Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “We must send her home in the car,” said Miss Heddle anxiously.

  Mr. Heddle shook his head. “We won’t talk of sending her home — why should we anticipate sorrow? It isn’t every day we have the privilege of entertaining an angel unawares.”

  Rhoda was used to admiration; she had found that men of Mr. Heddle’s age (which she guessed to be about forty-five) were often the worst and went down like ninepins on beholding her. As a rule it amused her, but Mr. Heddle’s admiration did not amuse her at all. Mr. Heddle was so overpowering, he seemed to fill the room. There was a sort of elemental magnetism in his personality, as if he were not quite civilised. You could imagine him doing — anything — really, thought Rhoda uncomfortably.

  “If I’m home by six o’clock —” she began, and somehow she felt a trifle breathless as if the air in the room had become close and hot and vitiated.

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed Mr. Heddle. “We aren’t going to let you go without any dinner. That would be very inhospitable when you’ve come so far. We can ring up your home — Anna will ring up and say we’re keeping you to dinner.”

  “It’s very kind of you,” Rhoda said. “But I’m afraid I can’t stay. My husband is expecting me. I don’t think Miss Heddle told you — I’m Mrs. Dering Johnstone.”

  She saw his face change. “Oh, from Boscath!” he said. “My sister said you’d come from beyond Drumburly.”

  “It is beyond Drumburly,” put in Miss Heddle. “I know it is, because when Mason took me in the car we had to go through Drumburly.”

  “Because that’s the nearest bridge,” said her brother shortly.

  Miss Heddle was quelled. She still did not understand, but it never occurred to her to question Nestor’s dictum. She poured out a cup of tea and handed it to him and offered him scones and jam.

  Sitting on a sofa near the table, Nestor had his tea. There was a sulky expression upon his face and it was obvious that he had lost interest in the golden-haired angel.

  “I’ve seen you in church,” said Miss Heddle to Rhoda, speaking in a low voice in deference to her brother’s presence. “That’s why I called on you — because I was sure we should have a lot in common. I mean I knew you came from London. Of course Nestor hasn’t seen you before and he didn’t know who you were. Nestor never goes to church but he doesn’t mind me going and he always lets me have the car.”

  Rhoda felt an almost uncontrollable urge to say, “How kind of him!” but managed to refrain.

  “I like going to church,” continued Miss Heddle. “I find it so peaceful. Of course it’s a very ugly little church and the organ isn’t very good, but —”

  “You take it as a sedative,” said her brother.

  “As a sedative?”

  “Yes, you sit and listen to an old dotard who tells you that you’ll go to heaven when you die. That comforts you, doesn’t it?”

  Rhoda was seldom shocked but this shocked her. It was not only the words but the casual scornful tone in which they were uttered and, perhaps most of all, the unkindness that shocked her. Rhoda had lived in London on her own and, mixing with all sorts and conditions of people, had heard a good many arguments for and against the existence of an after life; but although the arguments had been closely reasoned and occasionally had led to fierce altercations, this cold-hearted bitterness was a thousand times worse.

  “That comforts you, doesn’t it, Anna?” repeated Mr. Heddle, insisting upon an answer to his question.

  “Yes — it does — really,” said Miss Heddle in a low voice.

  “Why shouldn’t it?” demanded Rhoda truculently.

  “Because it’s false comfort,” replied Mr. Heddle turning and looking at Rhoda with a baleful eye. “And because people like Anna who comfort themselves with false hopes are cowards at heart. They can’t face up to this life so they bolster themselves up with the idea that there will be a better one. I suppose you believe in a Heaven, Above the Bright Blue Sky?”

  “Yes,” replied Rhoda with spirit.

  “Have you never looked through a telescope?” asked Mr. Heddle in a patient voice, such as one might use to a moron. “At night a telescope reveals stars which are so far off that the light from them takes millions of years to reach this earth. Where is your Heaven?”

  “It’s somewhere,” Rhoda said. “I’m quite sure of that in spite of your telescope. When I was a child I didn’t know where Australia was. Now I know where it is. Someday, when I’ve grown up a bit more, I shall know where Heaven is.”

