Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Quite blatant,” he said nodding. “Mother loves to get Mamie to herself and discuss ancient feuds and scandals.”

  Mamie had not said much about Henry Ogylvie Smith but something in her voice had prepared Rhoda to like him and she was not disappointed. He was tall and dark and slender; there was a slight foreign air about him, not so much in his appearance as in his bearing, and, although he was like his mother he was extremely virile; there was nothing effeminate about him as there so often is in men who resemble their mothers. He had an interesting face; it was sad in repose but it lighted up when he smiled. Rhoda had a vague feeling that she had seen him before … or that she had seen somebody like him.

  “Have we met before?” Rhoda asked doubtfully.

  “No,” he replied. “Quite definitely, never.”

  “You seem very sure.”

  “I am absolutely certain.” The way he said it, smiling as he uttered the words, was a compliment.

  “Oh, well,” said Rhoda. “I just thought I might have seen you somewhere. I don’t mean we knew each other but just that we might have met casually at a party.” She hesitated for a moment and then, feeling she had been gauche, she added, “I was living in London for some years before I married James.”

  “Rather a change coming to live at Boscath!”

  “Yes, it is; but I’m beginning to get used to the different speed.”

  He laughed. “The speed is certainly very different. What were you doing in London?”

  “Painting,” she replied.

  “A painter!” he exclaimed, looking at her with interest. “That’s rather — exciting. Yes, definitely exciting. I hope you haven’t stopped painting and taken to cooking instead. If I hadn’t been a doctor I should have liked to be a painter. It’s a silly thing to say, isn’t it?”

  “Why is it silly?”

  “Second choice,” he explained. “If I had really had it in me it would have come before anything else.”

  This was true, but Rhoda had done much the same thing. She had put James first; she had quite deliberately chosen marriage and given painting second place. She explained this to Henry Ogylvie Smith.

  “But it isn’t the same,” he said. “I was never anything but an amateur — a mere dabbler — and I gather you’re a Real Painter, with capital letters.”

  “I suppose I am, really. I can’t help seeing things in terms of paint. For instance the first thing I thought when I saw you was how I would paint you if I got the chance.”

  “Me?” he exclaimed in surprise.

  “Yes, you,” smiled Rhoda.

  Mr. Ogylvie Smith had been listening. He said suddenly, “I wish you would, Mrs. Dering Johnstone. Why don’t you? It would be delightful to have a picture of Henry.”

  “I shall only be here for a few days,” said Henry quickly.

  Rhoda said nothing. She had spoken lightly, but now, quite suddenly, she wanted to paint this man. She saw exactly how she would do it: a dark background, his head turned a little as if he were listening and that curious light in his face. Rhoda clasped her hands and looked down at them … it was silly to mind so much.

  “Please do,” said Mr. Ogylvie Smith. “I’m sure Henry could find the time. My wife and I — it would give us a great deal of pleasure, even if it were only a sketch.”

  “I should like to,” Rhoda said uncomfortably. “But perhaps — perhaps it would bore your son.”

  No more was said about the matter; in fact the young doctor changed the subject so abruptly that it was obvious he had no wish to be immortalised. He spoke of the Steeles and asked Rhoda if she had met Holly Douglas. Rhoda mentioned the Forresters, for she was aware that he was a friend of Adam’s.

  “Is Adam liking the work?” asked Doctor Ogylvie Smith. “I feel a bit responsible because it was I who spoke of him to Doctor Black.”

  “I’m sure he likes it. And their little house is charming.”

  “All the same I feel he’s buried here. He was with me as assistant at a hospital just out of London so I know him pretty well. I left the hospital soon after Adam. I wanted a change.”

  His face was suddenly strained and tired as if the recollection was painful.

  “You weren’t happy there,” said Rhoda impulsively.

  He evaded the question. “A change is good for everybody,” he replied. “You can stay too long in the same place. I’m in Glasgow now, and I find my new work absorbing. I took my medical degrees at Glasgow University so I know a good many people there … and another advantage of being in Glasgow is that I can come home occasionally for weekends. The parents aren’t getting any younger, and I’m the only child. I felt I ought to be nearer home. The parents haven’t seen much of me for the last few years.”

