There Will Come A Stranger (13 page)

Anxiously, on her way to put the ducklings in the oven, she wondered which of the young ladies was most likely to be Master John
’
s Intended? Had he said the married one was to have the best room just because she was a married lady, or because she was the special one? Was she a widow? Surely he would never take up with anyone that had been divorced?
...
They both seemed real nice, and they had a pleasant way with them, but for all that Janet sighed. Nobody on this earth would be good enough for Master John!

The bedrooms had solid, comfortable furniture,
well-kept
and shining. Each had an armchair covered in chintz, charmingly old-fashioned, patterned in roses tied in bunches with blue ribbons. The curtains and the valances on the beds were of the same chintz. On the marble-topped washstands were rose-patterned china basins, each containing a gleaming brass can filled with very hot water, and covered with a padded cosy to keep its contents warm.

“Just look at this!” said Valerie.

“It
’
s
charming
,”
said Vivian, “but I shall feel guilty every time I wash, thinking of all the work for Lizzie!”

“Couldn
’
t we empty the slops ourselves?”

“We could—but can you picture Janet
’
s affronted face if she should catch us at it!”

Laughing, Valerie went to her own room to unpack, but Vivian delayed a little. Both rooms faced the river, but hers, a corner one, had a second window looking westward, over a walled garden, and beyond it up the valley. Sitting on the wide cushioned seat set by this second window in the thickness of the wall, she lingered, looking out with a contented heart into the pale, pure light of the northern spring. She saw the garden in its sheltering walls, sloping to catch every glint of sun; a field; a fir wood; far hills painted in a frieze of blue against the sky, and above all the river, flowing on its way.

Always she had thought how lovely it would be to live within sound of a river! Janet had shut the windows. Vivian raised the lower sash of the one beside her, and at once the room was full of rushing music.

How Pete would love it all! she thought, pierced by the familiar pang of loneliness. Then in her wistful musing she was pulled up with a jerk, as suddenly she found herself wondering whether she was right. For Pete had loved a world of gaiety and action. He had enjoyed travel and change of scene, “going places”, meeting old friends, making new ones. No—Pete would not have loved this quiet valley, where the chief changes were those made by the cycle of the seasons, and the most important happenings those in human hearts. He would have agreed enthusiastically that it was pretty, though for his part he preferred scenery on a more spectacular scale. But he would have wanted to be off as soon as possible to some more “amusing” place of comings and goings, entertaining, witty conversation, plenty of gay company and hustle.

How I must have changed! thought Vivian, amazed. Only two years ago, or less, she had imagined she could enjoy nothing better than the full; gay life she shared with Pete. Yet now she realized it might be possible to find a deeper satisfaction in an uneventful life, filled to the brim with little, unimportant, happy things: finding the first primrose in a sheltered
corner
of a river bank, gardening, stirring the Christmas puddings, driving to do the marketing in some little country town, taking the dogs out for long walks over the hills, drawing the curtains to shut out the wintry dusk, then settling down to spend a peaceful evening with a book, or sewing, while the wind roared in the chimneys, and the leaping flames sent shadows dancing up and down the walls, and every now and then one looked up to exchange a glance of smiling silent understanding with a companion who was sharing one
’
s content
...

How Pete would have hated all these things! How bored he would have been with such an evening—her darling Pete, with all his zest for laughter and gay company and coming here and going there
...

They
’
d been so close, so much a part of one another, she and Pete, enjoying the same way of life, liking the same people, sharing the same enthusiasms! And now for the first time she saw what must inevitably happen—had indeed begun to happen: saw that as the years went by she must become a different woman, a woman with maturing interests and tastes: while Pete would stay for ever young.

Hating the thought, hating herself for thinking it, Vivian was thankful for Valerie
’
s opportune arrival.

“Goodness! Not begun unpacking yet?” Valerie exclaimed, then, having seen her sister
’
s face, she said no more, but shut the window and began unpacking for her.

“Don
’
t you do that! I was just being lazy for a little. Why don
’
t you go and lie down for half an hour, if yours is done?” said Vivian. Leaving the window she began unpacking the dressing case that held her toilet things.

Valerie went on shaking out skirts and laying away jumpers in deep drawers scented with lavender. She had had more than enough of being alone with her own thoughts. Even in these charming new surroundings memories and longings had pursued her, and when Vivian said, “Isn
’
t that
’
a glorious view from the side window?” she could only think how wonderful it would be if, as she looked out, Rory should come in sight, striding towards her down the river bank, virile and vigorous, keen eyes smiling as they met her own.

