"The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
Lets in the light through chinks that time has made:
Stronger by weakness wiser men become
As they draw near to their eternal home:
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view
That stand upon the threshold of the new."
EDMUND WALLER.
One day Pamela walked down to Hopetoun to lunch with Mrs. Hope. Augusta
had gone away on a short visit and Pamela had promised to spend as much
time as possible with her mother.
"You won't be here much longer," Mrs. Hope had said, "so spend as much
time with me as you can spare, and we'll talk books and quote poetry,
and," she had finished defiantly, "I'll miscall my neighbours if I feel
inclined."
It was February now, and there was a hint of spring in the air. The sun
was shining as if trying to make up for the days it had missed, the
green shoots were pushing daringly forth, and a mavis in a holly-bush
was chirping loudly and cheerfully. To-morrow they might be plunged back
into winter, the green things nipped and discouraged, the birds
silent--but to-day it was spring.
Pamela lingered by Tweedside listening to the mavis, looking back at
the bridge spanning the river, the church steeple high against the pale
blue sky, the little town pouring its houses down to the water's edge.
Hopetoun Woods were still bare and brown, but soon the larches would get
their pencils, the beeches would unfurl tiny leaves of living green, and
the celandines begin to poke their yellow heads through the carpet of
last year's leaves.
Mrs. Hope was sitting close to the window that looked out on the
Hopetoun Woods. The spring sunshine and the notes of the mavis had
brought to her a rush of memories.
"For what can spring renew
More fiercely for us than the need of you."
Her knitting lay on her lap, a pile of new books stood on the table
beside her, but her hands were idly folded, and she did not look at the
books, did not even notice the sunshine; her eyes were with her heart,
and that was far away across the black dividing sea in the last
resting-places of her three sons. Wild laddies they had been, never at
rest, never out of mischief, and now--"a' quaitit noo in the grave."
She turned to greet her visitor with her usual whimsical smile. She had
grown very fond of Pamela; they were absolutely at ease with each other,
and could enjoy talking, or sitting together in silence.
To-day the conversation was brisk between the two at luncheon. Pamela
had been with Jean to Edinburgh and Glasgow on shopping expeditions, and
Mrs. Hope was keen to hear all about them.
"I could hardly persuade her to go," Pamela said. "Her argument was,
'Why get clothes from Paris if you can get them in Priorsford?' She only
gave in to please me, but she enjoyed herself mightily. We went first to
Edinburgh--my first visit except just waiting a train."
"And weren't you charmed? Edinburgh is our own town, and we are
inordinately proud of it. It's full of steep streets and east winds and
high houses, and you can't move a step without treading on a W.S., but
it's a fine place for all that."
"It's a fairy-tale place to see," Pamela said. "The castle at sunset,
the sudden glimpses of the Forth, Holyrood dreaming in the mist--these
are pictures that will remain with one always. But Glasgow--"
"I know almost nothing of Glasgow," said Mrs. Hope, "but I like the
people that come from it. They are not so devoured by gentility as our
Edinburgh friends; they are more living, more human...."
"Are Edinburgh people very refined?"
"Oh, some of them can hardly see out of their eyes for gentility. I
delight in it myself, though I've never attained to it. I'm told you see
it in its finest flower in the suburbs. A friend of mine was going out
by train to Colinton, and she overheard two girls talking. One said, 'I
was at a dence lest night.' The other, rather condescendingly, replied,
'Oh, really! And who do you dence with out at Colinton?' 'It depends,'
said the first girl. 'Lest night, for instance, I was up to my neck in
advocates.' ... Priorsford's pretty genteel too. You know the really
genteel by the way they say 'Good-bai.' The rest of us who
pride ourselves on not being provincial say--you may have
noticed--'Good-ba--a.'"
Pamela laughed, and said she had noticed the superior accent of
Priorsford.
"Jean and I were much interested in the difference between Edinburgh and
Glasgow shops. Not in the things they sell--the shops in both places are
most excellent--but in the manner of selling. The girls in the Edinburgh
shops are nice and obliging--the war-time manner doesn't seem to have
reached shop-assistants in Scotland, luckily--but quite Londonish with
their manners and their 'Moddom.' In Glasgow, they give one such a
feeling of personal interest. You would really think it mattered to them
what you chose. They delighted Jean by remarking as she tried on a hat,
'My, you look a treat in that!' We bought a great deal more than we
needed, for we hadn't the heart to refuse what was brought with such
enthusiasm. 'I don't know what it is about that hat, but it's awful nice
somehow Distinctive, if you know what I mean. I think when you get it
home you'll like it awful well--' Who would refuse a hat after such a
recommendation?"
"Who indeed! Oh, they're a hearty people. Has Jean got the fur coat she
coveted?"