  Mrs. Ogylvie Smith, who had approached while her son was talking, overheard what he had said.

  “Indeed we have not!” she exclaimed, putting her hand through his arm. “What is the use of having a son at all? First he must go to school; then to a university and then, no sooner had Henry become a doctor than war was declared, and he joined the Navy. Off he went to the Mediterranean Fleet and we saw nothing of him for years! Then when the war was over and we hoped he might come to be near us, again we were disappointed. There was this grand appointment at the hospital where they worked him to skin and bone and he could not obtain leave of absence even for a few short days to visit his mother. The only way I could see Henry was to become very ill — and one cannot have a serious illness more than twice a year.”

  Henry smiled down at her. “Yes, your son has been a poor bargain,” he said.

  “When did I say so!” she cried. “My son is the best in the world. All that I complain of is that I cannot see enough of him. But come and have tea. We are having it in the dining room today instead of comfortably here before the fire, because Thomson thinks that is the right thing when we have guests and I am too frightened to tell him otherwise.”

  Everybody laughed and the party moved into the dining room.

  “Come beside me, Rhoda,” said Mrs. Ogylvie Smith as she took her seat at the head of the table. “You will not mind if I call you Rhoda? I am old enough to be your grandmother, my dear.”

  “Of course you must call me Rhoda!” Rhoda exclaimed.

  “And we shall be friends?”

  Rhoda nodded. “I should like that very much indeed.”

  “But first I must warn you that we are very wicked people, here at Blackthorn House,” said Mrs. Ogylvie Smith in solemn tones. “It is only fair to warn you at the beginning how wicked we are. I am not good, like Lady Steele, who tells everybody how to behave properly and who goes about and opens bazaars all over the county. I do nothing at all except stay at home and look after my husband — and alas, he is wicked too, for he has no farm and does no work whatever except to grow flowers and vegetables in the garden. He inherited Blackthorn House from his father and his grandfather. You see how wicked we are!”

  “Anybody can see you’re a wicked old lady,” said Henry laughing.

  “But Rhoda does not mind,” his mother pointed out. “She is smiling at me quite kindly, so that will be all right, and now she can never turn round and say how terribly wicked we are, because I have told her about it first.”

  Rhoda smiled and promised that she would not forget. She had been trying to get a word in edgeways for some minutes and now seemed a good opportunity for Mrs. Ogylvie Smith was silently intent upon the business of pouring out tea.

  “I’m sorry I was out when you called,” said Rhoda.

  “It was a thousand pities,” agreed her hostess. “Tell me, do you like sugar in your tea?”

  “A little sugar. Perhaps you’ll come again and have tea with me. We could arrange a day so that I wouldn’t be out. Do come, I should love to have you. Come soon.”

  “No, dear Rhoda, not soon,” replied Mrs. Ogylvie Smith regretfully. “It is impossible for me to come until Blaikie has forgotten your road, and unfortunately he has a very good memory. I should l
ike to come, above everything, not only because already we are good friends, you and I, but also because you have Dorrie Flockhart as your cook. She is the best baker in the district and I am a greedy old lady as well as being a wicked one, but Blaikie will not bring me in the car (I know it, so it is useless to ask him and would only make him cross) and I cannot walk so far.”

  Henry chuckled. He said, “Let me tell you, Mrs. Dering Johnstone, Mother’s longest walk consists of going round the garden and that’s only on particularly fine days.”

  “It is what I said, Henry,” said Mrs. Ogylvie Smith reproachfully. “I said I could not walk so far and it is true.” Having disposed of her son’s interruption she turned back to Rhoda and continued. “You must not think too badly of Blaikie, he is an estimable man; his wife is an invalid and he looks after her most kindly and carefully but he has very strong prejudices and soon there will not be a house in the district which I shall be permitted to visit. He will not take me again to Boscath because he has too much regard for his springs — which incidentally are not his springs at all, but mine — and he will not take me to Tassieknowe any more because he was not invited by Mr. Heddle’s butler to come in and have a cup of tea. Drumburly Tower is another house to which I may not go, for the last time we were there Sir Andrew’s shooting dog was naughty against the wheel.”