  “It’s incredible!” exclaimed Mr. Heddle with a laugh. He rose as he spoke and left the room.

  “Dear Nestor didn’t mean to be rude,” said Miss Heddle nervously. “He didn’t mean to be unkind. He’s so clever, you know — lots of clever people don’t believe in Heaven — and he’s apt to get a little cross when people contradict him. It isn’t your fault of course. You couldn’t know, could you? I ought to have warned you that Nestor doesn’t like people to contradict him.”

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference if you had,” said Rhoda frankly.

  Miss Heddle did not understand this. Rhoda’s meaning was lost upon her; she continued to assure Rhoda that Nestor did not mean to be rude or unkind, but he was so clever, and of course Rhoda was not to blame because she had not been warned in advance that Nestor could not brook contradiction.

  Rhoda ceased to listen. She sat back in her chair and lighted a cigarette. Although her hostess had not offered her this solace she felt she had earned it. As a matter of fact Rhoda was rather surprised at herself.

  Presently, when sufficient time had elapsed to make her departure seem a natural impulse and not the result of her host’s rudeness, Rhoda got up from her chair and said she must go. Miss Heddle made no attempt to detain her but rang the bell and ordered the car to take her home.

  16

  THE IDEA of painting a portrait of Henry Ogylvie Smith had appealed to Rhoda greatly, but she had realised that the idea of sitting for his portrait did not appeal to him, so she had dismissed the matter from her mind. She was all the more pleased when she received a letter from him asking if she had really meant what she said and if so when it would suit her to begin. “The parents would like it,” he wrote, “and the fact is I should like to give them pleasure; they have not had much pleasure out of their only son. Perhaps it could be ready for Christmas, but if not it does not matter. I shall not tell them anything about it, so that it will be a surprise. As Boscath is not on the telephone I shall walk over on Wednesday afternoon but please do not stay at home on my account, just leave a message for me.”

  The letter arrived at breakfast time on Wednesday morning and she showed it to James.

  “Did you mean it?” asked James without enthusiasm.

  “Yes, of course. I always mean what I say. I wonder if he could stay for a sitting this afternoon. I shall have everything ready in case.”

  “I thought you were going to tea with Nan.”

  “Nan!” said Rhoda vaguely. “Oh, yes, but Nan won’t mind. I want to paint him. I wanted to paint him the moment I saw him.”

  Already Rhoda had begun to compose her picture; she had imagined his head against a dark oak panel, where could she get one? When breakfast was over she went upstairs and began to make her preparations.

  Henry arrived about two o’clock; he had walked across the hills with a sandwich in his pocket and had lunched on the way, but he was quite pleased to drink a cup of coffee with his hostess and to eat one of Flockie’s scones. When he had finished Rhoda took him up to the studio. By this time she was absolutely determined to paint him in oils and over-ruled all Henry’s objections.

  “It won’t take long, honestly,” declared Rhoda. “Once I’ve made a start I can do quite a lot without you. Just come when you can; any time will suit me.”

  In face of this enthusiasm what could Henry say? He took the chair she had arranged for him as meekly as a lamb.

  Henry had expected to feel embarrassed (to sit there
like a stuffed owl while a young and extremely good-looking woman gazed at one’s face was bound to be embarrassing) but he soon discovered his mistake. Rhoda was so business-like, she gave him his pose in much the same crisp but encouraging manner as he himself assumed when he was about to give a patient an injection and although she gazed at his face it was in such a purely impersonal way that he felt no discomfort.

  Rhoda hung a picture on the wall and invited her sitter to look at it. For this purpose she had chosen a reproduction of Don Quixote de la Mancha. It seemed to Rhoda that there was something of Don Quixote in Henry’s personality. Perhaps it was merely that they were compatriots — Henry being Spanish on his mother’s side — or perhaps it was something else. Rhoda was not sure, she had a feeling she would know more about Henry Ogylvie Smith when she had painted him.

  “Shall I smile?” enquired Henry, his eyes firmly upon the picture.

