeply, and went on, "The first thing I've got to do is to
find servants, always a difficult task, and we have visitors
practically all the time.  Old friends, of course, whom we are very
pleased to see, but it's wearing.  And there's no knowing how we shall
find the house.  They seemed nice people, but you never can tell."

"It's not the people," said Miss Dennistoun, shaking her head, "it's
the kind of servants they happen to have.  Take breakages.  The
mistress never knows what is broken unless it's a spectacular crash."

"But the inventory," Colonel Eridge suggested.

"Well, I'm afraid to me an inventory is more or less of a farce.  I
never seem able to recognize my belongings again!  Now I lock away my
good china and leave out pretty but quite cheap stuff.  The tenant I do
object to is the one that changes furniture from room to room.  When I
went back the last time I let my house I couldn't imagine what had
happened.  Beds were turned round, wardrobes shifted, tables lifted
from room to room, and four mattresses were piled on one bed!  This
time I got my lawyer to put in a clause about leaving everything as
they found it.  As a matter of fact I'd never dream of letting
strangers into my house if it weren't dire necessity."

"But, dear Miss Dennistoun," Mrs. Eridge protested, "think of the
relief of getting away from housekeeping, knowing that the house is
being aired and fired, and is paying for itself!  But, of course, all
my life we've moved constantly from place to place, so I can't have the
same settled feeling that you have--you've lived all your life, haven't
you, in St. Andrews?"

"Yes, I love my house and my garden; I like my neighbours, and the
shopkeepers are my very good friends.  But I've enjoyed myself here,
and I'm sincerely sorry to leave this house and its inmates.  I hope to
be at home all summer, but I may be back here next October."

"Oh, that will be nice," said Mrs. Eridge.  "And you will be here, Miss
Car?"

"I think not," said Car.  "I expect to be at home next winter."

"You're not going on with your training?"  They all looked at her with
surprise, and when Car shook her head, Colonel Eridge said with
decision:

"I for one am glad to hear it.  I'm sure it's interesting work, and
I've no doubt, Miss Car, that you have talent, but I'm old-fashioned
enough to think that a young girl's place is at home.  Many must work,
and then one hasn't a word to say.  Much as we shall miss you if we
return here, we'll be glad to think of you safely at home."

"But who'll pick up my stitches?" Mrs. Ireland asked.  "Car is the only
one with young eyes."

"Pip, Pip, Pip, Pip," said the wireless and Colonel Eridge looking at
his watch announced that he was exactly right.  "And now for the news,"
he added.

They listened with more or less interest while the weather forecast was
being given, and the various items of news from different quarters of
the globe, all except Car, whose mind was full of other things.  She
was thinking of what Mrs. Armstrong had said about John Dalrymple and
Nicole Ruthurfurd--"He wanted her always."  Fortunate Nicole, to be
able to inspire such enduring devotion!  In her own experience--poor
Car!--and in books she had read, men were hopelessly volatile.  George,
who had been her George ever since she could remember, always ready to
fetch and carry for her, to take her part in any altercation, who had
seemed to love her--who _must_ have loved her or he wouldn't have asked
her to be his wife--George to turn almost in a night to another, and
that other her friend!  To the world at large she could keep what her
father called a stiff upper lip, but her heart was wounded.  George
might have realized that she was young and silly and did not know her
own mind.  Care for him she did.  Now, too late, she knew it.  And the
cruellest part of it was, that circumstances had forced her into being
a spectator, more, an unwilling assistant, to his courtship of her
friend.

The next day, a Saturday, she and Gwen went to tea with George in his
rooms in the Temple.  George had invited them in response to a pointed
hint from Gwen, and Car could not without making herself unpleasant
refuse to be of the party.

She sat on the sofa with a sweet if somewhat fixed smile, while Gwen
flitted about the room looking at the pictures and photographs and
fingering the ornaments on the mantelpiece.

"What a lovely tea!" she said.  "George, how sweet of you to get
Fuller's cakes.  I'm sure you only care for bread and butter."

"There's a Fuller's quite near," George told her.  "My man selects the
cakes.  I'm glad they meet with your approval."

At tea the talk somehow turned on Stratford-on-Avon, which neither of
the girls had visited.

"But it's a scandal," George declared.  "Devout students of Shakespeare
like you and Car never to have visited his birthplace!"

"Take us there," Gwen suggested.  "It's not such an awfully long run,
is it?  And the weather's wonderful just now.  What about next Saturday
as ever was?"

"The festival hasn't begun," Car objected.  "April's the time to go."

"And by April term's over," Gwen pointed out.  "You're back in
Scotland, and George probably away for Easter.  Barristers have such an
easy time," she added, with an arch glance at her host.

"Well," said George, "why not next Saturday?  We could run down for
lunch and see the new theatre and the birthplace and so on.  What d'you
think, Car?"

Car hesitated.  She could imagine few things she would enjoy more than
to go to Stratford with George alone, and few things she would like
less than to visit it with George and Gwen--but what could she say?

"It would be fun," she said, forcing herself to speak with warmth, "but
are you sure, George, you can spare a whole day for us?"

"Of course he could," Gwen answered for him "George doesn't know what
work is.  If he had _our_ life----"

All that week the thought of the Saturday's excursion hung before Car
like a thundercloud; she did not seem able to see beyond it.  She told
herself, "It'll only be a day like other days, and will pass," but it
did not seem possible.

When at last Saturday morning dawned she jumped out of bed with
alacrity, thankful that the dreaded day had come and she could start
getting through with it.

It was a bright spring day, and at breakfast Car was congratulated on
having such a pleasant prospect.

"You young people," Mrs. Ireland told her, "don't know how lucky you
are to be able to rush about the country in motor cars.  In every way,
when I was a girl, we were cribbed and held in, by our clothes for one
thing (how stiff and heavy they were!) and by the fear of what people
would say.  And we hardly knew what speed meant; a fast trotting horse
in a dog-cart was about our nearest approach to it.  That sounds
comical, doesn't it.  Well, well, run away and enjoy yourself, my dear,
and tell us all about it when you come back.  You will only be young
once."

Car, feeling old and bitter, smiled at her well-meaning elders, and
went out to the car.  George had met Gwen at the station and brought
her on.

"You two girls had better sit behind," George decreed.  "A constant
stream of brilliant conversation might distract my attention and land
us in a ditch."

"Or in quod," said Gwen, removing herself somewhat reluctantly to the
seat beside Car.  "But I want to drive part of the way.  I _can_ drive,
you know."

"Nobody drives this car but myself," said George with decision, and
Gwen, making a face, remarked, "What a martinet.  Don't you think, Car,
there's quite a Hitler touch about our friend?"

"Definitely," said Car, "and not a bad thing at times.  How's your
mother this morning, Gwen?"

"Oh, not too bad.  Of course she's never very bright in the morning,
but she brisks up as the day goes on.  If this weather continues she
ought to get out for a drive.  I am glad it's a lovely day.  I'm going
to enjoy myself."

In spite of herself Car smiled.  There was something frank and
childlike about Gwen.  If she wanted anything she went brazenly for it;
she wasn't cunning.  Common, Alison Lockhart called her, but that was
because in her more unguarded moments Gwen spoke with a slight Cockney
twang, and sometimes replied "That's right."  What did people mean when
they talked about 'common' anyway.  Something coarse in the grain?  No,
it wasn't that.  There were people almost genteel in their refinement
who were decidedly common.  It had little or nothing to do with class.
Had it something to do with one's outlook on life?  Perhaps if...

"Oh, Car!  Look at that ducky garden and funny little house," Gwen
cried.  "I've never been this way before.  Ooo, did you see the pigs in
that field?  What a jolly stream!  A good place to have a picnic.
Don't you wonder who lives in all these villages and towns that we've
never heard of?  Oh, my goodness, these charabancs--you'd think they
owned the road.  Isn't it too bad that Daddy won't let me have a car?
I believe it's Mummy behind him.  They're so afraid their one precious
child will meet a sudden end.  You're well-off, Car, to be one of a
lot."

