“No more. I told you I only knew one song,” sad Robin. “Besides, I came here to dance. Where’s the band?”
Amid laughter, the band arrived on the stage and struck up The Dashing White Sergeant, and Robin, seizing Kate with one hand and an elderly ploughman’s wife with the other, whirled them into the dance, a riotous measure in the course of which each set of three progressed round the room, meeting all the others and exchanging backchat with them at the full pitch of powerful country lungs.
While they sat regaining their breath and an earnest young woman recited: “The Highwayman, by Alfred Noyes,” the shepherd creaked over to their bench and whispered proudly, “I’ve askit the baun’ tae gie ye ane o’ thae modderrun dances, a fox-step, for the next.”
“Oh, thank you!” murmured Kate, struggling with laughter and lack of breath combined. “How very good of you. And to Robin, when he had tiptoed noisily away again: “We’ll have to do this most superbly, or they’ll be so disappointed.”
“A fox-step,” said Robin thoughtfully. “Well, we can only try, but it sounds difficult. I wonder what the ‘baun’ will play for us?”
It was a little disconcerting to find that the fox-step was apparently in the nature of an exhibition number, and for a little they sat nervously on their bench, unable to bring themselves to take the floor. But the two accordions, loudly playing Phil the Fluter’s Ball as an additional compliment, the grieved look on the shepherd’s weather-beaten face, finally brought them to their feet.
“Come on, some of you, and dance,” said Robin loudly. “You don’t expect us to do it alone?”
“Gie’s a lead, man, an’ we’ll folly ye!” roared some man, bolder than the rest, from the safe shelter of a grove of his companions.
“Right!” said Robin. He put his arm round Kate and swung her into the middle of the floor.
The first step told her not only that he was an exceedingly good dancer, but that their steps matched admirably. Kate forgot the onlookers, forgot the humpy floor, the wheezing, grunting accordions, and danced as she had never danced in her life. Her feet felt as if they had wings attached to them, she followed his intricate steps without trouble, and all the time she was conscious of his hard arm holding her, of her fingers lying in the palm of his other hand, of wishing that they need never stop.
It was a shock when the exhausted band suddenly ceased to play, and they found themselves left standing rather foolishly on the dancing floor. “We’ll go now,” said Robin suddenly. “You’ve had enough of this.” He spoke harshly, and Kate, still caught away by the enchanted rhythm of the dance, to which her heart had not stopped beating or her feet tingling, felt as if she had fallen without warning into a snowdrift. Looking at him, she saw that the frown, deep and straight as a sword-cut, disfigured his forehead, and she sighed. ‘Remembering that he used to dance with her, I suppose,’ she thought resentfully.
“Are you ready to go home? It’s late,” he said more gently.
“Yes, I’m ready,” Kate said in subdued way, and in a minute they had exchanged the heat and dust and clamour of the but for the cool night wind and the sailing moon, remote and small now in the middle of a dark blue arch of sky. The soft air, carrying with it the faint sweet scent of stubble fields, cut corn stalks and dying clover wet with dew, blew refreshingly in their hot faces, there was a stir in the heavy-leaved dark trees.
“Cross with me for dragging you away?” Robin asked in his old half-teasing, half-fond voice, after they had left the hall a mile or two behind.
“Cross? No, I’m not cross. I thought you were.”
“Is that why you’re so quiet? I’ve managed to frighten you?” he said, and added: “Very good for you, Kate.”
“Pig,” said Kate, but she said it drowsily, for her head was nodding already, and presently she slipped lower in her seat and fell asleep in earnest, her head against his arm. Robin, after one look at her, stared straight ahead at the strip of road and hedgerow which leaped into life as the car lights flashed over it. Now that she was sleeping, her thoughts ranging free, and probably far from him, he was more acutely conscious of her than ever before. Even when he had danced with her, feeling the springing vitality of her body against his arm, she had not impressed herself so strongly on him. At first faintly amused by her, finding her good company, it had given him a kind of painful pleasure to trace her fleeting resemblance to Elizabeth Fardell, shown in some impulsive act, some chance word or quick gesture. Now he wanted her company always, he wanted to go on finding her amusing and dear all the rest of his life. A little gloomily he remembered the sixteen years between them; but Kate had never behaved as if he were so much older than her brother, young Grey. She treated all men as if they were both older and younger than herself, from her father to Henry Lockhart . . . . He drove very quietly through Waystoun, and half-way up the Soonhope Drive, stopped the car.
