"Pray you, sir, how much carnation ribbon, may a man buy for a
remuneration?"--_Comedy of Errors_.
The living-room at The Rigs was the stage of many plays. Its uses ranged
from the tent of a ménagerie or the wigwam of an Indian brave to the
Forest of Arden.
This December night it was a "wood near Athens," and to Mhor, if to no
one else, it faithfully represented the original. That true Elizabethan
needed no aids to his imagination. "This is a wood," said Mhor, and a
wood it was. "Is all our company here?" and to him the wood was peopled
by Quince and Snug, by Bottom the weaver, by Puck and Oberon. Titania
and her court he reluctantly admitted were necessary to the play, but he
did not try to visualise them, regarding them privately as blots. The
love-scenes between Hermia and Lysander, Helena and Demetrius, were
omitted, because Jock said they were "_awful_ silly."
It was Friday evening, so Jock had put off learning his lessons till the
next day, and, as Bully Bottom, was calling over the names of his cast.
"Are we all met?"
"Pat, pat," said Mhor, who combined in his person all the other parts,
"and here's a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal; this green
plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn brake our tiring-house; and we
will do it in action as we will do it before the duke."
Pamela Reston, in her usual place, the corner of the sofa beside the
fire, threaded her needle with a bright silk thread, and watched the
players amusedly.
"Did you ever think," she asked Jean, who sat on a footstool beside
her--a glowing figure in a Chinese coat given her by Pamela, engaged
rather incongruously in darning one of Jock's stockings--"did you ever
think what it must have been like to see a Shakespeare play for the
first time? Was the Globe filled, I wonder, with a quite unexpectant
first night audience? And did they realise that the words they heard
were deathless words? Imagine hearing for the first time:
'When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver
white....'
and then--'The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.'
Did you ever try to write, Jean?"
"Pamela," said Jean, "if you drop from Shakespeare to me in that sudden
way you'll be dizzy. I have thought of writing and trying to give a
truthful picture of Scottish life--a cross between _Drumtochty_ and _The
House with the Green Shutters_--but I'm sure I shall never do it. And if
by any chance I did accomplish it, it would probably be reviewed as a
'feebly written story of life in a Scots provincial town,' and then I
would beat my pen into a hatpin and retire from the literary arena. I
wonder how critics can bear to do it. I couldn't sleep at nights for
thinking of my victims--"
"You sentimental little absurdity! It wouldn't be honest to praise poor
work."
Jean shook her head. "They could always be a little kind ... Pamela, I
love myself in this coat. You can't think what a delight colours are to
me." She stopped, and then said shyly, "You have brought colour into all
our lives. I can see now how drab they were before you came."
"Oh dear, no, Jean, your life was never drab. It could never be drab
whatever your circumstances, you have so much happiness within yourself.
I don't think anything in life could ever quite down you, and even
death--what of death, Jean?"
Jean looked up from her stocking. "As Boswell said to Dr. Johnson, 'What
of death, Sir?' and the great man was so angry that the little
twittering genius should ask lightly of such a terrifying thing that he
barked at him and frightened him out of the room! I suppose the ordinary
thing is never to think about death at all, to keep the thought pushed
away. But that makes people so _afraid_ of it. It's such a bogey to
them. The Puritans went to the other extreme and dressed themselves in
their grave-clothes every day. Wasn't it Samuel Rutherford who advised
people to 'forefancy their latter end'? I think that's where Great-aunt
Alison got the idea; she certainly made us 'forefancy' ours! But apart
from what death may mean to each of us--life itself gets all its meaning
from death. If we didn't know that we had all to die we could hardly go
on living, could we?"
"Well," said Pamela, "it would certainly be difficult to bear with
people if their presence and our own were not utterly uncertain. And if
we knew with surety when we rose in the morning that for another forty
years we would go on getting up, and having a bath and dressing, we
would be apt to expire with ennui. We rise with alacrity because we
don't know if we shall ever put our clothes on again."
Jean gave a little jump of expectation. "It's frightfully interesting.
You never do know when you get up in the morning what will happen before
night."
"Most people find that a little wearing. It isn't always nice things
that happen, Jean."
"Not always, of course, but far more nice things than nasty ones."
