“Is it a kind of club?” Darnay asked.
“Aye, it’s a club.”
“The best club in the world.”
In the afternoon they curled again, and Darnay improved considerably. Bulloch was far and away the best player—it was sheer joy to watch the effortless ease with which he sent up his stone—but Bill and Hornie were no mean performers, and the sides were so evenly matched that when they had played eight ends, they were even.
“We’re peal thirteen,” Hornie said and added for Darnay’s benefit, “That’s thirteen all, and only one more end to play. Try to sole your stone well, Darnay, and let it gently off your hand—you’re doing fine.”
Hornie had changed the order of play in the afternoon, putting Hickie lead, Darnay second, himself third, and Bill fourth. Darnay had grasped the principles of the game by this time and was aware that his duty was to put a guard on Hickie’s well-placed stones. His first stone was too weak (he had tilted it slightly as it left his hand, and it failed to reach “the hog”), but his second stone was better.
“Soop for yer lives, men,” Hornie cried. “Soop, soop, soop!”
Bill and Hickie seized their birch brooms and sooped industriously, and the stone came to rest in its appointed place.
“It’s a grand shot, that,” cried Hornie, capering with excitement. “Man, it’s the very thing I wanted!”
The stones were well grouped in “the house” when Bulloch, who played last for his side, took up his stand on the crampit. There was a faint smile on his lips, and he weighed the stone carefully in his hand before sending it down. The stone started so slowly that the others prepared to “soop,” but Bulloch shouted the command, “Brooms up, lads!” The stone was wide, but, as it lost momentum, it curled inward—curled and curled until Darnay could hardly believe his eyes and, finally, it slid in between the other stones and lay right upon “the pot lid.”
Great was the excitement of Bulloch’s men. They hopped about from foot to foot and waved their brooms in the air.
“A good shot, man!”
“Losh, it’s bonnie!”
“You, for a curler—gie’s a shake o’ your hand.”
It was a bad lookout for Darnay’s side now, but Bill still had one more stone to play. He and Hornie discussed the situation somewhat ruefully—it might have been of European importance from the gravity of their expressions.
“It will need to be a thunderbolt, Hornie,” declared Bill with a gleam in his bright blue eyes.
Hornie agreed reluctantly—he preferred the wily, canny game of slipping between your opponents’ guards to the forceful methods of scattering them—but alas, Bulloch’s stone was surrounded on every side. The situation was desperate, and desperate situations require desperate measures.
“It’s the only way,” Bill pointed out.
“Aye, it’s the only way.”
Bill walked back to the crampit and took up his stand. He swung the stone well back and let fly with all his force. It roared down the rink like a torpedo and crashed into the little group centered around the pot lid. “Crack-crack, crack-crack-crack” went the stones, one against the other, and they shot away in all directions.
The whole situation was now completely changed, and everybody gathered around to see what had happened. Darnay saw that the stone that he had placed as a guard now lay upon the pot lid with Bulloch’s a good two feet away—the others were scattered far and wide.
“We’ve won!” cried Darnay, throwing up his cap. “Hurrah, we’ve won. Good old Bill!” And he slapped the doughty champion on the back.
It was getting too dark to play any longer, but they stood about for a few minutes discussing the fortunes of the game before taking the road home. Darnay knew them all quite well now, for curling is a game that begets intimacies, and he decided that next to Bulloch he liked Bill best. He was such a good fellow, so keen and yet so kind—applauding the good play of the other side as heartily as that of his own. He was interesting too, quite apart from the game, and Darnay had arrived at the conclusion that Bill must be a gamekeeper or a forester on Sir James Faulds’s estate. He had an “out of doors” look about him, and he was obviously interested in trees, for he had remarked to Bulloch, “Have ye seen my conifers, Thomas? They’re doing well. I’m ordering another lot from Norway.”
A forester, thought Darnay, looking at the ragged shooting jacket with the frayed cuffs, and, because Darnay himself was interested in trees—as indeed he was interested in most things—he spoke to Bill and asked him various pertinent questions about the climate and the soil and what height was most suitable to the growth of Norwegian conifers, and he found Bill knew all about it.