"Do you think that out of five one or two wouldn't be missed?"

"Oh, I don't mean that.  But with five affection is bound to be
distributed a bit, and anxiety too.  If it's all concentrated on
one----"

"There's something in that," Car agreed.  "Or it might work the other
way round, and with five the parents might be five times more anxious.
I know my mother worries a lot about us all, though she hasn't much
cause, except perhaps with Sandy, who has a passion for living
dangerously.  If I don't write regularly I get a wire asking why.  Her
mind will be more at rest when I'm at home for good."

Gwen turned to look at Car.

"Aren't you really coming back next term?  It's too bad."

"I'd come like a shot if I thought I'd ever be any good."

"But you are good," Gwen protested.

"Not good enough to justify money being spent on me.  If I'd an income
of my own I'd go on because I love the work for its own sake, but I
haven't, so there it is."

"I suppose," said Gwen dubiously, "you'll be able to find lots to do at
home?  You won't be bored?"

"If I am it'll be my own fault.  Mother needs some one at home."

"What about Helen?"

"Helen's younger.  Besides, she'd hate it."

"Would she?  I don't know that I would, if I was certain I could get
away any old minute.  I'd hate to feel tied to a place.  Of course, you
may say I've always lived in the country, but a suburb is different,
isn't it?  All the men going to town every day, and the women going up
to look at shops and plays.  And there's tennis and badminton and
dances; it's all quite jolly, though people sneer at suburban life."

"Who sneers?  Nobody with any sense, I'm sure."

"Oh, I don't know.  Your friend Miss Lockhart always looks at me as if
I came from Whipsnade."  Gwen lowered her voice as she added, "I wonder
if George notices it?"

"I'm sure he doesn't," Car said hurriedly, "because you only imagine
it.  Oh, do look..."

Car dared not continue the subject in case Gwen told her, what she
dreaded to hear, that she and George had come to an understanding.
They had got beyond Watford now, and it was real country--spreading
fields, wide woods, comfortable farm-steadings, great houses set among
lawns and reached by avenues of stately trees.

"Don't you wish," said Gwen, as they passed a particularly imposing
entrance, "that they'd put a notice up who the place belongs to?  It's
so tantalizing, for it might be some place quite famous." ... Presently
George asked, over his shoulder, if there were any place they
particularly wanted to lunch in Stratford.

Gwen leant forward.  "I'm hungry," she said, "aren't you, Car?  What's
the best place?"

"There's quite a choice," George told her.  "'The Shakespeare,' of
course, and a lot of others.  There's rather a nice place just opposite
the theatre--'The Arden.'"

"It's a nice name," Car said, in her slow, deep voice.  "Is it called
after the Forest or after Shakespeare's mother?"

"Let's go there," Gwen decided.  "It doesn't matter where it got its
name....  Is this Stratford?  Very towny, isn't it?"

"All towns have ugly entrances," Car said.  "Even Edinburgh.  But,
after all, people must have houses.  This is better, Gwen.  There's the
Shakespeare Hotel and a lovely old church."

"There's the Avon," Gwen cried, "and--is that the theatre?  My
goodness!"

George had stopped the car, and turning round, grinned broadly.

"Well, what d'you think of it?"

"Pretty awful," said Car, but Gwen said, "I like it.  It's odd and
interesting and new.  I hate everything old and stuffy."

"It's delightful inside," George assured them.  "Shall we lunch now?
This is 'The Arden.'"

Gwen, surveying the pleasant, creeper-covered, bow-windowed house,
said, "Not very imposing, is it?"

"That," said George, "is the beauty of it.  We can walk straight into
the dining-room through this window and lunch looking out on the river.
Come on."

"But we must tidy first," Gwen told him.  "Car, let's explore this
place.  Mum wouldn't let them waken me this morning because it was
Saturday, and I had such a rush.  I'd no time to attend to my face.
I'm a fright, I know."

Some time later the two girls joined George at a table in the window,
obviously well pleased with his choice of a hostelry.

"We've been pretty well all over the place," Gwen announced, "and it's
as quaint as can be.  There's a cosy little drawing-room, with a fire
and really comfortable seats, and a lounge, and a sort of writing-room;
running water in all the bedrooms."

"Such pretty light bedrooms," said Car, "and on every dressing-table--a
very nice touch--a pin-cushion and needles and thread!  And most of the
furniture's genuinely old, and there's a bookcase in the drawing-room
full of books that I've read once and always wanted to read again, and
the flowers are charmingly done, and I saw some fox-hound puppies in
the garden behind."

"All very delectable," said George.  "I'm glad you're pleased.  Soup or
grape fruit?"

"Grape fruit," said Gwen promptly, "if it's in its skin and not out of
a tin."

She looked after the waitress who, having taken their order, moved away
to the next table.  "Rather nice, isn't she, with her pale blue print
and bare arms?"

"Pretty voice, too," Car said.  "It must be an interesting job waiting
in a place like this--all sorts of people coming in and talking about
the plays."

Car watched the girls, all of them young and pleasant to look at,
moving from table to table, and wondered if they were happy.  No one in
the room, she decided, looked unhappy.  At the next table sat two
middle-aged women, plain of face and rather shabby as to clothes.  They
were absorbed in studying a map and deciding on a route.  Probably,
thought Car, they had jobs and lived together, getting away on
Saturdays in their little car.  They had quiet eyes and contented
voices, and the girl envied them.  She envied still more a young couple
at another table, a girl with a laughing face and a boy who gazed at
her adoringly.  It was evident that for them, at the moment, this
common earth was touched with magic, and life both a poem and a jest.
As they looked into each other's eyes and laughed, Car felt her own
fill with tears; they were so happy and she was so miserable.  Ashamed,
she glanced hastily at her companions, but they seemed engrossed with
each other.  Gwen was smiling at George, her face cupped in her hand,
looking, Car thought, most lovely and desirable, and George--George was
looking positively fatuous.

Well, Car told herself, she had known it would be a horrible day, but
anyway, it would soon be over, and she would take good care never again
to allow herself to be put in such a humiliating position.  In time it
would be all right, she assured herself; she would get used to the
thought of George as Gwen's husband, and might even marry some one
else.  With her head well up, and a little set smile on her lips, she
listened to the conversation of her companions, and when occasion
offered, bore her part in it.

It was better after lunch; there was much to see, and though Gwen
irritated Car by being persistently kittenish and arch, she couldn't
spoil the interest of the new theatre, the thrill of seeing
Shakespeare's tomb in the church, nor the pleasure of hearing the larks
sing in the fields round Ann Hathaway's cottage.

After an early tea they started for London, and then Gwen, who had
enjoyed her day and was inclined, perhaps, to be a little above
herself, began to tease George into letting her drive.

At first George was obdurate.

"Only for a little while," she pleaded.  "I can drive, I assure you I
can.  You can pretend you're giving me a lesson if you like.  Oh,
George, don't be so sticky.  It's been such a lovely day, you wouldn't
spoil it now."

George looked at Car who said nothing, then turned back to Gwen's
lovely beseeching eyes, wavered and fell.

"Well, I don't suppose you can do much harm.  Wait till we're out of
the town."

In a few minutes he stopped and gave Gwen his place.

Gwen, pleased and proud, drove with caution, and at a very moderate
pace, and after a little George's attention relaxed.

"Who says I can't drive?" she boasted.  "George, I do wish you'd come
and see us and advise Daddy to let me have a car of my own.  Do.
Please!"