"Jean, I'm afraid you're a chirping optimist. You'll reduce me to the
depths of depression if you insist on being so bright. Rather help me to
rail against fate, and so cheer me."
"Do you realise that Davie will be home next week?" said Jean, as if
that were reason enough for any amount of optimism. "I think, on the
whole, he has enjoyed his first term, but he was pretty homesick at
first. He never actually said so, but he told us in one letter that he
smelt the tea when he made it, for it was the one thing that reminded
him of home. And another time he spoke with passionate dislike of the
pollarded trees, because such things are unknown on Tweedside. I'm so
glad he has made quite a lot of friends. I was afraid he might be so shy
and unforthcoming that he would put people off, but he writes
enthusiastically about the men he is with. It is good for him to be made
to leave his work, and play games; he is keen about his footer and they
think he will row well! The man who has rooms on the same staircase
seems a very good sort. I forget who he is--it's quite a well-known
family--but he has been uncommonly kind to Davie. He wants him to go
home with him next week, but of course Davie is keen to get back to
Priorsford. Besides, you can't visit the stately homes of England on
thirty shillings, and that's about Davie's limit, dear lamb! Jock and
Mhor are looking forward with joy to hear him speak. They expect his
accent to have suffered an Oxford change, and Jock doesn't think he will
be able to remain in the room with him and not laugh."
"I expect Jock will be 'affronted,'" said Pamela. "But you aren't the
only one who is expecting a brother, Jean, girl. Any moment I may hear
that Biddy is in London. He wired from Port Said that he would come
straight to Priorsford. I wonder whether I should take rooms for him in
the Hydro, or in one of these nice old hotels in the Nethergate? I wish
I could crush him into Hillview, but there isn't any room, alas!"
"I wish," said Jean, and stopped. She had wanted in her hospitable way
to say that Pamela's brother must come to The Rigs, but she checked the
impulse with a fear that it was an absurd proposal. She was immensely
interested in this brother of Pamela's. All she had heard of him
appealed to her imagination, for Jean, cumbered as she was with domestic
cares, had an adventurous spirit, and thrilled to hear of the perils of
the mountains, the treks behind the ranges for something hidden, all the
daring escapades of an adventure-loving young man with time and money at
his disposal. She had made a hero of Pamela's "Biddy," but now that she
was to see him she shrank from the meeting. Suppose he were a
supercilious sort of person who would be bored with the little town and
the people in it. And the fact that he had a title complicated matters,
Jean thought. She could not imagine herself talking naturally to Lord
Bidborough. Besides, she thought, she didn't know in the least how to
talk to men; she so seldom met any.
"I expect," she broke out after a silence, "your brother will take you
away?"
"For Christmas, I think," said Pamela, "but I shall come back again. Do
you realise that I've been here two months, Jean?"
"Does it seem so short to you?"
"In a way it does; the days have passed so pleasantly. And yet I seem to
have been here all my life; I feel so much a part of Priorsford, so akin
to the people in it. It must be the Border blood in my veins. My mother
loved her own country dearly. I have heard my aunt say that she never
felt at home at Bidborough or Mintern Abbas. I am sure she would have
wanted us to know her Scots home, so Biddy and I are going to
Champertoun for Christmas. My mother had no brothers, and everything
went to a distant cousin. He and his wife seem friendly people and they
urge us to visit them."
"That will mean a lovely Christmas for you," Jean said.
Here Mhor stopped being an Athenian reveller to ask that the sofa might
be pushed back. The scene was now the palace of Theseus, and Mhor, as
the Prologue, was addressing an imaginary audience with--"Gentles,
perchance you wonder at this show."
Pamela and Jean removed themselves to the window-seat and listened while
Jock, covered with an old skin rug, gave a realistic presentment of the
Lion, that very gentle beast, and of a good conscience.
The 'tedious brief' scene was drawing to an end, when the door opened
and Mrs. M'Cosh, with a scared look in her eyes and an excited squeak in
her voice, announced, "Lord Bidborough."
A slim, dark young man stood in the doorway, regarding the dishevelled
room. Jock and Mhor were still writhing on the floor, the chairs were
pushed anyway, Pamela's embroidery frame had alighted on the bureau, the
rugs were pulled here and there.