“Kate,” he said, putting an arm round her, “wake up. We’re at Soonhope. Will you walk to the house from here? If I take the car all the way someone’s sure to drag me in for a drink, and I want to get home.”
“Home—to that awful dwarfish MacOstrich,” said Kate drowsily. “I wonder you can bear to call it home. A woman like that would give an Institution feeling to the cosiest cottage.”
With a pang he realised that she was right. There would be no welcome for him at Pennymuir except from the dogs, and perhaps the chill disapproving figure of his housekeeper hovering in the background silently condemning his lateness.
“I must get rid of that woman!” he exclaimed aloud.
“You never will, my poor dear. Someone will have to do it for you,” said Kate, sitting up straight and rubbing her eyes. “Oh, dear, I am so sleepy! What cheerful company I must have been for you, Robin, all the way home. I’m really very sorry.”
“I don’t mind. I was thinking.”
“I’ve been dreaming. I dreamt you were still in London,” said Kate. “And I couldn’t think who was driving me about the country. Even in my dreams I was worried that it might be Andrew, and Lucy would be cross with him. The result of that horrid man at the hotel, I suppose.”
“Never mind him. Forget all that,” he said. “Now I’m going to walk up the drive with you and see you safely into the house.”
He drew her hand through his arm, and they started, stumbling a little at first in the thick darkness made by the beech-trees.
“So you dreamt I was in London, Kate? What do you think I went up for?” he asked. He was paving the way, leading up to what he wanted to say to her: that he was free of his love for Elizabeth, had done what he felt was the only decent thing he could do, and was finished with it. Would Kate understand that he wasn’t really fickle? That his love for Elizabeth, though true enough, had been woven of dream-fabric, unable to stand the wear and tear of everyday life, grown out of a desire for what he could not possess . . . In his rather blundering fashion he imagined that Kate would realize what he was driving at, and he was taken by the little quiver of distress in her voice as she said: “If what old Mrs. Milligan was hinting is true, you went to see Mrs. Fardell.”
“Damn that old woman!” he said uneasily. “She never utters a word that isn’t poisonous.” For of course he had not expected this, and it made his next remark take on a meaning which sounded more misleading than he guessed.
“Yes. I went to see Elizabeth.” They were very near the door now, and Kate was pressing on as if in a hurry to be in. He held her back, gently enough, but firmly, while he continued. “She’s getting her divorce—or rather, Fardell’s getting his, and though the decree nisi is through, I only heard of it the other day—just before I went up to town. I—I asked her to marry me, Kate.”
“Yes?” Kate sounded breathless, as though she had been running, and they were at the door. Her foot was on the lowest step.
“She refused me,” he ended rather lamely, worried by her manner. And he was still more worried when she cried, softly but with a kind of rage in her voice: “S
he refused you? Oh, Robin, poor, poor Robin, I’m so sorry! And it was all the sweeter of you to take me out this evening, and I have loved it, but now I’m so—so awfully tired, I must go in!”
Indeed, she was perilously near to tears. It was bad enough to be reminded of how much he loved this woman who cared for no one but Andrew: so much that he had gone at once to London to ask her to marry him when he had heard she was divorced; but to be expected to sympathize with him was more than she could bear after the lovely evening which she had enjoyed so much in spite of the after-dinner contretemps. She must be alone to pull herself together. So: “What can I say, Robin?” she repeated piteously. ‘Except that I am—was afraid this might happen, and I—I’m so very sorry!”
She ran up the steps, pushed the door, which fortunately for her, yielded at once, and next moment was inside the darkened house, pushing home the bolts, turning the key as if afraid that he might follow her in.
