Mrs. Tim of the Regiment

by D. E. Stevenson

  The MacArbin places an eyeglass in his eye, and looks across the table at Mr. Baker as if he were a strange animal which has never been seen before. Guthrie asks what is the joke.

  At this moment Mrs. Loudon gives the signal for departure – she evidently thinks it unsafe to wait until Mr. Baker recovers his breath. Mrs. Falconer, who has got behind-hand in dessert, owing to her story about old Nannie’s nose bag, is still eating an apple.

  ‘Elspeth!’ she exclaims piteously.

  But Elspeth is already at the door, and Mrs. Falconer is obliged to clutch her pochette, and hasten after her fellow females.

  ‘Elspeth is so unobservant,’ she whispers to me as we cross the hall. ‘And it was a Jonathan, too – my favourite kind.’

  In the drawing room there is a moment’s silence and then everybody speaks at once.

  Elsie asks: ‘Whatever were you and Dad laughing at?’

  Mrs. Falconer begins, ‘When us girls were all young – ’

  And Mrs. Loudon says, ‘Poke up the fire, Hester,’ and starts pushing chairs and sofas about with fierce and somewhat misplaced energy.

  I poke up the fire, which incidentally requires no poking, and sit down beside Miss MacArbin. She looks dreamy and peaceful, and I am in need of peace. I feel slightly battered, and my face is stiff with smiling false smiles and hiding real ones.

  ‘Castle Darroch is beautiful,’ I tell her. ‘We had a picnic there one day.’

  ‘But it is very sad,’ she says softly.

  Miss MacArbin interests me in spite of her absence of small talk. Her beauty is almost startling. There is something timid, yet proud, in the carriage of her small, exquisitely shaped head, and her eyes are fiery and dreamy by turns. Why, of course, I tell myself suddenly, she is like a princess in a fairy tale, and I feel glad to think I have found such an exact description of her.

  ‘It is the atmosphere of Castle Darroch that is sad,’ she says, still in that soft silvery voice. ‘So many strange and terrible things have happened there– ’

  ‘I believe I saw a ghost,’ I tell her with a smile.

  Miss MacArbin smiles too, and the smile lights up the wistfulness of her face like a sunbeam. ‘People often see ghosts when they expect to see them,’ she says lightly. ‘Perhaps you had read the story of Seónaid just before you went there. I used to play in the ruins when I was a child, but I never saw a ghost.’

  ‘This was a woman in white,’ I tell her. ‘She was rather like you now I think of it tall and slim with dark hair ’

  She looks at me strangely. ‘I am supposed to be like Seónaid.’ ‘Then you think it was the ghost of Seónaid we saw?’

  ‘How can I tell you? I have never seen one.’

  She does not like the subject, for some reason perhaps it is because she is superstitious and thinks it is unlucky to speak of ghosts. I look at her hands; they are very pretty, with long, tapering fingers she has no engagement ring, so I conclude, reluctantly, that Miss Campbell was wrong in her surmise.

  ‘I think you must have a very interesting life,’ she says suddenly, raising her eyes and looking at me with friendliness. ‘To move about the world as you do, and meet so many different people, must be very interesting.’

  ‘It has its disadvantages.’

  ‘Oh yes, but every kind of life has its disadvantages. You get so deeply in a groove if you go on living for ever and ever in the same place, and it is difficult to get out of a groove. It takes courage. I am rather frightened of people,’ she admits simply.

  ‘People are really very nice.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You would find them so, because you are not thinking of yourself all the time. I think of myself too much.’

  The advent of the men puts a stop to our conversation, and there is a general reshuffle of chairs. This is the worst of a dinner party – or indeed any sort of party – you have no sooner begun to find out a little about your vis-à-vis, and become interested in her personality, than she is snatched away from you.

  Mrs. Loudon suggests bridge, and the cards are produced by Guthrie. A great deal of discussion ensues as to who shall play and who shall sit out.

  Tony comes over to where I am sitting and says, ‘It’s lovely outside, Hester.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to play?’ I ask in surprise, for Tony Morley is known in the regiment as an indomitable bridge player.

  ‘There is a time and a place for everything,’ he replies gravely, ‘and this is neither the time nor the place for bridge.’