Pamela gave a cry and rushed at her brother, forgetting everything in
the joy of seeing him. Then, remembering her hostess, she turned to
Jean, who still sat on the window-seat, her face flushed and her eyes
dark with excitement, the blood-red mandarin's coat with its embroidery
of blue and mauve and gold vivid against the dark curtains, and said,
"Jean, this is Biddy!"
Jean stood up and held out a shy hand.
"And this is Jock--and Mhor!"
"Having a great game, aren't you?" said the newcomer.
"Not a game," Mhor corrected him, "a play, _Midsummer Night's Dream_."
"No, are you? I once played in it at the O.U.D.S. I wanted to be Bully
Bottom, but I wasn't much good, so they made me Snug the joiner. I
remember the man who played Puck was a wonder, about as light on his
feet and as swift as the real Puck. A jolly play."
"Biddy," said his sister, "why didn't you wire to me? I have taken no
rooms."
"Oh, that's all right--a porter at the station, a most awfully nice
chap, put me into a sort of fly and sent me to one of the hotels--a
jolly good little inn it is--and they can put me up. Then I asked for
Hillview, mentioning the witching name of Miss Bella Bathgate, and they
sent a boy with me to find the place. Miss Bathgate sent me on here.
Beautifully managed, you see."
He smiled lazily at his sister, who cried:
"The same casual old Biddy! What about dinner?"
"Mayn't I feed with you? I think Miss Bathgate would like me to. And I'm
devoted to stewed beef and carrots. After cold storage food it will be a
most welcome change. But," turning to Jean, "please forgive me arriving
on you like this, and discussing board and lodgings. It's the most
frightful cheek on my part, but, you see, Pam's letters have made me so
well acquainted with The Rigs and everyone in it that I'm afraid I don't
feel the need of ceremony."
"We wouldn't know what to do with ceremony here," said Jean. "But I do
wish the room had been tidier. You will get a bad impression of our
habits--and we are really quite neat as a rule. Jock, take that rug back
to Mrs. M'Cosh and put the sofa right. And, Mhor, do wash your face;
you've got it all smeared with black."
As Jean spoke she moved about, putting things to rights, lifting
cushions, brightening the fire, brushing away fallen cinders.
"That's better. Now don't stand about so uncomfortably Pamela, sit in
your corner; and this is a really comfortable chair, Lord Bidborough."
"I want to look at the books, if I may," said Lord Bidborough. "It's
always the first thing I do in a room. You have a fine collection here."
"They are nearly all my father's books," Jean explained. "We don't add
to them, except, of course, on birthdays and at Christmas, and never
valuable books."
"You have some very rare books--this, for instance."
"Yes. Father treasured that--and have you seen this?"
They browsed among the books for a little, and Jean, turning to Pamela,
said, "I remember the first time you came to see us you did this, too,
walked about and looked at the books."
"I remember," said Pamela; "history repeats itself."
Lord Bidborough stopped before a shelf. "This is a catholic selection."
"Those are my favourite books," said Jean--"modern books, I mean."
"I see." He went along the shelf, naming each book as he came to it.
"_The Long Roll_ and _Cease Firing_. Two great books. I should like to
read them again now."
"Now one could read them," said Jean. "Through the War I tried to, but I
had to stop. The writing was too good--too graphic, somehow...."
"Yes, it would be too poignant.... _John Splendid_. I read that one
autumn in Argyle--slowly--about two chapters a day, making it last as
long as I could."
"Isn't it fine?" said Jean. "John Splendid, who never spoke the truth
except to an enemy! Do you remember the scene with the blind widow of
Glencoe? And John Splendid was so gallant and tactful: 'dim in the
sight,' he called her, for he wouldn't say 'blind'; and then was
terrified when he heard that plague had been in the house, and would
have left without touching the outstretched hand, and Gordon, the
harsh-mannered minister, took it and kissed it, and the blind woman
cried, 'O Clan Campbell, I'll never call ye down--ye may have the guile
they claim for ye, but ye have the way with a woman's heart,' and poor
John Splendid went out covered with shame."
Jean's eyes were shining, and she had forgotten to be awkward and
tongue-tied.
"I remember," said Lord Bidborough. "And the wonderful descriptions--'I
know corries in Argyle that whisper silken' ... do you remember that?