  There were shouts of laughter, amongst which could be heard Mamie’s voice asking anxiously if Mrs. Ogylvie Smith were still allowed to come to Mureth.

  “Oh, yes, dear Mamie,” replied her friend. “Mureth is perfect. Blaikie and I are agreed upon that. We will come to Mureth as soon and as often as you are pleased to invite us.”

  13

  MISS HEDDLE had called upon Rhoda and it was necessary for Rhoda to return the call.

  “I shall have to go,” she said to James.

  “Yes, of course you must,” replied James. “As a matter of fact I think you’d be interested in the set up.”

  Rhoda decided to go that very afternoon and as it was a particularly beautiful day she made up her mind to walk. She could walk up the left bank of the river and cross higher up at Tassieknowe. Flockie, who was interested in the expedition, assured her that the river was much smaller at Tassieknowe and she would be able to cross without much difficulty.

  It was now the end of November and there was a nip of frost in the air. The sky was pale blue, the hills were reddish brown with withered bracken and there were patches of dark brown heather and greenish-yellow grass. There was a sprinkling of snow on the higher tops and the early afternoon sunshine glistened upon them, making them sparkle like crystal. Underfoot the ground was hard, for there had been frost in the night, but in sheltered spots where the sun had shone warmly the “bone” (as James put it) had melted into bog. Rhoda walked along, inhaling the keen dry air, she felt extraordinarily fit, a sense of well-being filled her whole body, and her heart sang. She could smile at her doubts now; how foolish she had been to entertain them for a moment! James was dearer than ever and she had got used to being without his company during the day. Gradually she had filled the empty space with other things: with her painting; with friends; with long conversations with Flockie, whose gentleness and simplicity were very endearing, and last but not least with Duggie. The responsibility of Duggie had been thrust upon her, so to speak, and at first she had been afraid that it would be a nuisance but Duggie was never a nuisance. She enjoyed teaching Duggie, it was a worth-while job because she was perfectly certain now that some day her young pupil would do marvellous things. Having studied for years in an art school, Rhoda was competent to judge ability and had complete confidence in her judgment.

  Rhoda had intended to make painting her career for she had outstanding talent. She had said to Mamie once that she was a good painter and could be very good if she continued to make painting her career (if anything this was an understatement, and Rhoda knew it) but, now that she had married James, he was her first consideration and painting was second. Sometimes she wondered if she had done right (her master at the art school did not think so). Was it right when you had been dowered with an artistic talent to bury it in a napkin? She had never for one moment regretted her decision to marry James, for she loved him with all her heart, she had just wondered sometimes if she had done right. The question was one of principle, it had nagged at her. Duggie was the answer. Duggie was going to be a great painter, far better than she could ever have been, and she had been given the privilege of helping him. This comforted her; it satisfied her completely. She was justified.

  The path wound along the bank of the river and, here and there, ascended the shoulder of a hill. It was used occasionally by carts and the deep ruts left by their wheels were full of crackly ice as thin as cardboard. Little burns came tumbling down the hillside and the spray from their tiny waterfalls had fashioned glittering icicles amongst the rocks.

  Rounding a bend of the path Rhoda suddenly found herself looking across a deep cleft in the hillside. It was an unexpected sight — as if the hill had been split open by a giant’s axe — the sides of the chasm were steep, almost perpendicular, black rock dripping with water. The path snaked down into this curious cleft and at the foot of it two burns met in a turbulent whirlpool before hurling themselves into the river.

  Rhoda descended into the chasm looking about her with interest. A heavy plank had been laid across the larger burn as a bridge, it was dark and slippery with frozen spray; she crossed it cautiously. She was now on a tongue of land above the meeting place of the streams, standing upon a smooth stretch of emerald green turf. The black beetling cliffs were wet and slimy; ferns and small twisted rowan trees grew in the crevices … it was cold and dank here for the sun scarcely ever penetrated into the chasm and the noise of rushing water echoed backwards and forwards filling the ears with a medley of roaring sound.