  We therefore go outside, and walk up and down the veranda once or twice, and then sit down in a comfortable friendly silence. If Guthrie were my companion he would want me to walk down to the gate and wreck my best shoes on the gravel, but Tony is never thoughtless in small matters.

  It is lovely here, after the heat and chatter of the drawing room –a few faint, rosy clouds linger above the mountains in a band of pale primrose sky, and a single faint star peeps shyly from behind the jagged outline of a ben.

  ‘Pâle étoile du soir – ’ says Tony softly. ‘Do you know that thing, Hester?’

  ‘Yes, and I love it. Why is it that one star is so much more beautiful than many?’

  ‘One woman is much more beautiful than many,’ replies Tony. ‘And so is one flower.’

  This idea would not appeal to Mrs. Loudon, and I give Tony a description of my struggles with my hostess in the flower room. It suddenly seems safer to keep the conversation in a humorous vein.

  ‘I want to take you to Gart-na-Druim some day,’ says Tony suddenly (at least the name sounds like that). ‘Mrs. Loudon wouldn’t mind, would she? It would take us all day. We could lunch there.’

  ‘What is there to see?’ I ask him with interest.

  ‘The Western Sea,’ Tony replies. ‘Small waves lapping softly on white beaches, and small rugged islands and mountains stretching their feet into the sea. It’s like no other place in the world, and you really must have one peep at the Western Sea before you go. What about tomorrow–’

  ‘I think I could. Mrs. Loudon wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘There’s a farm that we used to go to when we were children,’ Tony continues. ‘I would like you to see it. It’s quite a tiny place on the hillside, but it was a sort of Paradise to us. We just ran wild with the farmer’s children spent long days fishing or trekking about the hills. I’d like you to meet Alec – he farms the place himself now that his father is dead.’

  ‘Is it a big farm?’

  ‘Oh no – just a tiny croft and the soil is poor. He ekes out an existence with fishing. I never knew anybody so contented with his lot as Alec Macdonald – he’s always happy. He was with me in the war. I managed to get him into my company and of course he was splendid – I knew he would be. Even in the tightest place – and we were in one or two pretty tight places together – Alec was perfectly calm and cheerful. I always go and see him when I am in this part of the world; he likes talking over old times.’

  The light in the garden is thinning now, the hedges and the trees are lost in gloom, the little white faces of the pansies shine like earthly stars. A moth flies past, and blunders against the lighted window with a dull thump.

  ‘Poor creature,’ says Tony. ‘It wanted to get at the light.’

  ‘The glass saved its life,’ I reply.

  ‘But it wanted to get to the light – don’t you understand, Hester?’

  ‘It would only have singed its wings.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it singe its wings if it wanted to?’ asks Tony earnestly. ‘Don’t you think that one glorious moment when it feels itself at the very heart of its desire is worth a pair of singed wings?’

  Tony is really very puzzling; I never know whether his words have some deep meaning beyond my ken, or whether he is merely talking nonsense on purpose to bewilder me.

  ‘I think it has had a lucky escape,’ I reply sternly, ‘and I hope it has learnt a lesson not to go chasing after lights in that idiotic way.’

  ‘I hope it hasn�
�t,’ says Tony Morley softly.

  There is a little silence. I can just see the gleam of his white shirt front in the darkness and the fitful glow of his cigarette.

  Suddenly Guthrie appears and says they have finished the rubber, and will Tony come and make up another four.

  Tony replies that he is very comfortable where he is, and that he doesn’t much care for bridge. ‘The only bridge worth playing is three-handed bridge,’ he adds didactically.

  Guthrie, surprised and annoyed at this unusual preference, says that most people consider three-handed bridge too much of a gamble.

  ‘That’s what I like about it,’ says Tony, and I can tell he is smiling by the tone of his voice. ‘I like a gamble, and I like to gamble on my own. I like playing every hand myself. Partners are such a bore; they don’t return your lead at the right moment, or they get fed up if you fail to bid in accordance with some twopenny-halfpenny convention.’

  ‘You must be very lucky if you are able to bid for dummy every time,’ Guthrie says, with cold fury.