At the selfsame time that Valerie and Vivian were unpacking in their rooms at Bieldside, Rory was taking the stairs up to the flat, two steps at a time. He gave one glance at the table where a letter would be lying if one had come for him, but without much hope, for he had almost given up expecting to hear from Valerie. She must have had his letter days ago, and if she had been going to answer it, surely she would have written before now? And yet he could have sworn she would accept his explanation and apology for that disastrous evening
...

Barry looked up from the books and papers spread about the table in the window where he had been working all the afternoon.

“I say, d
’
you realize next week-end will be Easter?”

Rory said indifferently that he supposed it was if Barry said so, but he hadn
’
t thought about it.

“I hadn
’
t either, till I got a letter by the second post from Uncle Henry. The old boy wants me to go there for that week-end.”

Despite his cousinship with Barry, Rory had no
connection with that young man
’
s Uncle Henry, about whom he was a trifle hazy.

“I thought he lived in Scotland?”

“So he does!”

“A deuce of a way to go for about three days!”

“It
’
s in the Borders, just about as near as it can be, for Scotland. And he says he
’
ll pay my fare.”

“Decent of him
!
That does make it rather different.”

“It
’
s a form of bribery,” Barry explained. “He
’
s potty about the R.S.P.C.A. Always getting up things to raise money for
‘
em. Brains Trusts, and Whist Drives, and what nots. This time it
’
s a apparently the tickets aren
’
t going too well. So I gather that he
’
s trying to collect a few to lure the girls along.”

“He must have strange ideas about finances! If he
’
s going to fork out fares for all of them, he might just as well have given the money to the R.S.P.C.A. and done without the dance!”

“Oh, well—I don
’
t suppose he
’
s offering to pay anybody else
’
s fare! He knows I
’
m always broke. And; I
’
m his only nephew, and he has no offspring of his own—could be that he wants to see me
...
I suppose you wouldn
’
t care to come along too? Uncle Henry says that if you do, they will be very glad to put you up. The dance is on the Monday night, but no one would kick up a shindy if you took an extra day—they must be used to it by now!”

Rory said nothing. Hands deep in his trouser pockets, he was staring at the opposite houses, wearing an abstracted expression with which Barry had become all to
o
familiar lately. He was worried about Rory. Not like him to moon about as he
’
d been doing these last weeks, fretting about a girl who hadn
’
t even got the manners to accept his apology for something that was an accident. He said persuasively, “It
’
s lovely country, and they live on the fat of the land. Cream by the gallon
!
And we could fish. And one meets very pleasant people round about.”

Rory shook his head. “No thanks! It
’
s very decent of them to suggest it, but I don
’
t feel in the mood for junketing.”

“All the more reason why you ought to come! It
’
s weeks since you put on a dinner jacket! Do you good to have a bit of fun.”

But Rory would not change his mind, saying that if he came he
’
d be the wettest of
w
et blankets. He would go home for Easter.

After further argument, Barry gave it up as a bad job
.
Being a well brought up young man he wrote without delay to Uncle Henry, saying that he would love to come and stay for Easter, and was sure the dance would be great fun, but that unfortunately Rory
’
s people were expecting him at home.

Then he addressed the envelope to

Henry Ogilvie, Esq.,

Pitmeddo,

Muirkirk, by Lochmavan

and went out and posted it.

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

Vivian
and Valerie had been staying at Bieldside for over a week when one fine morning John suggested over breakfast that they might like to pay a visit to the tweed mill.

They assured him they would like it very much indeed.

“I
’
ll take you round this morning, then. Let
’
s see—I won
’
t go off as usual, directly after breakfast—we
’
ll all set out at ten, instead. Then when you
’
ve had enough of it I
’
ll leave you at McKeggie
’
s to have coffee, while I deal with any urgent letters, and collect you later. Sue, d
’
you feel like coming with us?”

His sister, buttering a piece of toast for four
-
years-old Sally, smilingly shook her head. “I
’
ve been round the mill more times than I can count! And I must do some ironing this morning.”

Sally
’
s brother, a year older than herself, was puzzled by his mother
’
s way of expressing herself.
“
Why
can
’
t you count the number of times that you
’
ve been round it, Mummy? I can count every single time—I went at Christmas and last summer and the Christmas afore that and every time we
’
ve been here since I were a little boy! Can I come with you, Uncle John? I
’
d like to come!”

He was dissuaded by a reminder that Tom Thompson from the farm had said that he would show him where a water ousel had its nest beneath a ruined bridge that spanned the river a little way above the house.