What George replied Car did not hear.  The sight of them sitting
together so satisfied-looking was more than Car's new-found philosophy
could stand; she closed her eyes to shut it out, so she never knew what
happened exactly at the cross-roads.  She heard a sudden grinding of
brakes, a frightened squeak from Gwen, an exclamation from George, and
felt a sensation of soaring, a sudden sharp pain, then all was darkness.

The next thing she knew was that she was lying on the grass by the
roadside, and kneeling beside her was George, crying, "Car, Car," and
then, most surprisingly, "_Darling!_"

"Gwen?" said Car.

"She's all right," George assured her.

Then Gwen herself was kneeling beside her, sobbing, "Oh, Car, I thought
you were dead!"

Much affronted Car sat up.  "Of course I'm not," she began, then,
feeling very odd she gladly lay back on the nearest support, which
happened to be George's shoulder.

Presently she asked where the car was, and George nodded to a group of
men.

"In the ditch," he said.  "They've telephoned for a doctor and another
car.  I say, are you really all right, d'you think?  That's all that
matters."

Car cautiously moved first one leg and then the other and gave herself
a little shake.

"I'm all right," she said.  "Did I faint?  How silly!  Let's get away
before the doctor comes."

"You've a nasty cut on your wrist," George pointed out.

"So I have.  Funny, I never felt it."

"Better have it seen to," George advised.

It was a silent trio that were driven back to London in a hired saloon.
George's car was a wreck, and Gwen knew that it was her fault.  Car
still felt shaken and confused and rather sick.  George roused himself
as they drew near London to some degree of cheerfulness and said: "We
ought to be jolly thankful it was no worse.  It's little short of a
miracle that we're here.  Cheer up, Gwen, and forget any rude words I
said in my haste.  You must have got a horrid fright.  When I've seen
Car safely into Mrs. Armstrong's care I'll take you home.  When did you
tell your people to expect you?  They won't be worried, will they?"

Gwen shook her head, weeping softly into her handkerchief; such a cowed
guilty Gwen that Car's heart was completely melted to her.

George Lockhart was a thankful man when he had seen both his charges
home that night, and could sit down before the fire and smoke a pipe in
peace.

He would have been amused but not seriously affected had he heard what
Gwen was saying about him to her mother.  The household had been
thrilled by Gwen's account of the accident--she had begged George not
to come in in case of upsetting her mother--in which she appeared
something of a heroine.

"But I can't understand why you were driving, darling," her mother said.

"To give George a rest," Gwen replied airily.  "I can drive
beautifully, even George admitted it, but those cross-roads are
hideously dangerous, and nobody could have foreseen.  Anyway, it
doesn't matter now, for there was no harm done."

She was sitting on her mother's bed, clad in wonderful pyjamas, tears
and guilt forgotten, quite persuaded that she was the injured person.

"D'you know, Mums," she said, after a pause, "I'm disappointed in
George.  Yes.  I thought him so kind and considerate, but to-day he
spoke to me as no man should speak to a lady."

"Darling!"

Gwen continued: "What I say is, what's a man good for if he can't keep
his head in a crisis?  We were all thrown out of his wretched car, and
I was dreadfully shaken, as you may imagine.  I didn't so much mind him
calling me a fool when we crashed, though that was quite unjust, but
when we picked ourselves out of the hedge he hardly gave a look at me
but rushed to Car like a man demented.  I must admit it was terrifying
to see her lying there as if she was dead, but he might have given some
thought to me."

"I should think so," said Mrs. Davis.  "You're sure Car isn't really
hurt?"

"Oh, I don't think so.  The doctor said she'd be all right after a few
days in bed....  It's sad to be disappointed in any one, isn't it?
George has been so sweet to me.  I thought him such a darling, and
Fairniehopes is such a lovely place."

Mrs. Davis made no reply for a minute.  She had had a long anxious day
lying in bed thinking of her precious child, wondering what she could
do for her before she had to leave her for ever.  Gwen took a
light-hearted view of her mother's condition, pinning her faith to the
spring, but Mrs. Davis herself knew that she was losing every day, and
that the spring sunshine could do nothing for her.  All she asked was
to be able to keep going and not sadden Gwen till the end could not be
hid.

"Gwennie," she said, "it seems like saying 'I told you so,' but you
know I don't mean that.  I've never been very happy about your
friendship with the Eliots and this George Lockhart.  I'm sure they're
nice, but they're not our sort.  You don't understand the way they look
at things, and--oh, I'm not good at saying what I mean, but you
understand, darling, don't you?  You'd be more likely to find happiness
in your own circle."

"With Tommy?" said Gwen, a fine scorn in her voice.

"Not necessarily with Tommy," her mother replied gently.  "As a matter
of fact, he seems to have made great friends with the Lee girl.  His
mother came to see me yesterday--you know how kind she is, constantly
coming and bringing me things--and she told me Tommy had got a
beautiful car of his own and he and Dinah Lee were going out a lot
together.  Tommy has now control of his own money."

Gwen got up from the bed and went and stood before the looking-glass.
Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling; she took up one of her
mother's ivory brushes, heavily monogrammed in silver, and began to
brush her hair vigorously.

"Dinah Lee," she said, and gave a little laugh.

Presently she walked across to the bed.

"Mums," she said, "to-morrow I'll ask Tommy to tea.  If he comes you
won't hear of any more motor-runs with Dinah Lee....  Are you tired,
ducky?"

"A little, darling.  Go to bed, you must be worn out."  Mrs. Davis
closed her eyes, shutting out the vision of her foolish, swaggering
little daughter, and Gwen left the room.

Meantime Car lay in her bed in 10 Cambridge Gardens, aching in every
inch of her, but with more heart's ease than she had known for long.
She saw now that she had tormented herself without reason.  Whatever
Gwen had intended George had meant nothing, and probably had noticed
nothing, men were so _stupid_.  Poor Gwen!  Perhaps she really cared.
But George was hers, Car's, long before Gwen knew he was in the world.
And surely he was hers still or he wouldn't have said, "Car,
_darling_."  Apart from the words, the tone in his voice would have
brought her back from the gates of death.  And he didn't know she
cared, didn't know she had been enduring jealous misery, still thought
her, probably, the ungracious, ungrateful Car of last autumn!  Well, it
was all too difficult for a bruised person with an aching head to
puzzle out, so Car fell asleep.




CHAPTER XXXIV

  "Bury me in Kirkbride,
  Where the Lord's redeemed ones lie!
  The auld Kirkyaird on the grey hillside
  Under the open sky."
                    ROBERT REID.


John Dalrymple was brought home to lie by his fathers in the little
churchyard at Langhope-shiels.

On the morning of the funeral day Barbara Jackson was talking to her
husband about their friend.

"I can't believe it," she said.  "It seems such an unlikely thing that
John should be dead.  As a boy he was rarely out of this house.  Aunt
Jane was all the mother he ever knew, and he was almost as much to her
as her own.  That's what made it so hard for her that Nicole wouldn't
marry him.  I wonder what Nicole feels like now."

"Very sad at losing such a friend, I should think," said Andy.  "What'd
you expect her to feel?"

"Remorse," said Barbara.  "If she had married him he'd probably have
been alive to-day."

"Oh, my dear girl, that's nonsense.  You're holding Nicole
responsible----"

Barbara broke in.  "And so she is.  I feel it very strongly.  And I
really wonder at her coming here to-day.  Have you told Wishart to meet
the twelve train?"

"No," said Andy.  "I thought of going myself.  It'll be a trying day
for your aunt--for them both, and anything we can do----"

"If you ask me," said Barbara, "I should say they'd rather be met by a
servant and have the car to themselves.  I know I would."

"Perhaps you're right," Andy said peaceably.  "I'll tell Wishart."

"Luncheon must be sharp one," Barbara reminded him.  "It'll take us all
our time to be at Langhope-shiels at two-thirty."