"She hasn't. It was a great disappointment, poor child. She was so
excited when she saw them being brought in rich profusion, but when she
tried them on all desire to possess one left her: they became her so
ill. They buried her, somehow. She said herself she looked like 'a mouse
under a divot,' whatever that may be, and they really did make her look
like five out of any six women one meets in the street. Fur coats are
very levelling things. Later on when I get her to London we'll see what
can be done. Jean needs careful dressing to bring out that very real but
elusive beauty of hers. I persuaded her in the meantime to get a soft
cloth coat made with a skunk collar and cuffs.... She was so funny about
under-things. I wanted her to get some sets of _crêpe-de-Chine_ things,
but she was adamant. She didn't at all approve of them, and said she
liked under-things that would _boil_. She has always had very dainty
things made by herself; Great-aunt Alison taught her to do beautiful
fine sewing.... Jean is a delightful person to do things with; she
brings such a freshness to everything is never bored, never blasé. I was
glad to see her so deeply interested in new clothes. I confess to having
a deep distrust of a woman who is above trying to make herself
attractive. She is an insufferable thing."
"I quite agree, my dear. A woman deliberately careless of her appearance
is an offence. But, on the other hand, the opposite can be carried too
far. Look at Mrs. Jowett!"
"Oh, dear Mrs. Jowett, with her lace and her delicate, faded tints; and
her tears of sentiment and her marvellous maids!"
"A good woman," said Mrs. Hope, "but silly. She fears a draught more
than she does the devil. I'm always reminded of her when I read _Weir of
Hermiston._ She has many points in common with Mrs. Weir--'a dwaibly
body.' Of the two, I really prefer Mrs. Duff-Whalley. _Her_ great
misfortune was being born a woman. With all that energy and perfect
health, that keen brain and the indomitable strain that never knows when
it is beaten, she might have done almost anything. She might have been a
Lipton or a Coats, or even gone out and discovered the South Pole, or
contested Lloyd George's Welsh seat in the Conservative interest. As a
woman she is cribbed and cabined. What she has set herself to do is to
force what she calls 'The County' to recognise her, and marry off her
girl as well as possible. She has accomplished the first part through
sheer perseverance, and I've no doubt she will accomplish the second;
the girl is pretty and well dowered. I have a liking for the woman,
especially if I haven't seen her for a little. There is some bite in her
conversation. Mrs. Jowett is a sweet woman, but to me she is like a
vacuum cleaner. When I've talked to her for ten minutes my head feels
like a cushion that has been cleaned--a sort of empty, yet swollen
feeling. I never can understand how Mr. Jowett has gone through life
with her and kept his reason. But there's no doubt men like sweet,
sentimental women, and I suppose they are restful in a house.... Shall
we have coffee in the drawing-room? It's cosier."
In the drawing-room they settled down before the fire very contentedly
silent. Pamela idly reached out for a book and read a little here and
there as she sipped her coffee, while her hostess looked into the fire.
The room seemed to dream in the spring sunshine. Generations of Hopes
had lived in it, and each mistress had set her mark on the room.
Beautiful old cabinets stood against the white walls, while beaded
ottomans worked in the early days of Victoria jostled slender
Chippendale chairs and tables. A large comfortable Chesterfield and
down-cushioned arm-chairs gave the comfort moderns ask for. Nothing
looked out of place, for the room with its gracious proportions took all
the incongruities--the family Raeburns, the Queen Anne cabinets, the
miniatures, the Victorian atrocities, the weak water-colour sketches,
the framed photographs of whiskered gentlemen and ladies with bustles,
and made them into one pleasing whole. There is no charm in a room
furnished from showrooms, though it be correct in every detail to the
period chosen. Much more human is the room that is full of things, ugly,
perhaps, in themselves but which link one generation to another. The
ottoman worked so laboriously by a ringleted great-aunt stood with its
ugly mahogany legs beside a Queen Anne chair, over whose faded wool-work
seat a far-off beauty had pricked her dainty fingers--and both of the
workers were Hopes: while by Pamela's side stood a fire-screen stitched
by Augusta, the last of the Hopes. "I wonder," said Mrs. Hope, breaking
the silence, "what has become of Lewis Elliot? I haven't heard from him
since he went away. Do you know where he is just now?"
Pamela shook her head.
"Why don't you marry him, Pamela?"
"For a very good reason--he hasn't asked me."
"Hoots!" said Mrs. Hope, "as if that mattered!"
Pamela lifted her eyebrows. "It is generally considered rather
necessary, isn't it?" she asked mildly.
"You know quite well that he would ask you to-morrow if you gave him the
slightest encouragement The man's afraid of you, that's what's wrong."