5
Kate woke next morning heavy-headed, with a dismal feeling of having failed Robin when he needed her help and comfort. This was not lessened by the sound of rain falling steadily out of low grey skies which looked as it they could go on weeping for days on end. Going down to breakfast, she found the others hardly more cheerful. Henry, moping over his porridge, was already in the depths of woe at thought of his approaching parting with Virginia and the fear that his beloved would be miserable in his absence. Anne and Adam, who had been looking forward for days to playing in a tennis tournament at Charteris, which the rain had now obviously made impossible, ate in mournful silence. Those two ancient enemies, Cousin Charlotte and Great-Uncle Henry, indulged in gloomy prophecies as to the practical certainty of a World War which would instantly annihilate the entire civilian population, breaking out at any moment; while Lucy, in a state of tense annoyance aggravated by their croaking, frowned alternately at the silver teapot, on which were several smeary fingerprints, and the small fire which she had ordered to be lighted, and which was fulfilling Florence’s fears by smoking gustily. The only person who seemed in her usual mood of quiet content was Mrs. Barlas, and Kate suddenly loved her more than ever as she smiled back at the peaceful blue-eyed face. Dear Granny! Always anxious that everyone should be happy, she was looking warningly from her grand-daughter to Lucy as if to say: “Look out for squalls.”
Andrew, entering the dining-room in unsuspecting good spirits, brought the smouldering embers of several tempers to a blaze.
“Good morning, everyone. Sorry to be late, but I had to dash up to the farm and see the grieve,” he said. “Lucy, my dear, your fire’s smoking.”
“So I see,” said Lucy with a baleful glance which should have extinguished the fire at once.
“Any news?” he added cheerfully, clattering the lids of various dishes on the hot-plate. “I suppose some of you have seen the morning papers by now?”
“I am sure that either Cousin Charlotte or Great-Uncle Henry will be delighted to tell you all the gloomiest bits of news,” said Lucy, filling his cup with cold tea and forgetting to add any sugar. “Personally, as I have several things to do and have already been treated to a résumé of all the horrors, I must ask you all to excuse me. Henry, stop being idiotic about that dog and come with me to look at your navy-blue shorts. They seem to me to be far too small for you.” She rose and left the room, shutting the door with a furious gentleness infinitely more alarming than a mere bang.
“Dear me!” murmured Andrew mildly as he brought a plate of kidney and bacon to his place. “Something seems to have upset Lucy?”
“Apparently,” said Great-Uncle Henry with tremulous dignity, rising and twisting his table-napkin as if he were wringing someone’s neck. “Apparently the mere presence of Charlotte and myself, far more our innocently expressed opinions, seems to be sufficient to upset Lucy. That being so, I propose to return to Edinburgh this morning, Andrew. I believe there is a train at eleven-fourteen from Haystoun. I don’t know what Charlotte intends to do, but for myself, I certainly cannot stay in a house where my hostess so obviously resents my presence.”
“I quite agree with you, Henry. I shall travel to Edinburgh by the same train,” exclaimed Cousin Charlotte, also getting up.
“This is very sudden,” said Andrew, still unperturbed in appearance at least. “Adam, open the door for Cousin Charlotte. There’s no necessity for you to forget your manners because your tennis-party has fallen through. Anne, go and tell your mother that Cousin Charlotte and Great-Uncle Henry are leaving almost at once.” And as the four, a little disconcerted, went from the dining-room in a body: “Give me a cup of hot tea, will you, Kate?” Andrew continued. “And if there’s none, ring the bell.”
Kate, her own troubles momentarily forgotten in an increasing amusement, rang the bell, and sat down again beside her grandmother, who was still eating toast and marmalade.
The door flew open and Lucy came in. “Andrew! What’s this I hear?” she cried.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, my dear,” said Andrew. “Oh, Nina”—as the table-maid hovered in the background expectantly. “Make me some fresh tea, please, and not too weak.”
Lucy waited, fuming, until the maid had gone, and Andrew placidly ate kidney and bacon.
“Anne came to me with an absurd tale about Cousin Charlotte and old Henry,” she burst out, as he said nothing. “She said that they were leaving this morning. Is it true?”
“Perfectly, unless they change their minds,” said Andrew. “But they not only announced that they were going, but mentioned a train. The eleven-fourteen, I think it was.”