"Oh, all right.  I'll be dressed to my top-hat and gloves ... I say,
how beastly to be making a jest about a funeral, John's of all people!"

"Speak for yourself," said his wife.  "I'm certainly in no mood for
jesting.  To me it's almost like losing a brother.  I mean to wear
half-mourning for a month or two."

The thought passed through Andy's mind that John Dalrymple had never
shown any great desire to be in Barbara's company, and had refused all
invitations to stay at Ruthurfurd.  Andy sometimes wondered if John
divined in Barbara a hidden antagonism to Nicole and resented it.

Andy had been dreading the luncheon, and was relieved when he entered
the drawing-room a few minutes before one to find himself greeted
warmly and affectionately by Lady Jane and Nicole, with no trace of the
hushed and solemn expression that so many people feel it their duty to
assume on such occasions.

"Dear Andy!" said Lady Jane.  "What a pleasure to see you again; you
and Barbara never visit the Harbour House.  How is your mother?"

"Mother's in great form," Andy told her.  "She and my father are coming
for Easter."

"Andy," said Barbara, "do ring the bell and hurry them.  I said one
_sharp_."

Andy rang, glancing at his watch as he did so and remarking, "It's only
five minutes to one now, Barbara.  Ah, here's Samson; he's in good
time, anyway."

"Samson's forgotten us," said Nicole, as the small Andrew stood
solemnly in the middle of the room regarding them.

"If he has," said Barbara, "it would hardly be surprising.  Come,
darling, and say how d'you do to Aunt Jane."

"How d'you do," said Samson.  "Would you like to hear me say my
prayers?"

"Not now, old man," said his father.  "When Aunt Jane comes to stay I
know she'd like to hear you.  You'll say the grace at lunch; will that
do?"

Samson nodded, and took Nicole's offered hand.

"We have a boy called Alastair," she told him, as they went together to
the dining-room.  "D'you remember him coming here?  He liked to make
dams in the burn."

"In my burn?" said Samson.  "Will he come again?"

"Perhaps.  He's a big boy; you'd have fine times together."

"I'm a big boy, too, aren't I, Daddy?"

"Of course.  That's why you're called Samson."

"How is Alastair?" Barbara asked.  "He's at Eton, isn't he?  I was
surprised a little when I heard you'd sent him there.  After all, I
suppose he'll have to earn his living."

"Eton won't unfit him for that, I hope," said Lady Jane smiling.  "Most
boys at Eton have to earn their own living.  And I think Alastair is
the sort of boy that will get all the good out of Eton.  He's certainly
very happy there.  He'll be home quite soon now.  How the seasons leap
on one!  It's Christmas, and before you realize winter is over, it's
Easter."

"I find time simply flies," said Barbara, "but then I'm a very busy
woman.  I couldn't bear to lead an idle aimless life.  A place is such
a responsibility, isn't it?  I used to wonder how John Dalrymple could
leave Newby as he did.  Poor John!  Doesn't it seem somehow incongruous
that we should be eating lunch and talking about trivial things on his
funeral day?"

"Not a bit," said Andy.  "After all the world must go on.  Meals must
be ordered, cooked, and eaten, papers read, documents signed,
arrangements made, though one has lost the only thing that made life
worth living.  John was the last man to expect any one to sit dumb and
fasting because he was gone.  It isn't as if only one or two were
singled out to die.  What happens to one happens to all."

"Andy," said Barbara sharply, "don't talk so before the child.  It
seems to me such a pity to cloud a child's bright sky.  Go on, Samson,
with your mutton, or you won't be ready for the pudding."

"Pudding," said Samson suspiciously, his eyes roaming to the sideboard.
"Hurrah!  It's meringues.  I was afraid it was a milk thing," and he
began to gulp the meat still left on his plate.

When the servants had left the room Barbara said:

"What will happen to Newby Place?  I always understood there was no one
to inherit.  I suppose it'll mean new people."

Nicole looked at her mother, and Lady Jane said with a quiver in her
voice, "John has left Newby Place to me, Barbara."

"What!" said Barbara, really startled.  "To you!  But--what will you do
with it?  I thought you were so fond of Fife that you simply couldn't
bear to leave it."

Jane Ruthurfurd's face flushed at the tone, but she said gently: "We
are very fond of Fife, and would hate the thought of leaving the
Harbour House and all our friends for good.  We'll divide our time, I
expect.  It'll be strange to be back again in Tweeddale; indeed, I
haven't in the least got used to the idea.  There will be so much to
arrange.  Of course, we must keep everything exactly as John had it."

"Are you going there to-day?" Barbara asked.

"Oh, no," Lady Jane said quickly.  "Not this day of all days.  We're
going straight back by the three-thirty train."

"But that won't give you a minute to see any one," Barbara pointed out.

"No, but we'll probably come to Newby Place with Alastair after Easter,
and shall hope to see every one then."

"Car's at the door, Mummy," Samson cried.  "Can't I go to the funeral?
Everybody's going but me."

"Certainly not," said his mother.  "Here's Nannie.  Say good-bye to
Aunt Jane and Cousin Nicole."

"You'll come to play with Alastair at Newby Place," Nicole promised him
as she shook him by the hand, "and we'll have meringues for lunch."

The little church at Langhope-shiels was almost full, for many wanted
to pay respect to the last of an old name.  Some were there who had
known John Dalrymple from boyhood.  All had liked and respected him.

The coffin was lying before the communion-table, bare, because John had
disliked the idea of flowers at a funeral.  The minister, in his black
Geneva gown and white bands, stood behind the table, and a nervous
youth was sitting before the harmonium.

The minister began to read.  Left to himself to decide, he had chosen
the 13th chapter of 1st Corinthians.

Nicole at first wondered at the choice, but as he read:


"_Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity
vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,_

"_Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily
provoked, thinketh no evil._"


she thought--"Of course.  It's John himself."

The minister went on:


"_For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face: now I
know in part, but then shall I know even as also I am known._"


John was in the light now; and everything was clear to him.  Life had
given him much, but had held from him his heart's desire, now he would
know why.

The youth at the harmonium prepared to play.

"I hope," thought Nicole, "that it's not '_For all the Saints_.'  John
wouldn't have thought it suitable," but the hymn was Bunyan's Pilgrim
hymn, and Nicole sang, with tears on her face, the old brave words.

The minister prayed, the service was over, and they were out again in
the sunny churchyard.  Such a quiet place, the only sound the bleating
of the sheep on the hillside and the lark's song.  As they turned away
from the grave Nicole felt an arm in hers, and turning, found Jean
Douglas.  They looked at each other with hearts too full for speech.
Then Alison Lockhart joined them, and others, and greetings were
exchanged.

"Where's Mother?" said Nicole.  "Oh, I know, she's looking at old
Betsy's grave; I must go to her.  No, thank you very much, Jean.  We're
going straight home now.  Andy's taking us to Galashiels.  But we're
coming back soon.  You got Mother's letter?  Yes, Andy, I'll bring
Mother.  Good-bye--Good-bye!"

Jean Douglas turned to Alison Lockhart.  "Come home with me, Alison; I
need some one to talk to."

"I'll be glad to," Alison replied, and added, "I thought that a very
touching service."

"Very, and there was nothing John would have objected to.  I've gone to
funerals of plain, unassuming men, and found that the widow had
expressed her grief in smothering the coffin with strong-smelling
lilies, and by choosing most improbable hymns.  There's Thomas; we'll
get away now.  Yes, home."

Comfortably settled before the boudoir fire, Jean turned to her friend
and said:

"Have you heard what's happened?  Jane Ruthurfurd wrote to me this
morning.  John has left Newby to her.  Isn't it astonishing?"