  Tony replies that he is lucky at cards, but not in love, and heaves a ridiculous sigh. ‘You should not grudge me that poor consolation, Loudon,’ he adds innocently.

  Poor Guthrie turns on his heel, and disappears into the drawing room without another word.

  ‘Got him that time,’ says Tony with a short laugh.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re such a beast to Guthrie,’ I tell him sternly.

  ‘I don’t know either,’ responds Tony thoughtfully, ‘except that the man has such rotten taste. He’s going to have the devil of a life with that girl, and I’m sorry for him, and it annoys me frightfully to be sorry for people.’

  We return to the drawing room and find the assembled company playing vingt-et-un, all except Mrs. Falconer, who says she is no good at arithmetic and never was. Room is made at the gambling table for Tony and me, and we make our stakes. Guthrie remarks that we shall now see whether Major Morley is lucky at cards, whereupon Tony produces an ace and a ten, and rakes in a pile of red counters with an amused smile.

  The Bakers are the first to depart. Mr. Baker has been smothering huge yawns for some time, and casting anguished looks towards his daughter. I am thankful when at last she takes pity on him, for I feel that at any moment he may fall asleep in his chair, and have to be carried out to the car by Guthrie and Tony. They could accomplish this feat quite easily, of course, but Elsie would feel the indignity.

  Mr. Baker pulls himself together at Elsie’s signal, and thanks his hostess with suitable warmth for a delightful evening. ‘You must come and have dinner with Elsie and me at the hotel,’ he says earnestly. ‘The food is first class – just tell the young people to fix a day.’

  Miss MacArbin says she thinks perhaps they should go home too.

  ‘Well, if you really must – ’ says Mrs. Loudon. ‘Dobbie’s ready when you are.’

  They all disappear, calling out that it has been a delightful evening and most enjoyable. Only Tony remains, and he and Guthrie repair to the dining room for a last drink.

  ‘It went off very well,’ says Mrs. Loudon as we turn out the lamps in the drawing room and make our way upstairs. ‘Yon MacArbin girl is a pretty creature – I liked her. It’s a lonely life for a young thing, keeping house for that brother – did you get any word with him, Hester? A dreigh sort of body, I thought.’

  ‘You seemed very much interested in his conversation at dinner,’ I point out.

  ‘Anything to get away from that Baker man,’ she replies fervently. ‘The man scared me. Did you hear him havering on about his income as if it was settlements I was after? And, when I tried to shut him up about that, I declare to goodness he went on as if I was to marry him – told me I’d be driving him on a snaffle before long,’ adds Mrs. Loudon with a snort. ‘The cheek of the man, Hester! And yet it wasn’t exactly cheek, either, for he was quite unconscious that he was saying anything wrong.’

  ‘Very difficult,’ I admit.

  ‘Difficult!’ she exclaims, as if I had insulted her by such underestimation of her problem. ‘Difficult! I tell you, Hester, Torquemada’s crosswords are child’s play compared to my situation with that man.’

  I feel too tired to discuss the party any further tonight, so I make my excuses to my hostess and retire to my room. I am just on the point of removing my earrings (Woolworth’s Oriental Pearl) when I hear the sound of voices in the garden. Guthrie’s voice, strangely harsh in tone, announces to some unseen companion:

  ‘I know you think me a fool – I admit I’m no match for you, juggling with words – but I’m not a cad.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean by that, Loudon?’ Tony’s voice is smooth as silk.

  (What a nuisance those two men are! I shall have to delay my undressing, in case it becomes necessary to go down and play the part of peacemaker. What do men do nowadays when they quarrel? I can’t imagine them hitting each other, but perhaps this is only because I am entirely ignorant upon the subject. I think Tony would get the worst of it, if it came to blows – Guthrie’s shoulders are so broad – yet I can’t imagine a beaten and humiliated Tony. Somehow or other he would manage to come out on top.)

  These thoughts fly through my head in a second. I blow out my candle, and lean out of the window. Evidently they are just below me, on the veranda, for the pungent scent of a cigar drifts up through the still air.

  ‘Well, Loudon,’ says Tony’s voice, after a short silence, ‘I am entitled to an explanation of your words.’