“C
’
n I come, Uncle John? I aren
’
t going to see the nest!” said Sally.

“I
’
d stay at home, if I were you!” her mother told her, “Janet
’
s going to be icing little cakes this morning!”

“Pink ones?”

“I expect so. If you
’
re here she might let you put on some of the cherries.”

Sally decided to postpone her visit to the mill until another time.

Presently, when they went up to get their coats, Valerie smiled to herself as she heard Vivian singing softly in the adjoining room, glad that her sister was enjoying this visit so much. She was enjoying it too, although her heartache over Rory hurt as bitterly as ever. No one could have been a more delightful host than John. He had so arranged matters at the mill that after going there for an hour or two to deal with letters and any other pressing matters, he was free for the remainder of the day to entertain his guests. The weather had been kind, unusually mild and sunny for the time of year, and free from even the usual April showers, so most days he had taken them for a long drive. They were enchanted with the Border countryside, lovelier than ever now that the bare trees were softly misted with the first faint green of spring, and larks were soaring over every field and moor. John had added to the pleasure of their expeditions by telling them old legends of feuds and forays and elop
e
ments. He knew the history of every peel tower, every ruined castle, every moorland cairn for miles around.

They had gone several times for picnics with the children by the river and on the moors. Twice John had taken them to tea with friends; two pleasant cousins had come to dinner, other friends to lunch on Sunday, and on Sunday evening Janet had gone out as usual to see her sister and they had banished Lizzie too, and had a cheerful party in the kitchen, cooking sausages and bacon, while a second course produced by Valerie was hailed with loud acclaim: she had soaked a round flat sponge cake in melted jam and sherry, put on top of it an ice bought yesterday in Muirkirk and frozen extra hard in John
’
s refrigerator, covered the whole in a meringue mixture and popped
i
t for a few minutes in a hot oven.

“Why in the world you
’
re going to learn to cook when you can cook like this already, beats me!” John had told her. She had been pleased, of course. But oh, if it had only been for Rory she had made the delicious sweet—Rory who had had a second helping
—
!

They spent nearly an hour in going round the mill, while John explained the various processes. Though they followed what he said with interest, their minds went wandering from time to time down side tracks.

“Rory would choose that for a suit!” thought Valerie, or, “That
’
s just what Rory would like for an overcoat.”

“So this is where John spends his days,” thought Vivian—and was more interested in John
’
s own little office than in all the intricate machinery he showed them.

When they had seen everything, John told them they must each take home a length of tweed as a memento of their visit. There was so much to choose from that decision was difficult: they were bewildered by the variety of plain tweeds; flecked tweeds, herringbones, innumerable checks; sturdy tweeds for making country coats of ever-lasting wear, tweeds light and fine enough “to be drawn through a curtain ring, if not a wedding ring!” as Valerie put it.

Vivian finally decided on a suit length in an attractive check of green and brown and beige. Valerie was secretly surprised that she should choose it, for though it would look perfect in a setting of fields and moors and woods or in a garden, and would be ideal for country walks, and point-to-points, and shopping in a country town, she would have small occasion to wear it in the life they would lead in London.

Valerie
’
s own choice fell on a lightweight tweed in pale, soft amber that would make a charming frock to wear on sunny days when a cool breeze made something warm desirable. John gave instructions for a length of heavier tweed of the same colour but a different weave to be parcelled up with it, telling her when she protested that they were inseparable, since of course the frock must have its matching coat! Giving them each a pattern of her tweed, he said that he would have the parcels posted off to them in London on the day they left.

Though they could easily have walked the short way to the baker
’
s shop where they were going to have coffee, John took them in the car, saw that they had a table, ordered their coffee and a plate of cakes and biscuits before he left them, saying he would be back in half an hour; the post was fortunately small this morning.

“He
is
nice, isn
’
t he!” Valerie exclaimed, as they watched his tall figure, lithe and well-knit, cross the pavement to the car and drive away.

Vivian made no reply. Somehow she did not feel inclined to speak of John, even to Valerie. Her silence was covered by the arrival of a smiling girl who brought their coffee, followed a moment later by Mrs. McKeggie herself, grey-haired, blue
-
eyed, and rosy. She came to bring a plate of special biscuits, hot from the oven. “Spicy ta
rn
s is what they
’
re called, although I
’
m sure I couldn
’
t tell you why! They
’
ve aye been favourites with Mr. John, ever since he was a wee boy. He bade me bring you some to try!”

They thanked her. Valerie said, “He told us that he always spent his pocket money here!”