“Who is he?” Darnay asked Bulloch as he helped to put the stones away in the shed. “Who is Bill? He’s an interesting old fellow.”
“Beil?”
“Yes, who is he?”
“It’ll be the Laird ye’re meaning,” said Bulloch, straightening his back and stretching his arms to relieve his tired muscles.
“The Laird?” queried Darnay in bewilderment.
“Aye, Sir James Faulds of Beil—that’s him.”
Darnay was speechless—the Laird, Sir James Faulds, and he had slapped him on the back and called him “good old Bill.”
“Curling’s a queer game,” continued Bulloch, with a glance at Darnay’s dismayed expression. “Ye wouldn’t understand the way of it maybe. Ye see, Mr. Darnay, we’re all equals on the rink—the best man’s the best player, but there’s not one of us would presume on it. The Laird’s a fine man; there’s none finer.”
“Yes,” said Darnay feebly, “and who—who is Hornie, then?”
“He’s Admiral Lang,” replied Bulloch, his eyes twinkling with merriment beneath his bushy white eyebrows. “Admiral Sir Rupert Lang, that’s him. He’s called ‘Hornie’ on account of him having gotten a medal at Home’s Reef—it was a VC he got.”
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Darnay. “Great Scott! And I suppose Hickie is a Cabinet minister in disguise?”
“No, no, Hickie’s an assistant in my business. He’s my right hand, is Hickie, and as reliable as the bank. But dinna’ fash yersel’,” he added, smiling and laying his hand for a moment on Darnay’s arm “There’s no harm done, ye may be sure. They knew ye hadn’t any idea who they were. They’ll be laughing over it together, most like—for they’re pretty close, the pair of them, and nobody enjoys a joke more than the Laird.”
Chapter Fourteen
The house above the Bullochs’ shop was full of bustle when Sue opened the door and walked in, for it was three o’clock in the afternoon on the thirty-first of December.
“Granny!” called Sue. “Granny, where are you? Can I get any messages before I take off my coat?”
“I’ve sent the girl,” replied Mrs. Bulloch, appearing from the kitchen with a red face and white floury hands. “The daft limmer was a’ to bits and no use to anybody. I was glad to see her back, and that’s the truth. Come away ben; I’m real glad to see ye. Take off yer things, ma pet.”
It was easy to see that Mrs. Bulloch was in a fine state of excitement and fluster over the preparations for her party, and Sue hastened to take off her coat and get to work. The small kitchen was as hot as a furnace with the stove on full blast, and various delicious smells were blended together so that the very air seemed fit to eat. Mrs. Bulloch, though flustered, had by no means lost her head and was in full command of the situation.
“If ye’d lay the table, Sue,” she directed. “Here’s the flowers, dearie. It would be a load off ma mind to feel the table was done. Thomas and me and you, that’s three, and Mr. Darnay’s four—dear knows what possessed Thomas to ask Mr. Darnay—and Will and Grace and Sandy. How many’s that, Sue? And Hickie, of course, and Jamie Waugh and Chairlie Anderson—he’s the second fiddle—and puir wee Miss Mimms.”
“It’s eleven, Gr
anny,” said Sue, counting rapidly on her fingers.
“Are ye sure, dearie? I thought there was twelve—save us all, I’d forgotten Mistress Cowal!”
“Oh, Granny, that awful woman!” Sue cried. “You’ve not got her coming.”
“She’s a dejected sort of creature,” Mrs. Bulloch explained apologetically. “I jest couldn’t enjoy ma denner if I knew yon puir auld body was sitting moping by her lane. She’s a bit dreary, but—och, well—there’ll be plenty of us to keep things cheery. It’s Mr. Darnay I’m worried about, Sue—and that’s the truth. Thomas means well, but he never should have bidden Mr. Darnay. I wish he’d said he couldn’t come,” she added with a sigh.
“How could he?” Sue asked indignantly. “He hadn’t any excuse. Grandfather shouldn’t have asked him. I was dismayed when he told me he was coming tonight.” She paused a moment, thinking about it and wondering what on earth Mr. Darnay would think of her friends: of Grace, and Jamie Waugh, and old, old Mrs. Cowal, whose false teeth were a constant source of anxiety. “For pity’s sake, don’t offer Mrs. Cowal any toffee,” she added significantly. “You remember what happened last year.”