  Rhoda stood there for a few moments. She was amazed at the place. Although the cleft was not large there was something vaguely alarming about it — something uncanny. She had a feeling that it was a bad place … perhaps it had a dark history attached to it. She did not dally long, but pulled herself together and, leaping across the second burn which was deep and narrow, climbed the scree of loose stones on the other side.

  It was a relief to find herself out upon the bare hillside with the pale golden sunshine all round her and the hills in their tawny coats stretching from her feet to the pale blue sky.

  In front of Rhoda was a high stone dyke, marking the boundary of Boscath hirsel (beyond was the hirsel of Hawkbrae). There was a gate in the dyke and a tall spare man with a brown craggy face and very blue eyes was leaning upon the gate. As Rhoda approached he opened the gate for her and took off his cap.

  These actions were accomplished with such a dignified air that Rhoda wondered who he was.

  “You’ll be Mistress Dering Johnstone,” he said with a smile and a flash of white teeth. “I have been hearing about you. It is a fine day for a walk.”

  Rhoda was always ready to be friendly; she admitted she was Mrs. Dering Johnstone and asked who he was.

  “Sutherland is my name,” he replied. “I was the shepherd at Tassieknowe when Mr. Brown was alive.”

  “Of course, I’ve heard about you!” exclaimed Rhoda and she held out her hand.

  They shook hands gravely; Rhoda’s small hand disappeared into the enormous brown hand of her new acquaintance. It was gripped firmly and released. There was something very satisfactory about the hand-shake. They talked for a few minutes about the weather and about Sutherland’s dog which had sat down and was waiting patiently for his master to finish his conversation.

  “That’s a horrible place,” said Rhoda, pointing to the chasm in the hill from which she had just emerged. “Is there some story about it?”

  “They call it The De’il’s Cleugh,” replied Sutherland gravely. “It has a bad reputation and there are few people who would care to visit it in the dark. There is a story that a Covenanter lived there in a cave in the Killing
Times and he would sing psalms at night to keep his spirits up.”

  Rhoda shuddered. “He must have been a brave man,” she declared.

  “The Covenanters were brave men,” agreed Sutherland. “They were fanatics — and fanatics are usually brave. It is said that his spirit haunts the place and you can hear the sound of psalms coming from the cleugh on still nights; but I have been round this way at night and I have never heard anything … except the falling water and maybe the screech of an owl.”

  “You think it may be haunted?” Rhoda asked him.

  “Why not? It is a queer place and there are queer things in the world, Mrs. Dering Johnstone.”

  Rhoda was silent for a few moments. Then she said, “You don’t belong to this part of Scotland, Mr. Sutherland.”

  “I come from Helmsdale,” he replied. “Maybe you are thinking I look different and talk different from the people here. We folk from the northeast are big and bony, for there is Norse blood in our veins.”

  “The Vikings!” exclaimed Rhoda.

  He nodded, smiling. “They would come across the sea and raid our lands, but sometimes if their ship was wrecked they would settle down amongst us and marry and become good farmers. Sometimes I have thought that I have done the same thing in a peaceful way, for I came to this part of the country twenty-five years ago and settled here.”

  “And became a good farmer,” added Rhoda nodding.

  He laughed. “Well, maybe,” he said. “I married a local girl and we settled down very happily, that certainly is true.”

  “I’m sorry you had to leave Tassieknowe.”

  “It was a grief to us,” Sutherland admitted. “When you have been a long time in one place it is as if you belonged there … but it could not be helped. Mr. Heddle is not a good man to serve.”

  Rhoda was impressed with the dignified, temperate way he spoke. If Sutherland had raged and stormed against Mr. Heddle it would have impressed Rhoda much less forcibly than the quiet condemnation he had uttered. Mr. Heddle was not a good man to serve, so Sutherland had refused to serve him.