"Yes, and yet why should it be?  When you think of it, it was a very
reasonable thing to do.  The Ruthurfurds were his greatest friends, and
part of the countryside though exiled from it.  John, leaving
everything, must have felt a certain solace in the thought that Nicole
would live at Newby where he'd always hoped to see her, and John was no
dog-in-the-manger.  Even if she married some one else----"

"She won't do that," said Jean decidedly.  "And you must remember
there's the boy Alastair to follow on.  I expect John thought of that;
he was fond of the boy....  To think that John's death should bring the
Ruthurfurds back to Tweedside!  I've said it before but I'll say it
again--life's a queer thing."

"It's all that.  Did Nicole and her mother come all the way from Fife
to-day and go straight back?"

"They lunched at Ruthurfurd--couldn't decently get out of it, I
expect--and went back by the three-thirty to Edinburgh.  They'll be
back at the Harbour House in time for dinner, very thankful, I'm sure,
to be away from every one.  I thought they both looked rather strained
and tired.  No wonder!  They don't mean to leave Kirkmeikle for good,
but to divide their time.  Mrs. Heggie and all the others would be lost
without them."  With a rather malicious smile Mrs. Douglas added,
"What, I wonder, is Barbara Jackson thinking of the news?"

"I'm sure she'll be quite pleased to have her aunt and cousin back."

"I'm sure she won't!  Why, she's as jealous as she can be of Nicole.
Andy admires her too much for his wife's liking."

Alison scoffed.  "My dear, Andy Jackson would never give his wife
reason for jealousy."

"Never," Jean agreed promptly, "but people can make themselves very
miserable without reason.  I've known for years that she married Andy
more or less by a trick.  He saw Barbara first, Nicole just too late.
Not that it would have made any difference, for Nicole had by that time
met and loved Simon Beckett.  Barbara would have been delighted to have
had Nicole at Newby safely married to John, but this is a very
different state of matters."

"Poor Barbara!" said Alison, "I pity her."

"Dear me, I thought you didn't like Barbara."

"I didn't, and when I see her again I probably won't, but having
learned the utter misery of being jealous I sympathize with her ... By
the way, my young man writes that his car was smashed last Saturday
taking Car and the Davis girl to Stratford-on-Avon."

"Gracious," said Jean.  "Any one hurt?"

"Car, poor child, had slight concussion; the other two seem to have got
off scot free.  I must call at Eliotstoun on my way home.  K. will be
worried....  I'm trying, Jean, to school myself into behaving decently
to the girl who seems to be George's choice."

The friends had tea together, and Jean went out with her guest to her
car.

"I'm going to Ruthurfurd," Alison said, her tone slightly defiant.

Jean nodded, but made no comment.

What she meant to say or do at Ruthurfurd Alison had no clear idea.
She could hardly walk in and say to her hostess, "I've come because I
hear you are jealous, and I know what that means," but it was a
neighbourly act to pay a call.

Barbara was at tea in the drawing-room alone.  As she greeted her,
Alison looked round the room with the thrill of pleasure it always gave
her.  She noticed, as she had often noticed before, how the room seemed
to slope down towards each end, so that the fireplace with its inset
picture of Elizabeth of Bohemia became the centre and shrine of it.

"How I love this room," she said.  "You're greatly to be envied,
Barbara, having such a possession."

Barbara, whose greeting had been somewhat reserved, thawed a little;
she liked to be envied.

"Yes, isn't it adorable?  Even as a child I realized its beauty, and I
do feel I am fortunate to have it for my own.  You'll have tea?"

It was quite a party tea, Alison noticed, as if Barbara had expected
guests, but the extra cups had not been used.

"No, thank you, I've had some.  How is Andy?"

"Oh, very well.  He came home and changed in a hurry and went off to
see about something.  We had Aunt Jane and Nicole to lunch before the
service, but they insisted on going straight back to Fife.  Wasn't it
terribly pathetic this afternoon?  That bleak little service, no
flowers or decent music."

"Well," said Alison, "I must say I liked the service.  I don't care for
masses of flowers myself--but sadness was certainly there."

"A life ruined, one might almost say," said Barbara.

"To our eyes perhaps, but we see darkly."

Barbara went on: "Andy and I were so thrilled to hear from Aunt Jane
that John had left her Newby Place.  Isn't it _perfect_?  What it will
mean to me to have her and Nicole back!  After all, they're my nearest
relations, and I've felt Fife a long way off.  Now they will see Samson
grow up.  Andy is as pleased as I am."

"I wondered what would happen to Newby," Alison said.  "As you say,
this is a perfect arrangement for you all.  But they won't like leaving
the Harbour House, will they?"

"Oh, but they aren't leaving it, they mean to be there quite a lot.
They are both--Nicole especially--quite devoted to the house and the
place, not to speak of people.  Mrs. Heggie, for instance; you must
have heard of her?"

"I'm glad they aren't cutting connection with Kirkmeikle," Alison said.
"I believe Nicole's heart is more there than here.  Wasn't it there she
met the young man, Simon Beckett?  I know nothing except what Jean
Douglas told me, but I understand that he was the love of her life."

Barbara moved impatiently.  "It looks like it.  I saw it from the
beginning, of course, but nothing was ever said to me about it; I'm not
even sure that Aunt Jane knew anything, though she must have suspected.
I never met any one like Nicole, so apparently frank and forthcoming,
and really so reserved.  One couldn't say she made any fuss about Simon
Beckett's death--it was just after my marriage, so of course I wasn't
there to see, and Aunt Jane only once mentioned it in a letter--but I
do think she was obstinate about poor John Dalrymple.  I mean to
say--years after.  It's absurd to say that time doesn't heal, and
constancy can become rather a pose.  But there's no good talking about
it now; it's all over and done with."

"Yes," Alison agreed.  "Nicole's life now seems chiefly bound up in the
boy Alastair, and will become more so."

"Let's hope he won't disappoint her.  You never know, do you, what a
boy will turn out?"

"That's true, but even if they disappoint later, what a lot of pleasure
they are in their puppy days!  I envy you Samson's tender years."

Barbara sighed.  "We're already thinking of his prep. school.  It
doesn't seem right to keep an only child at home, but once they go it's
never quite the same."

"Don't you believe it.  The holidays are something to live for.  What
times George and I used to have!  And Samson will always love his home;
he's an affectionate loyal child, any one can see that."

"Oh, he is," said Barbara, leaving her seat and taking one beside her
visitor, "and very sensitive.  I hate to think of sending him into a
pack of boys who won't understand him."

"Don't worry, my dear; Samson and the other boys will understand each
other all right.  There's nothing abnormal about your boy, be thankful
for that, and he'll enjoy both the games and the lessons and grow up
just such another man as his father--and nobody could wish for a
better."

Barbara smiled.  For the first time in her life she was finding Alison
Lockhart a really comfortable companion.  She had been far from pleased
when the lady walked in, for she was secretly a little afraid of her
tongue and her twisted, ironic smile.  It had been a trying day.  Her
aunt's news about Newby had come as a blow.  She foresaw what it would
mean--Newby Place a centre and meeting-place for the whole district,
herself and Ruthurfurd over-shadowed.  It was too bad, Barbara felt.
She had done her best to be helpful, sitting on committees, getting up
fairs and dances and bridge-teas to raise funds, besides entertaining
the neighbourhood adequately, but she had always known she wasn't
really popular, except, perhaps, with the new-comers, who were
gratified to be taken up by the lady of Ruthurfurd.  Andy was popular
and he never tried at all, didn't indeed care whether he was popular or
not....  Barbara had been sitting alone, thinking over things,
disappointed that Andy had rushed out when she wanted to hear what he
thought of Newby Place.  He would be pleased, of course, and she must
show no chagrin, though the thought of Nicole at Newby made her
wince....  But Alison Lockhart had--how, Barbara didn't quite
know--reassured her about Nicole and her mother at Newby.  Their
presence there might possibly strengthen her own position.  Ruthurfurd
and Newby Place must be closely united.