  “Good Heavens, no!” exclaimed Rhoda. “You aren’t having your photograph taken. Don’t think of your face at all and don’t stare at poor Don Quixote as if he were a gorgon. Just talk and try to forget what I’m doing.”

  Thus adjured Henry relaxed his features and began to look more natural; they chatted about this and that and time passed very pleasantly indeed. Rhoda had just called a halt and given permission to her sitter to abandon his pose and smoke a cigarette when the door opened and Duggie appeared.

  Duggie was looking and feeling unusually trim and jaunty for he had just had a birthday and was clad from top to toe in new clothes. The brown tweed jacket and shorts and the dark green pullover with the polo collar had been presents from “Mrs. James.” Mrs. Johnstone had knitted him some brown stockings to match and he had managed to wheedle his mother into buying him a pair of brown brogues. He intended to keep this magnificent outfit for his visits to Boscath; it was much too good for school.

  “It’s a half-holiday,” said Duggie, hesitating at the door. “I just thought — but if you’re busy —”

  “It’s all right, come in,” said Rhoda.

  He came in and held out his hands.

  “Very nice and clean,” nodded Rhoda, taking one of the slender brown hands and examining it closely. “You see,” she added, turning to Henry. “You see Duggie and I have made a bond.”

  “Like Shylock,” Duggie explained.

  “Just like Shylock. But our bond is a bit more complicated and has a much wider scope. One of the principal clauses in the bond concerns Duggie’s hands. If he appears in the studio with dirty hands he gets thrown out.”

  “That’s so,” agreed Duggie. “I wash them. Miss Flockhart lets me wash them in the kitchen sink.”

  “Nice hands, aren’t they?” continued Rhoda spreading out the long thin fingers for Henry to admire.

  “Well worth taking care of,” agreed Henry.

  “They’re useful too. They clean my paint brushes and tidy up the studio. That isn’t in the bond.”

  “I like doing it,” said the boy quickly. He hesitated and then said, “Can I show him some of your drawings, Mrs. James? I think he’d like to see them. Can I show him the one of Roy clipping the ewe?”

  Rhoda was not particularly anxious for her work to be displayed but she could not refuse without appearing churlish. As a matter of fact she was so surprised at Duggie’s request that she could find no words of refusal. She had never seen Duggie behave like this; usually when strangers were present Duggie retired into his shell — even with James he was shy. Perhaps his new clothes had given him confidence. He certainly looked very nice in his new clothes!

  Duggie had taken the folder off the shelf and was standing beside Henry showing him the drawings. “This is Miss Flockie,” he said. “Maybe you’ve not seen her. It’s just exactly like her … and here’s Roy clipping. Isn’t it splendid?”

  “It is splendid,” agreed Henry, taking it and looking at it with interest.

  “It was a wonderful subject,” Rhoda said.

  “Yes,” said Henry nodding. “And you’ve got so much movement there. I don’t know enough about drawing to say the right things but I know when I see something really fine. It gives one a feeling of satisfaction. I can’t describe it in any other way.”

  Rhoda thought he had described it very well. She decided that she liked Henry Ogylvie Smith immensely. He was natural and kind and he was coming through a somewhat trying experience with flying colours, and Rhoda was pleased to see that he was admiring the drawings which she knew to be good and saying less about the others.

  “That’s enough, Duggie,” said Rhoda who had begun to feel she could bear the ordeal no longer. “You can put the drawings away. Doctor Ogylvie Smith has seen enough of them.”

  Henry looked at her and smiled. “He hasn’t,” said Henry, “but he realises that this isn’t much fun for the artist. Put them away, Duggie. Perhaps we may look at them some other time.”

  Duggie put them away. He looked surprised and a little crestfallen and it was obvious that he did not understand.

  “Tell me about this bond,” continued Henry. “I’m interested in this bond of yours. Am I allowed to ask what other clauses it contains?”

  “Duggie will tell you,” said Rhoda.

  Duggie smiled a little doubtfully.

  “Come on,” said Henry encouragingly. “What’s in the bond?”

  “Well,” said Duggie. “There’s a lot of things besides clean hands. I’ve to talk properly and never to say ‘Jings!’; I’ve to breathe through my nose and I’ve not to read any books without showing them to Mrs. James first.”