“We’re not having toffee at all,” declared Mrs. Bulloch. “I thought it was safer not—and the denner will be fine, Sue, I can promise ye that. Maybe it’ll no’ be so bad as we’re thinking.”
The invitation had been given and accepted the day of the curling match on Loch Beil, and, to tell the truth, both men regretted it when they thought it over in cool blood, but the thing was arranged, and neither party could upset the arrangement without seeming ungracious—Bulloch could not withdraw the invitation, and Darnay had no excuse for canceling his acceptance of it.
Darnay parked his car in a side street and walked along to the house. He had been asked to come at 7:30 and it was 7:25 exactly when he rang the bell. Mr. Bulloch opened the door to Darnay himself and ushered him into the large and well-proportioned sitting room. It was disconcerting to find the room full of people, for Darnay had hoped—by coming early—to be the first to arrive and had brought the picture of Sue that Mr. Bulloch had admired. The picture, done up in brown paper, was too large to be hidden until a more suitable moment, so he was forced to present it to Mrs. Bulloch in front of an audience.
“It’s just a little New Year gift,” he said, putting it into her hands. “Don’t open it now—please.”
But Mrs. Bulloch was already tearing the paper off and exclaiming rapturously over the picture.
“My, it’s awful like Sue,” she cried. “No wonder Thomas was taken with it. Look at that, Grace—it’s just Sue to the life.”
“It’s real pretty!”
“The colors are awful nice.”
“What’s yon blue thing on yer heid, Sue?”
Darnay stood on one side listening to the remarks and looking at the people who made them. His first thought was that they were a queer-looking collection, but after a few moments, he discovered that, taken individually, they were not really queer. It was only because they were all so utterly different one from the other that they gave the impression of “queerness.” In most gatherings people blend into one another—they are dressed in the same fashion and their faces wear the same sort of “party look”—but these people were so strong and rugged in personality that they always remained themselves no matter where they were or what they were doing.
Presently, finding himself seated at the table, which was positively groaning with Christmas fare, Darnay looked around and disentangled the various faces. He decided that Miss Bun’s father (somehow one could not think of him as Mr. Bun) had a strange, gloomy look, and he wondered whether that was his natural expression. The new “Mrs. Bun” was fat and comely, but there were already faint lines around her mouth that would deepen into permanent wrinkles of discontent. Darnay thought it probable that she was already regretting her marriage to the saturnine baker. The old woman had an interesting face; he had never seen so many wrinkles in all his life. She was like an apple that has lain forgotten in a dry loft, and Darnay would have liked to paint her. He looked at Hickie next, for he knew Hickie, of course, and it was pleasant to see a known face among so many strangers. It was a good face too and well worth looking at, with its firm jaw and well-defined chin. Hickie was talking to Miss Bun, and the way he was looking at her gave Darnay an unpleasant jolt. So that was how the land lay! Well, and what of it? said Darnay to himself. It would be very suitable, very suitable indeed. Of course it would be suitable. Why not? She would be safe with that man, his eyes are kind. Safe—did he want Miss Bun to be safe? Of course he did. He would like to see Miss Bun safely married to a good husband, and Hickie was obviously the very man. It would be eminently suitable, Darnay told himself firmly, and he wrenched his eyes away from Hickie’s enraptured face and began to talk nonsense to his hostess.
Mrs. Bulloch was arrayed in black silk with a large cameo brooch that had belonged to her grandmother. Her face was shining so brightly with happiness that it seemed as if there must be a light inside. At the other end of the table sat Mr. Bulloch, with an enormous turkey before him. Never had Darnay seen such a turkey—it was a king among birds. Bulloch was obviously in his element, slicing the pure white flesh from its ample breast, digging out mounds of pinky brown chestnut stuffing from the cavern of its ribs, ladling out brown gravy and snow-white bread sauce. When his guests were all helped Bulloch rose and served the wine himself, and Darnay, who knew a good deal about wine, was a little anxious when he saw that it was red, but his anxiety vanished with his first sip, for Bulloch was giving them Château Lafite of an impeccable vintage.