Alison stayed only a short time at Eliotstoun after being reassured
about Car's condition.  She was getting on well, Mrs. Armstrong wrote,
and the doctor said there would be no ill effects.  She was to be
allowed to travel in a few days.

"We've arranged that; she'll come home with Tom and Rory," her mother
said.  "They'll stay a night at Cambridge Gardens and pick her up.
Otherwise, Tim or I would have gone.  How thankful we should be it was
no worse!"

"I thought George could drive," said Alison.  "How could he have been
so careless as to land the car in the ditch.  Give Car my love.  I'm
sorry she should have been the victim....  Were you at the service this
afternoon?"

"Yes.  We were sitting behind you.  I don't know when I felt so sad.
The Ruthurfurds were there, I saw."

"Yes.  John has left Newby to Jane Ruthurfurd."

"Oh--how very suitable!"

"Yes.  It'll be good to have them back in Tweeddale."

"And how nice for Barbara Jackson," said Katharyn.

"Very.  I've been calling at Ruthurfurd, you know.  Barbara seems quite
thrilled."

"I'm thrilled too at this moment," Katharyn said.  "We've just had a
wire from Helen, who was in Monte Carlo when last we heard, saying that
she has engaged herself to a young man and is bringing him here
to-morrow morning for our blessing."

Alison stared.  "You know nothing about the man?"

"Nothing.  Helen, to do her justice, never boasted of her conquests.
Sandy says she spoke to him at Christmas about some one in East Africa,
but merely to say nothing would induce her to go out there.  It's
rather perplexing, but to-morrow things will be cleared up.  Helen
always made up her mind in a flash, and then there's no moving her."

"Well," said Alison, "you'll let me know more particulars, won't you?
As you know, my dear, I'm truly interested."

"Indeed, I do know it," Katharyn said gratefully.




CHAPTER XXXV

  "Jack shall have Jill
  Nought shall go ill...."
                    _A Midsummer Night's Dream._


When Helen arrived with her young man she announced to her family that
she was going to marry him in a fortnight.

"Must," she said.  "His leave's up, and we leave London on 14th April."

"But where for?" asked her bewildered mother.

"Uganda, darling.  Didn't I tell you?  I wrote all about it surely.
_Could I have forgotten to post the letter_?  William and I have been
friends for ages, since last September to be exact, when he came home
on leave and stayed with the Campbells for the Highland balls.  I knew
at once I'd have to marry him, but I stood out as long as I could.  I
do hate savage life--but there it is; I can't have William without it,
so off I go."

William, Katharyn was thankful to find, was a rather plain,
sandy-haired young man, with a determined mouth.

To Alison Lockhart she confided, "The very last man I'd have thought
would have attracted Helen.  Hard-working, sensible, almost stodgy--a
really good sort.  He's obviously devoted, but stands no nonsense; what
he says goes.  It's the funniest thing!  Tim and he have made great
friends, and Sandy says he's a grand fellow."

"And you?" Alison asked.

"Oh, I like him.  It would be awful to let the child go away with a man
one didn't trust.  William's a rock."

"Who are his people?"

"He has only an aunt and some cousins.  His father was a governor
somewhere in the East--he died when William was at Oxford--and his
mother didn't live long after him.  William's been in the Colonial
Service for eight years.  He's thirty."

"More than ten years older than Helen," said Alison.  "That's all to
the good.  Am I to see the couple?"

"Yes.  They'll be in for lunch.  Come up now to Jane's Parlour; Car's
there.  It's the only peaceful spot just now, what with lovers and
demoralized dogs, and Rory----"

They found Car lying on the sofa, though she protested that it was
nonsense and sheer affectation.  "I'm quite all right," she said;
"truly I am.  My head isn't a bit confused now, and my hand's healing
up."

"You'll think twice about going out with George again," Alison said.

Car's face grew pink as she said, "It wasn't his fault.  Gwen was
driving."

"Oh, this is news.  George said nothing about Miss Davis except that
she wasn't hurt."

"I don't know what happened," Car went on.  "It was at a bad place,
cross-roads, and somebody must have been careless.  But anyway, it
doesn't matter now."

"George is coming to-night," said Alison.

"Oh," said Car, then, "Isn't it exciting about Helen?  I can't see how
a trousseau can be got together in ten days."

"Helen's not worrying," said Katharyn.  "As they came through London,
William took her to a place where she was measured for the sort of
garments that she'll wear out on safari--they seem to think that's
about all that's necessary!  Helen has always had a craze for a huge
stock of underclothing, and says she has heaps of everything.  Washing
dresses, and simple evening things she will have to get----"

"And something to be married in," said Car.  "It'll have to be by
special licence, won't it?"

"Will it?  I'm hopelessly vague about these sort of things.  I'd like
her to be married in white, with a veil."

"William wants that too," said Car.  "Why not go to Edinburgh to-morrow
and look for something.  It shouldn't be difficult, Helen's so easy to
fit."

At luncheon Alison, sitting beside Tim, looked round the table at all
the young faces.

"What a noisy lot," she said.  "Accustomed as I am to solitary meals,
it makes my head swim."

"They've all so much to say," Tim said tolerantly, "and the loudest
voice wins."

Rory, very excited, was arguing some point with Tom.

"Cool off, Ape," Sandy commanded, and Rory, not in the least hurt by
such an insulting nickname, laughed and addressed himself to his lemon
squash.

"William seems very much at home," Alison remarked.

"You must have a talk with him," Tim told her.  "He's an interesting
fellow.  I'm surprised, to tell you the truth, that Helen should have
gone in for solid worth."

"There must be a streak of the solid in your frivolous daughter."

"And a streak of frivolity in William," Tim suggested.  "I'm thankful
for K.'s sake that this has happened.  It hurt her much more than any
one knew that Helen was willing to spend so much time among strangers,
and she had an absurd notion that it was somehow her fault.  Of course
it wasn't.  Helen, like so many young people, was selfish and
luxury-loving."

"Will she find much luxury in Uganda?"

"She won't, but she's got something that makes up."

"'The old imperious god of the fatal bow,'" Alison quoted.  "We think
we've discovered pretty well everything in these days, but that's a
secret that beats me.  Love can turn a selfish girl into a
self-sacrificing woman."  She added, "It can also turn a sensible man
into a mountebank."

"Oh, come now, Alison, you couldn't call William that."

"I wasn't thinking of William," said Alison, grown suddenly morose.

George Lockhart arrived at Fairniehopes that evening and had much to
hear.

At dinner Alison was unusually voluble and George seemed very content
to listen.  He was feeling how good it was to come home again to
Fairniehopes in the fading spring light, and smell the wind from the
hills, to see the familiar faces of the servants and sit down to dinner
under the family portraits.  What was Alison saying?

"John Dalrymple has left Newby Place to the Ruthurfurds.  Did you know?"

"Yes," said George.  "Mrs. Armstrong told me one evening when I called
to ask for Car."

"Oh!" said Alison.  "But I don't suppose you know that Helen Eliot has
arrived home with a young man whom she's going to marry in ten days."

"That is news.  Who is he?"

"His name's William Lawrence.  He's in the Colonial Service, and goes
back to Uganda almost immediately."

"And what does he want to marry Helen for?"

"Surely that's fairly obvious.  She's an attractive brat."

"Quite," said George with indifference.  "What I meant was, what will a
girl like Helen do in Uganda?  She'll be nothing but a nuisance, I
should think."

"William won't let her be a nuisance; a most forceful young man, I
assure you.  He'll do his work to the best of his ability, and in any
time he has to spare he'll look after his wife, and I haven't the least
doubt that they'll be very happy.  Helen's in love with him."

"It sounds very satisfactory," said George.  "Are the Eliots pleased?"