  “You see?” said Rhoda solemnly.

  Henry nodded, equally grave.

  “My commitments are easier. I teach Duggie the rudiments of art. I tear up his drawings into little bits and throw them into the waste-paper basket.”

  “You kept the one of you,” said Duggie, grinning so widely that his mouth seemed to stretch from ear to ear.

  “So I did! I must have been too busy to tear it up. Shall we show it to Doctor Ogylvie Smith?” Rhoda got up as she spoke and, taking a folder from the shelf, opened it and found the sketch. She handed it to Henry and Henry took it with an indulgent smile.

  Suddenly the smile vanished. “Hullo!” exclaimed Henry in amazement. He looked up and met Rhoda’s forbidding stare.

  “Hum,” said Henry. “Yes, it’s — it’s Mrs. James’s back. She was painting when you did this sketch of her.”

  Duggie nodded. “She didn’t know I was doing it. That made it easier … besides nobody could do her face.”

  “Nobody could do her face?” asked Henry in surprise.

  “It’s too beautiful,” said Duggie simply.

  Rhoda had the grace to blush.

  “I believe you’re right,” said Henry in a thoughtful tone. “If Michael Angelo were alive …”

  “Have you got a new book from the library, Duggie?” enquired Rhoda.

  Duggie had. He took a small red book from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “Tristram Shandy! You do go in for variety, don’t you? It was Black Beauty last week. I don’t know much about Tristram Shandy but I have a feeling he’s rather strong meat for the young.”

  “It’s full of little stars,” Duggie pointed out. “I wondered what they meant.”

  “I can tell you that,” said Henry. “They mean somebody has been through Mr. Sterne’s book with a blue pencil and taken out all the interesting bits.”

  “Why?” exclaimed Duggie in surprise.

  His elders did not reply to this not unnatural question.

  “In that case I suppose he may read it?” asked Rhoda.

  “If he can,” nodded Henry. “But if Duggie can read it I’ll take off my hat to him.”

  Duggie was now a little doubtful as to whether he wanted to read it. He took it in his hands and flipped the pages over. “I go by the name,” he explained. “It sounded nice — Tristram Shandy — I thought maybe it was a pony, or a dog.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll be disapp
ointed,” Henry told him.

  The interval was over. Duggie settled himself at his table and Rhoda went on with her work. Henry, having nothing to do except gaze at Don Quixote, had ample time for thought. He thought about Duggie. Who was Duggie? Where did he come from? He was a queer object to fall from the skies in this outlandish place. Henry knew the district and therefore was aware that there were no houses within miles from which Duggie could have come. The obvious conclusion was that Duggie was the son of a shepherd, or a ploughman but Henry was sure he was not. Henry was interested in the boy, he had an unusual face, full of bright intelligence, and his manner was good, neither too forward nor awkward and shy … and that sketch of Rhoda! (Henry was calling her Rhoda by this time if not to her face most certainly in his mind.) That sketch of Rhoda’s back as she sat at her easel painting! It was amazing. Not only was it unmistakably Rhoda’s back, but it was drawn with firm strokes and an economy of line which showed that the young artist had considered his subject before he started and had known exactly what he intended to do; most curious of all it was drawn with an individual touch, the touch which makes a signature unnecessary. Henry had a feeling that if he saw another drawing of Duggie’s he would know who had drawn it.

  This conviction brought Henry back to where he had started. Who was Duggie? A genius in the making? Lucky for him he had fallen into the right hands! Henry was a doctor and therefore an expert in human relationships and it seemed to him there was something really beautiful in the relationship between Rhoda Dering Johnstone and her protégé. They understood one another perfectly. They trusted one another. They were useful to one another. That was the ideal relationship of one human being to another human being … usefulness … to take and give service.

  “That’s enough for today,” said Rhoda at last. “I’m tired and you’re tired — at least you ought to be.”

  Henry had not realised he was tired but he found he was. He rose and stretched himself. “I suppose I mustn’t see it,” he said.

  “You may if you like. It’s a bit of a mess, of course.”