“If ye’d rather have whiskey—” Bulloch said suddenly, looking down the long table at his guest of honor. “I never thought to ask ye, Mr. Darnay.”
“Have you so low an opinion of me?” returned Darnay, leaning forward, glass in hand and smiling at his host. “I may be only a poor benighted Englishman, but I know a good wine—Château Lafite ’99, isn’t it?”
“Man, ye’re right!” cried Bulloch, delighted to find his claret appreciated. “I saw it vinted myself and laid down a hundred dozen bottles. What a year, Mr. Darnay! What bouquet, what color! Can ye beat it?”
“It’s the queen of wines,” agreed Darnay. “It has the true flavor of the grape, and of the sun and the good earth and the rain.”
“I’d as lief drink whiskey as any French wine,” Pringle declared in a low vibrant voice, scowling at his plate as he spoke. “It’s drumlie stuff at the best. We’re not needing wines from France as long as we’ve our own barley growing in our own fields. Whiskey’s a man’s drink.”
“Each man to his own taste, Will,” replied Bulloch pleasantly. “We’ll not object to ye drinking whiskey, and ye’ll not object to our drinking claret, I’m hoping. Each man to his own taste, that’s the thing.”
“Ye can drink ink for all I care,” muttered Pringle viciously.
There was a sudden silence and then a burst of talk, and the little incident was closed, but Darnay saw a glance pass between his host and hostess—a glance so full of sympathy and understanding that he was almost ashamed to have seen it. How beautiful, he thought, how marvelous to be so in tune with another soul—there would only be one thing in life to fear if one had that treasure.
There was talk and laughter, and the good food disappeared rapidly. The shaded light flooded the snow-white damask cloth and shone on the polished silver and the gleaming plate.
Darnay talked to his hostess and liked her immensely. She had the same direct gaze and the same grave humor that he enjoyed in Miss Bun.
“Your granddaughter is very like you,” he told her, smiling at her in a friendly way.
“Thomas thinks so too,” she replied quickly. “It’s funny that, isn’t it? My daughter was different altogether—she was more like the Bullochs.”
They both looked down the long table and their eyes dwelt on Sue. Darnay t
hought his Miss Bun seemed different tonight, but perhaps that was the different dress. It was a pretty dress of a soft shade of green that suited her coloring admirably, but Darnay preferred her in her neat overalls. He was glad that he had painted her in her working clothes. She was listening to Hickie’s conversation with a vague look on her face as if she only half heard what he was saying, and her broad white brow was clouded. Darnay was certain that she was not enjoying the party and he wondered why. It was a good party, he thought.
Sandy Pringle was sitting on Darnay’s right, and Darnay tried to draw him into the conversation. He had been somewhat annoyed with Sandy (the boy had come to him for advice and failed to take it, and this is always extremely irritating), but now that he saw Will Pringle and had sampled his mettle, he realized that there was a good deal of excuse for Sandy. The boy was sensitive and nervous—you could hardly expect him to tackle that grim, forbidding man.
Darnay sought for something to say. “Are you fond of music?” he inquired.
“Yes,” said Sandy in a low voice.
He tried him again, with questions about his school, but Sandy would not be drawn. This was all the more strange because, at their previous interview, Sandy had been far from shy and had responded to Darnay’s friendliness with animation. The boy is miserable, Darnay decided, and it’s no wonder—something will have to be done.
He would have to think of some way of helping Sandy, but he could do nothing now, so he turned and spoke to his hostess again and left Sandy to his own devices.
Darnay had been a little doubtful as to how he would get on with these people, but his doubts had vanished long ago; he was getting on famously.
There was one somewhat disconcerting incident during dinner, when old Mrs. Cowal leaned forward and said something to him in what sounded like a foreign language. Darnay could not make out what it was (for she spoke so broadly, and her teeth were too big for her mouth), but he decided that she was asking him to admire the plum pudding that had just arrived on the scene—a huge rich, dark mound covered with sugar almonds and surrounded by leaping flames.
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