And the last scene of all when John Splendid rides away?"
"Do you cry over books, Jean?" Pamela asked. She was sitting on the end
of the sofa, her embroidery frame in her hand and her cloak on, ready to
go when her brother had finished looking at Jean's treasures.
Jean shook her head. "Not often. Great-aunt Alison said it was the sign
of a feeble mind to waste tears over fiction, but I have cried. Do you
remember the end of _The Mill on the Floss_? Tom and Maggie have been
estranged, and the flood comes, and Tom goes to save Maggie. He is
rowing when he sees the great mill machinery sweeping down on them, and
he takes Maggie's hand, and calls her the name he had used when they
were happy children together--'_Magsie_!'"
Pamela nodded. "Nothing appeals to you so much as family affection,
Jean, girl. What have you got now, Biddy? _Nelly's Teachers_?"
"Oh, that," said Jean, getting pink--"that's a book I had when I was a
child, and I still like it so much that I read it through every year."
"Oh, Jean, you babe!" Pamela cried. "Can you actually still read
goody-goody girls' stories?"
"Yes," said Jean defiantly, "and enjoy them too."
"And why not?" asked Lord Bidborough. "I enjoy _Huckleberry Finn_ as
much now as I did when I was twelve; and I often yearn after the books I
had as a boy and never see now. I used to lie on my face poring over
them. _The Clipper of the Clouds_, and _Sir Ludar_, and a fairy story
called _Rigmarole in Search of a Soul_, which, I remember, was quite
beautiful, but can't lay hands on anywhere."
Jean looked at him gratefully, and thought to herself that he wasn't
going to be a terrifying person after all. For his age--Jean knew that
he was thirty-five, and had expected something much more mature--he
seemed oddly boyish. He had an expectant young look in his eyes, as if
he were always waiting for some chance of adventure to turn up, and
there were humorous lines about his mouth which seemed to say that he
found the world a very funny place, and was exceedingly well amused.
He certainly seemed very much at home at The Rigs, fondling the rare old
books with the hands of a book lover, inspecting the coloured prints,
chaffing Jock and Mhor, who fawned round him like two puppy dogs. Peter
had at once made friends with him, and Mrs. M'Cosh, coming into the room
on some errand, edged her way out backwards, her eyes fixed on the
newcomer with an approving stare. As she told Jean later: "For a' Andra
pit me against lords, I canna see muckle wrang wi' this yin. A rale
pleasant fellow I tak' him to be, lord or no lord. If they were a' like
him, we wudna need to be Socialists. It's queer I've aye hed a hankerin'
after thae high-born kinna folk. It's that interestin' to watch them. Ye
niver ken whit they'll dae next, or whit they'll say--they're that
audacious. We wud mak' an awfu' dull warld o' it if we pit them a' awa
to Ameriky or somewhere. I often tell't Andra that, but he said it wud
be a guid riddance ... I'm wonderin' what Bella Bathgate thinks o' him.
It'll be great to hear her breath on't. She's quite comin' roond to Miss
Reston. She was tellin' me she disna think there's onything veecious
about her, and she's gettin' quite used to her manners."
* * * * *
When Pamela departed with her brother to partake of a dinner cooked by
Miss Bathgate (a somewhat doubtful pleasure), Mhor went off to bed, and
Jock curled himself up on the sofa with Peter, for his Friday night's
extra hour with a story-book, while Jean resumed her darning of
stockings.
Her thoughts were full of the sister and brother who had just left.
"Queer they are!" she thought to herself. "If Davie came back to me
after a year in India, I wouldn't have liked to meet him in somebody
else's house. But they seemed quite happy to look at books, and talk
about just anything and play with Jock and Mhor and tease Peter. Now I
expect they'll be talking about their own affairs, but I would have
rushed at the pleasure of hearing all about everything--I couldn't have
waited. Pamela has such a leisured air about everything she does. It's
nice and sort of aloof and quiet--but I could never attain to it. I'm
little and bustling and Martha-like."
Here Jean sighed, and put her fingers through a large hole in the toe of
a stocking.
"I'm only fit to keep house and darn and worry the boys about washing
their ears.... Anyway, I'm glad I had on my Chinese coat."