"They are, now that they've got over the first shock.  The wedding's
going to be in the little church at Langhope-shiels on the 12th.  I
lunched at Eliotstoun to-day, and it was arranged when I was there.
They're going to pick up a trousseau in Edinburgh, and Helen says she
doesn't care if she gets no wedding presents.  That shows how many
fathoms deep she is in love, for Helen was considered something of a
gold-digger."

"Poor little Helen!" said George.

"Car has got a shake," Alison went on.  "How on earth did you contrive
to have such a mishap?"

"It's absurdly easy, my dear Alison, when the roads are crowded with
cars."

"You didn't tell me Miss Davis was driving."

"Didn't I?  It wasn't her fault."

"Then I don't know whose fault it could have been, but it's no business
of mine."

George said nothing, and Alison, who was convinced that George was
engaged to Gwen Davis, and who had been trying to speak in order to
keep the news at bay all through dinner, now felt that she must know
the worst.  "Shall we go?" she asked, and George followed her to the
drawing-room.  They drank their coffee almost in silence and the cups
were removed.

"Put on some logs, George."

George did so, and then stood watching the flames licking the lichen.
"What jolly logs these are," he remarked.

Alison moved impatiently.  "Sit down," she said, "and don't moon.  If
you've anything to tell me, tell it!"

George stared at his companion, then grew rather red.

"D'you mean about Car?" he asked.  "I've no reason to think she's
changed her mind."

"That's a good thing when you have changed yours."

"I?  What are you talking about, my dear Alison?"

"I'm talking about you and Miss Davis."

"Miss Davis?"

"Oh," cried Alison exasperated, "don't go on like that.  D'you think I
didn't see how pre-occupied you were with her when I was in London?"

"Why--I only know Miss Davis as Car's friend.  She was good-natured
enough to make a third and give me a chance of seeing Car."

"Then you still care for Car?"

"Of course."

"Then," said Alison, "all I can say is, you've an odd way of showing
it.  At Christmas you seemed to have no eyes for any one but Miss
Davis.  Every one noticed it--and commented on it."

George got up and stood on the hearth-rug.

"But, hang it all," he said, "I was only being civil.  Miss Davis was
Car's friend, and a stranger, and the people about here are rather a
chilly lot.  I don't say I found it difficult; she's pretty and easy
and amusing.  You have a lot of busybodies about here, I must say.  Did
Car hear this nonsense?"

"I don't know what she heard, but she must have noticed that Gwen Davis
behaved as if you were her property."

George took out his case and gloomily lit a cigarette.

"Gwen Davis," he said, "cares no more for me than I do for her.  We're
the merest acquaintances.  Car was the link between us; now that Car's
not going back to London, I don't expect ever to see the girl again.  I
must say, Alison, I thought you had more sense than to get such notions
into your head, especially as I took you into my confidence about Car.
Not that I found you very sympathetic about that."

Alison sat up very straight.  "Oh, my dear, you needn't try to put me
in the wrong.  I'm ashamed to say it, but when you told me about Car,
for almost the first time in my life I knew what it meant to be
jealous.  Yes, jealous, and of Car!  I suppose I deserve punishment,
and I got it when it seemed as if you had fallen a victim to Car's
friend, a stranger, an alien, a pretty common creature--don't protest,
she seemed so to me--I who had objected to the daughter of my dearest
friends!  I repented of that in sackcloth and ashes, I assure you.
I've had a miserable time for the last six months, and I hope it's
taught me something--to be less arrogant (for what business have I to
be anything but humble?) and more sympathetic.  George, is it really to
be Car?"

"I wish I thought so," said George, "but she'll be less likely than
ever to look at me if she shared your view of my behaviour.  What must
she have thought of me?"

"I don't know, I don't know!  Car never remotely hinted anything to me.
She wouldn't, of course.  But perhaps she did feel a little forsaken,
for she seemed to me easier to know, when I saw her in London, rather
less sure of herself.  And I could see what a favourite she was in the
boarding-house----"

"You needn't tell me of Car's good points," was George's gloomy retort.
"I've known them all along.  I never was half good enough for her."

"Nonsense," said Alison briskly.  She had quickly shed the white sheet
of the penitent.  "You're as good as she's ever likely to get, human
nature being what it is.  And you've a certain amount to offer, fair
prospects at the Bar, a certain if smallish income, and later
on--Fairniehopes."

George grunted.  "Very much later on, I hope."

"Oh, I hope so too.  With you and Car married I'll feel like beginning
a new lease of life.  It's interests that keeps people alive, and
happiness.  I've positively felt myself ageing daily during these last
months.  Now I'll get myself new clothes, and give some thought to my
figure and complexion."




CHAPTER XXXVI

"The power of hoping through eternity, the knowledge that the soul
survives its adventures, that great inspiration comes to the
middle-aged; good has kept that good wine until now."  G. K. CHESTERTON.


It was the day before the wedding.  Everything was ready---not without
a considerable struggle--and the wedding gown lay spread out on a spare
room bed, with Katharyn's wedding veil beside it.  The cake had arrived
safely, to Rory's great satisfaction ("For all the time that I've
lived," said Rory, "I've never been to a wedding before"), and they
were to breakfast in the library the next morning so that the wedding
lunch might be laid early, and every one get to church who wanted to
go.  The wedding presents were pouring in.

"People are really wonderfully considerate," Helen remarked, "in
sending cheques instead of useless articles, though it comes much more
expensive.  What do you think, Mummy, grandmother has sent me a hundred
pounds?  Yes, it's terribly kind, and I'm more than grateful, but she
makes it abundantly clear that it's not sent because she in the least
approves of me.  It's rather a barking, biting letter, poor darling."

Katharyn said nothing, and Jean Douglas, who had come over after tea
with Alison Lockhart and George, to see if they could be of any use,
remarked:

"I came on a text the other day which struck me with its truth: '_The
child shall behave himself proudly against the ancient._'  I sympathize
with Lady Battye.  If I had grandchildren I'd bark and bite at them
too, but I doubt if I'd hand out cheques.  A cheque covers a multitude
of insults, doesn't it, Helen?"

"It certainly does," Helen agreed, laughing, and Rory asked in awed
tones what she could do with the cheque.

"Put it in the bank against our next leave," said Helen.  "There won't
be much temptation to spend money in Karoti."

"But there are towns, aren't there?" said George Lockhart.  "Quite
civilized places?"

"Oh, yes," said Helen, "but I don't expect we'll visit them much.
William hates civilized places.  Tooting-on-the-Equator, he calls them."

"So you're to be buried in the jungle."

"In a mud hut, twenty-five miles from any one, with, I understand, a
menagerie of wild animals; so clothes and money will mean nothing to me
henceforth."

Rory rose in defence of his idol, William.  "Oh, Helen," he said
reproachfully, "William says it's a good house, and quite comfortable.
He says it only needs some pictures and things like that.  If it was
mud it couldn't have pictures, they wouldn't hang.  Unless, of course,
you daubed mud on the back and stuck them like that."

"Or we might paper the walls with photographs of film stars," said
Helen flippantly.  "Where's William, Rory?"

"Gone for a walk with Sandy.  Why?"

"A lot more presents have come, and no one has time to open them for
me."

"Let me," cried Rory.  "I love opening boxes.  I'll get a hammer and
chisel."  He rushed from the room, and his mother said, "Make him be
careful, Helen.  He may do a lot of damage."

"Oh, I know, but it's such fun for him.  Hitherto his life has been
empty of weddings.  Besides, if a present won't stand being opened by
Rory, it may as well perish, for it would never reach East Africa," and
Helen laughed light-heartedly as she left the room.

"Helen has a cavalier way with her presents," Alison Lockhart remarked,
"but it does show lack of sense to send fragile glass and china to a
couple sailing for Uganda."