Pamela nodded.
"Is that why you have remained Pamela Reston? My dear, men are fools,
and blind. And Lewis is modest as well. But ...forgive me blundering.
I've a long tongue, but you would think at my age I might keep it
still."
"No, I don't mind your knowing. I don't think anyone else ever had a
suspicion of it. And I thought myself I had long since got over it.
Indeed when I came here I was contemplating marrying someone else."
"Tell me, did you know Lewis was here when you came to Priorsford?"
"No--I'd completely lost trace of him. I was too proud ever to inquire
after him when he suddenly gave up coming near us. Priorsford suggested
itself to me as a place to come to for a rest, chiefly, I suppose,
because I had heard of it from Lewis, but I had no thought of seeing
him. Indeed, I had no notion that he had still a connection with the
place. And then Jean suddenly said his name. I knew then I hadn't
forgotten; my heart leapt up in the old unreasonable way. I met him--and
thought he cared for Jean."
"Yes. I used sometimes to wonder why Lewis didn't fall in love with
Jean. Of course he was too old for her, but it would have been quite a
feasible match. Now I know that he cared for you all the time. Oh, I'm
not surprised that he looked at no one else. But that you should have
waited.... There must have been so many suitors...."
"A few. But some people are born faithful. Anyway, I'm so glad that when
I thought he cared for Jean it made no difference in my feelings to her.
I should have felt so humiliated if I had been petty enough to hate her
for what she couldn't help. My brother Biddy wants to marry Jean, and
I've great hopes that it may work out all right."
Mrs. Hope sat forward in her chair.
"I had my suspicions. Jean has changed lately; nothing to take hold of,
but I have felt a difference. It wasn't the money--that's an external
thing--the change was in Jean herself, a certain reticence where there
had been utter frankness; a laugh more frequent, but not quite so gay
and light-hearted. Has he spoken to her?"
"Yes, but Jean wouldn't hear of it."
"Dear me! I could have sworn she cared."
"I think she does, but Jean is proud. What a silly thing pride is!
However, Biddy is very tenacious, and he isn't at all down-hearted about
his rebuff. He's quite sure that Jean and he were meant for each other,
and he has great hopes of convincing Jean. I've never mentioned the
subject to her, she is so tremendously reticent and shy about such
things. I talk about Biddy in a casual way, but if I hadn't known from
Biddy I would have learned from Jean's averted eyes that something had
happened. The child gives herself away every time."
"This, I suppose, happened before the fortune came. What effect will the
money have, I wonder?"
"I wonder too," said Pamela. "Now that Jean feels she has something to
give it may make a difference. I wish she would speak to me about it,
but I can't force her confidence."
"No," said Mrs. Hope. "You can't do that. As you say, Jean is very
reticent. I think I'm rather hurt that she hasn't confided in me. She is
almost like my own.... She was a little child when the news came that
Sandy, my youngest boy, was gone.... I'm reticent too, and I couldn't
mention his name, or speak about my sorrow, and Jean seemed to
understand. She used to garden beside me, and chatter about her baby
affairs, and ask me questions, and I sometimes thought she saved my
reason...."
Pamela sat silent. It was well known that no one dared mention her sons'
names to Mrs. Hope. Figuratively she removed her shoes from off her
feet, for she felt that it was holy ground.
Mrs. Hope went on. "I dare say you have heard about--my boys. They all
died within three years, and Augusta and I were left alone. Generally I
get along, but to-day--perhaps because it is the first spring day, and
they were so young and full of promise--it seems as if I must speak
about them. Do you mind?"
Pamela took the hand that lay on the black silk lap and kissed it. "Ah,
my dear," she said.
"Archie was my eldest son. His father and I dreamed dreams about him.
They came true, though not in the way we would have chosen. He went into
the Indian Civil Service--the Hopes were always a far-wandering
race--and he gave his life fighting famine in his district.... And Jock
would be nothing but a soldier--_my_ Jock with his warm heart and his
sudden rages and his passion for animals! (Jock Jardine reminds me of
him just a little.) There never was anyone more lovable and he was
killed in a Frontier raid--two in a year. Their father was gone, and for
that I was, thankful; one can bear sorrow oneself, but it is terrible to
see others suffer. Augusta was a rock in a weary land to me; nobody
knows what Augusta is but her mother. We had Sandy, our baby, left, and
we managed to go on. But Sandy was a soldier too, and when the Boer War
broke out, of course he had to go. I knew when I said good-bye to him
that whoever came back it wouldn't be my laddie. He was too
shining-eyed, too much all that was young and innocent and brave to win
through.... Archie and Jock were men, capable, well equipped to fight
the world, but Sandy was our baby--he was only twenty.... Of all the
things the dead possessed it is the thought of their gentleness that
breaks the heart. You can think of their qualities of brain and heart
and be proud, but when you think of their gentleness and their youth you
can only weep and weep. I think our hearts broke--Augusta's and
mine--when Sandy went.... He had been, they told us later, the life of
his company. His spirits never went down. It was early morning, and he
was singing 'Annie Laurie' when the bullet killed him--like a lark shot
down in the sun-rising.... His great friend came to see us when
everything was over. He was a very honest fellow, and couldn't have made
up things to tell us if he had tried. He sat and racked his brains for
details, for he saw that we hungered and thirsted for anything. At last
he said, 'Sandy was a funny fellow. If you left a cake near him he ate
all the currants out of it.' ... My little boy, my little, _little_ boy!