“But what happened?” almost screamed Lucy. “Don’t sit there eating as if nothing had happened! Tell me at once why they’re going. You must have offended them somehow.”
“On the contrary, I haven’t spoken to either of to say good-morning,” answered Andrew. “And as you find them so much on your nerves, Lucy, why worry? Let ’em go. You’ve wanted to get rid of them since they came, and now it’s being handed to you on a plate.”
Kate trembled for Lucy’s self-control, but she said quite quietly: “You know very well I didn’t want them to go like this, in a rage. Are you sure you didn’t annoy them? I want to know.”
“Absolutely certain,” said Andrew. “Ah, here’s my tea. Thank you, Nina. Do you mind pouring out a cup for me, Kate? There’s nothing I dislike more than half-cold tea. No, Lucy my dear, if you must know, it’s you who have annoyed them, tiresome old reptiles. They resented your remark about the news, it seems, and to such a degree that they are, for once, in beautiful accord with each other. I fancy it’s been boiling up for some time, and this was the climax.”
Lucy subsided limply into a chair. “And you can sit there and eat,” she said in deep reproach.
“Well, I see no reason for going without my breakfast. You’ve had yours, and I’m dashed hungry after being out.”
Lucy sprang up again and began to walk about the room. “Andrew, you must go and apologize—for me, of course!” she added impatiently, as he shook his head. “They musn’t leave like this.”
“Not I,” said Andrew. “They’re better away. As it is, we never know from one hour to the next when there’s going to be an explosion, and I’d like a little peace in the house for a change. I won’t do anything so ridiculous as you suggest, and if you’re wise, neither will you.”
“But—” began Lucy.
“Andrew is right, Lucy,” said Mrs. Barlas, speaking for the first time. “They must go if they wish. I don’t suppose Henry will bear malice for long, and Charlotte will come round quite soon enough. Just say good-bye to them, and don’t attempt any explanations or apologies. It’s always a mistake.”
“I can see that you’re all against me, even Kate, though she’s so careful to say nothing,” said Lucy bitterly. “If you’d helped me a bit with them I might have been able to keep my temper better. But I suppose you are quite pleased, so they can go, and I hope they will never come back.” She went away, followed after
a moment by Mrs. Barlas who, Kate was sure, would be able to soothe her.
“My God, what a jolly start to the day!” said Andrew, heaving a sigh of mingled relief and exasperation. “Well, I don’t care. I’m going to have some ham.” His expression of defiance as he slashed thin pink and white slices from the home-cured ham made Kate laugh, and at the sound he laughed a little too.
“That’s better,” he said. “I hope the day won’t go on as it’s begun, but with this rain we’ll all be boxed up together in the house, and anything might happen.”
“Anything,” agreed Kate sadly, and they were still staring at each other in a foreboding way when the door was kicked open to admit Henry, who sidled in clutching Virginia.
“Father,” he began at once. “Would you mind very much if I didn’t go back this term? I never learn anything anyway, old Stinky said so in my last report, and I can’t possibly leave Virginia. I was reading about a dog the other day that pined away and died because its master left it behind.”
Virginia lavishly licked his face, already grimy, though the day was comparatively young.
“I’m afraid I would mind a good deal,” said Andrew. “As I’ve paid large sums in advance for your so-called education. And Virginia isn’t such a fool as to pine to death. Here, Virginia, have some ham fat. I’ll look after her myself, Henry, I promise you.”
“It’s not just feeding her and drying her ears when she’s wet,” said Henry in a voice that quavered. “She likes company and walks and being talked to a lot.”
“Well, she’ll get all that with me, I need someone to be friendly company, and you have plenty of that at school, so don’t be selfish, old chap. Lend her to me in term-time. I’d be no end grateful.”
Henry brightened a little. “Oh, in that case,” he said, much more briskly. “If you really need her, Father, of course I’ll lend her to you. That’s different. No more ham, Virginia,” he added sternly. “Come and be brushed.” Virginia, ears and tail hanging down, followed him meekly from the room.
Yoked with a Lamb Page 24