  There is a strangled curse from Guthrie. ‘You can always put me in the wrong if you like,’ he says furiously. ‘But I don’t make love to other men’s wives – I don’t hang round like a damned lap dog – ’

  (I realise at once that Guthrie must have discovered some episode of Tony’s past – which is said in the regiment to be of a lurid nature – or perhaps there is some lady at the hotel who has captured Tony’s vagrant fancy. I have heard nothing about it, of course, but the Bakers may have told Guthrie, or he may have found out in some other way. I have often noticed that men have a strange faculty for nosing out this sort of thing.)

  To my surprise Tony does not seem very angry. He laughs, somewhat mirthlessly, and says:

  ‘Oh, that’s the trouble, is it? You need not worry; the lady is perfectly safe from me. She is hedged about with innocence.’

  ‘And if she were not?’ Guthrie asks quickly.

  ‘Oh, if she were not I would carry her off like old Hector MacQuill,’ is the calm reply.

  They are now walking down the path towards the Bentley, and the scrunch of gravel drowns what Guthrie is saying, but Tony’s answer comes quite clearly to my ears.

  ‘That’s my business,’ he says drily. ‘If I choose to singe my wings – ’

  I remember the moth blundering against the window, and the queer nonsense he talked about it – he was thinking of himself, I suppose, and his own affairs. What a strange, incomprehensible creature he is!

  I realise that the crisis is past – for some reason they are not going to fight each other tonight. I heave a sigh of relief – for I am very tired – and crawl backwards out of my frock and hang it over a chair.

  The Bentley departs, the angry voices have subsided, the night sinks into velvet peace. I kneel at my window and gaze up into the sky – a deep blue, glowing canopy above the dark, lacy branches of the firs. The stars glimmer like tiny yellow lamps. There is no sound save the silver tinkle of the burn, and, far off amongst the hills, a lamb bleats once and is quiet.

  Eleventh June

  I jump out of bed and poke my head out of the window. There is a thick mist on the ground, and halfway up the hills, above the mist, floats the hilltop, crested with trees, like a fairy island in a lake of fleecy wool.

  This is the day of my expedition with Tony, he is to call for me at ten, and the problem which confronts me is this – what am I to wear? It all depends upon what sort of a day it is going to be. Will the mist clear off, or will it thicken and
spread? Will it resolve into rain or lift into sunshine?

  Guthrie is very cross at breakfast – there is no other word for it. He eats his kidneys with a glowering face, and nearly bites my head off when I enquire what kind of a day it is going to be. Meanwhile Mrs. Loudon smiles to herself as if she has some secret cause for amusement which nobody else may share.

  Seeing that my companions are occupied with their own thoughts – pleasant or otherwise – I too relapse into silence, and commune with mine.

  After some minutes the silence becomes laden, like the stillness of a storm before it breaks, and, looking up, I see that Guthrie’s mood has changed, his eyes are fixed upon me beseechingly – he is sorry.

  I feel drawn to experiment with Guthrie – what will happen if I do not speak to this poor young man in a kind manner? Will he blow up and burst into a thousand pieces with the effort to contain his feelings, to keep all the things he wants to say locked up in his poor helpless body? Or will he merely finish his toast and marmalade and walk out of the room? What an alluring experiment it would be! But, alas, I cannot make it, for Mrs. Loudon is looking at me with pleading eyes. ‘Speak to him kindly,’ they seem to say. ‘Speak to him kindly for my sake. For if he should blow up into a thousand pieces, where should I find another son?’

  I cannot resist such an appeal, so I lean forward and say very sweetly:

  ‘Are you going to fish today, Guthrie?’

  A sunbeam struggles through the clouds. ‘How can I without my ghillie?’ he asks, half smiling, half sulky.

  ‘Don’t go, Hester; we haven’t got many days left. Why do you want to go dashing over the countryside, when we can spend a long day on the loch?’ ‘Don’t be selfish, Guthrie,’ says Mrs. Loudon, and the wicked woman actually winks at me from behind her barrier of tea cosies. ‘You can get Donald to row the boat if you want to fish though you know perfectly well that you’ll not catch anything with this mist all over everything. Of course Hester must go about, and see all she can of the country while she’s here.’