I don't know why I should cry. We had him for twenty years. Stir the
fire, will you, Pamela, and put on a log--I don't like it when it gets
dull. Old people need a blaze even when the sun is outside."
"You mustn't say you are old," Pamela said, as she threw on a log and
swept the hearth, shading her eyes, smarting with tears, from the blaze.
"You must stay with Augusta for a long time. Think how everyone would
miss you. Priorsford wouldn't be Priorsford without you."
"Priorsford would never look over its shoulder. Augusta would miss me,
yes, and some of the poor folk, but I've too ill-scrapit a tongue to be
much liked. Sorrow ought to make people more tender, but it made my
tongue bitter. To an unregenerate person with an aching heart like
myself it is a relief to slash out at the people who annoy one by being
too correct, or too consciously virtuous. I admit it's wrong, but there
it is. I've prayed for charity and discretion, but my tongue always runs
away with me. And I really can't be bothered with those people who never
say an ill word of anyone. It makes conversation as savourless as
porridge without salt. One needn't talk scandal. I hate scandal--but
there is no harm in remarking on the queer ways of your neighbours:
anyone who likes can remark on mine. Even when you are old and done and
waiting for the summons it isn't wrong surely to get amusement out of
the other pilgrims--if you can. Do you know your _Pilgrim's Progress_,
Pamela? Do you remember where Christiana and the others reach the Land
of Beulah? It is the end of the journey, and they have nothing to do but
to wait, while the children go into the King's gardens and gather there
sweet flowers.... It is all true. I know, for I have reached the Land of
Beulah. 'How welcome is death,' says Bunyan, 'to them that have nothing
to do but to die.' For the last twenty-five years the way has been
pretty hard. I've stumbled along very lamely, followed my Lord on
crutches like Mr. Fearing, but now the end is in sight and I can be at
ease. All these years I have never been able to read the letters and
diaries of my boys--they tore my very heart--but now I can read them
without tears, and rejoice in having had such sons to give. I used to be
tortured by dreams of them, when I thought I held them and spoke to
them, and woke to weep in agony, but now when they come to me I can wake
and smile, satisfied that very soon they will be mine again. Sorrow is a
wonderful thing. It shatters this old earth, but it makes a new heaven.
I can thank God now for taking my boys. Augusta is a saint and
acquiesced from the first, but I was rebellious. I see that Heaven and
myself had part in my boys; now Heaven has all, and all the better is it
for the boys. I hope God will forgive my bitterness, and all the grief I
have given with words. 'No suffering is for the present joyous
... nevertheless afterwards....' When the Great War broke out and the
terrible casualty lists became longer and longer, and 'with rue our
hearts were laden,' I found some of the 'peaceable fruits' we are
promised. I found I could go without impertinence into the house of
mourning, even when I hardly knew the people, and ask them to let me
share their grief, and I think sometimes I was able to help just a
little."
"I know how you helped," said Pamela; "the Macdonalds told me. Do you
know, I think I envy you. You have suffered much, but you have loved
much. Your life has meant something. Looking back I've nothing to think
on but social successes that now seem very small and foolish, and years
of dressing and talking and dancing and laughing. My life seems like a
brightly coloured bubble--as light and as useless."
"Not useless. We need the flowers and the butterflies and the things
that adorn.... I wish Jean would give herself over to pleasure for a
little. Her poor little head is full of schemes--quite practical schemes
they are too, she has a shrewd head--about helping others. I tell her
she will do it all in good time, but I want her to forget the woes of
the world for a little and rejoice in her youth."
"I know," said Pamela. "I was astonished to find how responsible she
felt for the misery in the world. She is determined to build a heaven in
hell's despair! It reminds one of Saint Theresa setting out holding her
little brother's hand to convert the Moors!... Now I've stayed too long
and tired you, and Augusta will have me assassinated. Thank you, my very
dear lady, for letting me come to see you, and for--telling me about
your sons. Bless you...."