“And so he did. Miss Susan too. Peppermint creams were what she fancied, mostly, and she gets them yet, when she comes in! But Edinburgh
rock was what he liked the best, though it was butterscotch he got when he was saving up for Christmas. He said it lasted better!”

Valerie laughed.
“
Vivian, I
’
m going to buy a box of rock for John. Yes, now—my coffee
’
s far too hot to drink yet.”

“Get peppermints for Susan, too, while you
’
re about it.”

Valerie followed Mrs. McKeggie to the counter. Vivian, left alone, sat looking out into the street with absent eyes that did not see the passers-by, the women with their shopping baskets, the farmer striding slow with dog at heel, the children flattening their noses on the toyshop window. She was absorbed by her own thoughts.

She thought how strange it was that though she had been here so short a time, in a way it seemed as though she had known Muirkirk and its neighbourhood, and above all Bieldside, all her life—so utterly at home she felt here, so content!

She had known grander country in her travels, places whose beauty was spectacular—but never any place more lovable than this peaceful countryside of rounded hills, and singing streams, and little friendly farms, and lonely moorland.

She had been a guest in many homes, some of them wealthy and luxurious, some of them outstanding for their pictures, or their sumptuous furnishing, or the originality of their decor. But she had never known a house where she had felt as much at home as at Bieldside: Bieldside, so unpretentious, and in many ways belonging to another era, with its old-fashioned, patterned carpets, and mahogany-encased bath, and mingled furniture of many generations: yet so rich in beauty she had learned to value: beauty of character, serenity of atmosphere.

She had met many people in her life. Among them had been business magnates, politicians, writers; clever people, cultured people, people who were wealthy and of high position. But she had met none that she liked better, none among whom she had felt more at ease than with the friendly, kindly people of this quiet community in the Borders—the people of John
’
s world.

She thought of John himself. She wondered whether he had changed towards her, or whether, in Switzerland, she had imagined he had liked her better than in fact he did, had read more into their relationship than on his side had actually existed
?

That last evening they had spent together in the little inn at Varlet-sur-Montagne, when John, aware that she was feeling guilty of disloyalty to Pete
’
s memory in being able to find happiness he could not share, had told her that, since Pete had loved her, he would want her happiness above all things, Vivian had fancied that perhaps he said it on his own account as well as hers: that he had hoped they might find happiness together.

When weeks had passed without a sign from him, she had decided that she must have been mistaken, only to begin wondering afresh with the arrival of his invitation to Bieldside. But since they had been here he had shown no particular anxiety to be with her alone. There had been no indication that he preferred her company to Valerie
’
s, no sign that he liked one sister better than the other, though in Switzerland it had been herself, always, whom he had sought out. But that might well have been because he saw that Valerie was preoccupied with Rory and his circle.

Just as well, Vivian told herself, that after all she wasn
’
t going to have to face a difficult decision. And yet—and yet—!

Valerie slid into the chair opposite her, saying triumphantly, “Rock for John and peppermints for Susan
—and
French almond rock for you!”

Vivian smiled at her, glad for her pleasure in the novelty of being able to be generous, now that their brothers had reluctantly agreed to pay a rent determined by their lawyers for Hawthorn Lodge, so that she had a little income of her own. “Let
’
s get some for the children,” she suggested.

“Janet, too, and Lizzie. But I thought I
’
d wait for that till you were there to choose!”

They drank their coffee and enjoyed the biscuits, and when John returned he found them chatting with Mrs. McKeggie, while that good lady weighed out chocolates and humbugs for the nursery, fudge for Janet, and for Lizzie fondants, violet and pink and lemon.

Having, put their parcels in the car, the three of them set off on foot to do some shopping on behalf of Susan, who wanted stamps and a refill for her biro, and for Janet, who had given them a list of groceries. As they were emerging from the grocer
’
s John was hailed by an elderly man they had noticed earlier, being towed along by a large masterful Labrador from one lamp-post to the next. He was a stocky, sturdy individual wearing a plus four suit of Lovat tweed, a tweed deerstalker with a few trout flies stuck in the crown, and heavy shoes whose tackets clattered on the pavement.

“Hey, John! Can you spare a moment?”

“As many as you like!” said John, and introduced him to the girls as Mr. Ogilvie.

Having exchanged civilities regarding the weather, and listened with a gratified expression when they told him how much they liked Muirkirk and its neighbourhood, he turned to John. “You
’
re coming to the dance, of course?”

“What dance?”

“Surely you
’
ve seen the bills?”

John said he was afraid he hadn
’
t; somehow he never looked at bills, for if he did they were invariably concerned with something that had taken place last week.