"It must just stay here," Katharyn said.  "There's lots of room, and
they won't always be in East Africa.  Car, does Hogg understand about
the flowers for the church?"

"I think so, but I may as well go and make sure."

Car got up, and George asked if he might go with her, and together they
left the room.

Katharyn, looking round the drawing-room, said: "I never like this room
after the sun leaves it.  Let's go up to Jane's Parlour; it's a perfect
place in a spring evening."

Soon they were all settled: Jean Douglas, very upright, on the walnut
settee, Alison and Thomas in corners of the sofa, Tim in his own
armchair, Katharyn perched on a window-seat.

"Here we sit," said Katharyn, "five middle-aged people.  Youth has left
us--in more ways than one."

"You're a mere child," Jean reminded her, "not yet fifty, whereas
neither Thomas nor I'll see sixty again.  Nor will you, Alison."

"As a matter of fact," said Alison, "I've the advantage--the advantage
forsooth!--of both you and Thomas.  I'm sixty-five."

"A good weight of years represented here," said Thomas cheerfully.
"Let's see, sixty-five and..."

"Don't be repulsive, Thomas," his wife advised him, "not that I'm
ashamed of my age, indeed, I've so much enjoyed my sixty odd years that
I'd gladly have another sixty."

"Shows how well off you've been with me," said Thomas.

"Not necessarily," Alison pointed out.  "Here am I without a husband to
my name, and few people can have loved life more.  I don't say that
I've got the best out of life, perhaps, but I can say with Jean that
I've enjoyed what I got."

"But when you think of it," said Jean, "you and I have had very easy
lives; it's small credit to us to have enjoyed them."

"Oh, I know," Alison agreed.  "I quite realize we've no right to speak.
Yesterday I said good-bye to my old friend Mrs. Spiers.  I'm thankful
to think that she is now at rest.  No one could say that she had an
easy life.  She told me she left school at eleven, and after that had
worked hard all the time.  One son died at Gallipoli, her two girls
died as they grew up of tuberculosis--strange, wasn't it, brought up as
they were in this country with healthy parents--and when her man died,
she had to come to Fairniehopes to live with the one son left, our
gardener 'Elick.'"

"He was good to her, though," said Katharyn, "and I liked the wife when
I saw her at the Home."

"They meant to be, and were, very good to her, but it's not easy if
you've had a home of your own for forty years to come and live with
your daughter-in-law.  Mrs. Spiers couldn't help commenting and
criticizing now and then.  Mrs. 'Elick' took it very well on the whole,
but it's not in human nature to like criticism, and I daresay there was
sometimes friction.  However, that was all forgotten long before the
end, and she was delighted to see 'Davina' in the Home, and grateful
for all she brought her.  We sent 'Elick' over three times a week, and
when the end seemed to be near he went every evening.  The poor dear
grudged the trouble she was giving, and thought herself an
unconscionable time a-dying.  Yesterday, when I went in, she smiled but
didn't speak, and I sat quietly beside her.  Suddenly she opened her
eyes and said, in quite a firm, clear voice:

"I've had a graund life, but I'm no vext to gang, for it'll be faur
better yonder."

"Yonder," Katharyn repeated, and quoted softly, "'If it were not so, I
would have told you.'"

After a pause, "It makes one ashamed," said Jean Douglas.

"It certainly makes me ashamed," said Katharyn.  "I've been so
faithless about--many things."

"You certainly worried yourself unnecessarily about Helen," Tim pointed
out.

"Well, it seemed as if I'd lost her.  Now--though she is going to marry
William and go far away, I feel she is mine again."

There was a pause.

"K.," said Alison, "what d'you wish most for your children?"

"Sense," said Katharyn promptly, "just plain common sense.  That is
what I ask for them when I pray.  If they have that, other things will
be added unto them."

"Quite sound," said Tim.

Car and George went their way to interview the gardener, talking
sedately about life in East Africa, a subject about which both were
profoundly ignorant.

Their message given, instead of turning back to the house they went up
the burn-side, by the path bordered with gean trees which would soon
wear their bridal white.

"In another month," said Car, "this will be at its best--gean trees,
wild hyacinths, and masses of polyanthus.  I missed it last year in
London."

George asked, "Are you glad you won't miss it this year?"

Car hesitated.  "I think I'm glad.  Indeed, I'm sure I am, though I
daresay I'll often think regretfully of the old D.C....  I had a letter
this morning from Gwen.  She isn't going back either--she's going to be
married.  D'you care to read it?"

George, looking rather dazed, took the letter Car held out to him.  It
was easy to read Gwen's clear script, and the letter was short:


"DEAR CAR," she wrote,

"I do hope you're safely at home and feeling all right again.  It was
an unfortunate finish-up, wasn't it?  You'll be surprised to hear that
I'm not going back either to the D.C.  I felt a bit fed up with the
whole thing, so I'm going to be married instead.

"Did you ever hear me talk of Tommy Bridges?  He's always been a great
friend of mine; we went out in our prams together, that sort of thing,
and he says that for him there was never any one but me.  I can't quite
say that, for I've liked a few, but Tommy was always there in the
background.

"Mummy is so pleased, she says it has done her more good than any
doctor.  She's so interested in the trousseau and presents and
everything, and so anxious to hurry things on that I tell her she's
quite indecently glad to get rid of her only daughter!  Of course we
shall be quite near so she won't feel that she's lost me at all.

"Fortunately Tommy is quite well off and has given me a lovely car, as
well as a diamond and sapphire ring and heavenly earrings.  I've always
wanted real diamond earrings, long ones.  His mother's given me a pearl
necklace, and to both of us a canteen of silver.  Pretty good, don't
you think?  It's great fun getting married.  I can't think why I ever
thought I wanted to be an actress.  Hope to hear very soon that you're
following my good example.

"Love from GWEN."

"P.S.--April 30th is the date.  If you hadn't been so far away I'd have
asked you to be a bridesmaid."


George folded the letter and handed it back, remarking:

"It all seems very satisfactory, doesn't it?"

"Yes.  But it's a pity to see a gift wasted.  Gwen has a great gift."

"Undoubtedly," said George.

They walked on in a somewhat uneasy silence, until they came to where
the burn joined Tweed, and stood together on the grey stone bridge
looking at the water.

"When we were children," said Car, "and Tweed was in flood, we used to
lean over here and watch the water till we felt we were moving with it,
'Sailing away to Berwick,' we called it."

"Car," said George, "Alison tells me that she--and others, I
suppose--thought I was in love with Gwen Davis.  You knew better?"

Car gave rather a breathless laugh.

"Did I?" she said.  "Men, you know, have been known to change.  And
Gwen is very attractive."

"Of course she is, and I'm sure she and Tommy--what's his name--will be
very happy.  But that you, Car, should think me so fickle!  Why, when
Miss Davis suggested going to a play and so on, I hoped--poor fool that
I was!--that you were not averse to a meeting and that----"

"What," said Car, "you thought that I put Gwen up to suggest meetings?
I assure you I did nothing of the kind.  I did get out of one, and I'd
have got out of others if I could have decently."

"I'm sorry," George said stiffly.  "I'm afraid I've said the wrong
thing."

They both gazed fixedly at the flowing water until Car said, "I must go
back; there's still so much to do," and she straightened herself and
turned.  George turned at the same moment, and there was something in
his eyes that made Car feel that her hurt pride was mere foolish
affectation.

Here they stood, two people who loved each other, in a world in which
life was both short and precarious.

"George," she said, and took a step towards him.

"Car," George cried, "do you mean it?"  But he did not wait for an
answer.

And Tweed, that since the first wild dawn of the world has seen legions
of lovers, flowed unconcernedly on to the sea.




THE END






[End of Jane's Parlour, by Anna Buchan (O. Douglas)]
