When James reached the boundary dyke he saw Sutherland coming down the hill towards him; he shouted and waved and Sutherland came up to the dyke and took off his cap in his usual polite manner.
“Good afternoon, Mister Dering Johnstone,” he said. “I was wondering if you’d be seeing a tup. I’ve been gathering my tups and I’ve lost one.”
“You’d better have a look round yourself,” replied James smiling. “I’m not experienced enough to know one Cheviot tup from another. You’ve taken yours in, have you?”
“There’s bad weather coming,” Sutherland said.
To James the weather looked settled but he was not such a fool as to disregard Sutherland’s prophecy. “We’d better get our tups in,” said James anxiously.
“Och, you’ll have a day or two,” declared Sutherland. “I would give you a hand with the job if Roy would not mind.”
James closed with the offer. He said, “You know, Sutherland, I’m rather ignorant about this business and I’m always grateful for advice.”
“In that case you’ll not stay ignorant long,” remarked Sutherland drily.
They fixed up a plan for the following day and then parted, but Sutherland’s remark stayed in James’s mind and amused him a good deal. It was one of those deceptively simple remarks with hidden depths of humour. The more you thought about it the funnier it was.
By this time it was after two o’clock and James was hungry so he found a sheltered spot in the angle of a dyke and sat down to have his lunch — excellent sandwiches made for him by Flockie, washed down with clear sparkling water from a hill burn. The burn was full of icicles and the water was ice-cold and tasted a trifle peaty, it was a drink fit for gods. What would James have given for a tumbler of it when he was in Malaya? What wouldn’t he have given!
James lighted his pipe and ruminated happily (and Shad sat down beside him with his brown eyes fixed upon his master’s face). Things were going well, thought James. Even the daft road was behaving reasonably at the moment. The men were taking a real interest in their work and the farm was tidied up nicely. Best of all Rhoda had settled down. James had been a little worried about Henry Ogylvie Smith but Rhoda had convinced him that his worry was unnecessary … and anyway the picture was finished so the fellow would not be coming to Boscath again. He thought of Rhoda, what a darling she was! What a perfect companion!
Today Rhoda had gone to Drumburly to see Nan, most likely she would have stayed to lunch with Nan, but by this time she would be home. She would be in the studio painting. She would be wearing her bright-blue overall which was smeared with multi-coloured streaks of paint and her golden hair would be slightly untidy. Quite possibly there would be a smear of paint upon Rhoda’s nose — it was not an unusual decoration when Rhoda was painting. It would be warm and bright in the studio, the fire would be burning merrily in the grate, a fire of logs of course. The scene was so clear in James’s “inner eye” that he could not resist its magnetism; he leapt to his feet and set off home at a brisk pace.
It was much colder now and a chill wind had begun to blow, rustling through the frozen grasses. The light was beginning to fade and the hills looked bleaker and more forlorn than ever. Scarves of mist were drifting along the lower slopes of the hills and thickening in the hollows by the river but above the mist the rounded tops of the hills were clear against the grey sky.
As James neared home he began to feel anxious: supposing something had happened to Rhoda! That road — how he hated that road! It was dangerous. The bog was not the only peril, there was that horrible steep bit of hill with the hairpin bend, and the narrow corner where the surface had been swept away exposing the bare rock … and he had said go. He had told her to go! What a fool! If anything had happened …
James dashed into the house and up the stairs and burst into the studio like a tornado. It was all exactly as he had imagined: Rhoda in her blue overall with her hair standing on end painting as if her life depended upon it (a little smear of crimson paint on one cheek, not upon her nose), the bright fire burning merrily in the grate and, sitting at the table in the corner, the queer silent little boy who (according to Rhoda) was going to be a great man one day.
“Gracious!” exclaimed Rhoda looking up in surprise. “Is the house on fire or something?”
“No,” said James breathlessly. “It was just — I suddenly wondered — if you were all right.”
Rhoda understood, because on several occasions she herself had suffered in exactly the same way. Quite suddenly and without the slightest cause she had felt that she must make sure if James was still alive and in reasonably good health, and there and then had dropped whatever she happened to be doing and gone out to search for him. The only difference was that, whereas she had concealed her imbecility and made some sort of footling excuse, James was unashamed. James was the nobler character.
Rhoda smiled at him. “Come and see what I’m doing,” she said.
He went over and, standing behind her, looked over her shoulder at the canvas.
“It’s Heddle!” he exclaimed in amazement.
“Yes,” agreed Rhoda, putting her head on one side and regarding her work critically. “Yes, it’s dear Nestor — from memory — and just for fun.”
It was over six weeks since Rhoda’s visit to Tassieknowe when she had seen “dear Nestor” for the first time, but she had not forgotten her impulse to paint him in oriental garb bedecked with barbaric jewellery and having seen him again at the Christmas party the impulse had quickened. She had finished Henry’s portrait and was at a loose end, so there seemed no reason to resist the impulse. Rhoda explained this to James at some length for she saw that James was interested.
“It’s funny,” James said thoughtfully. “The first time I saw Heddle — no, it was the second time — I thought of him as one of the Borgias. It was Caesar Borgia, wasn’t it, who asked people to dinner and poisoned them?”
“Yes,” nodded Rhoda. “And I can imagine Nestor behaving in that endearing way — nothing that Nestor could do would surprise me in the least — but he isn’t a Latin type, that’s the trouble.”
“Adam said he was an Assyrian.”
“Assyrian!” she exclaimed. “That’s it, of course! I must begin all over again.” She laughed and began to splash paint somewhat recklessly upon the canvas.
“Hold on!” cried James. “Don’t spoil it. The face is good. You’ve got that baleful glare to the life. You’re a clever little devil, aren’t you? Nestor wouldn’t be a bit pleased.”
“Nor would Anna. I never told you Anna asked me to paint him, did I?”
“You told me very little about your visit to Tassieknowe.”
Rhoda was aware of this. She had thought it better to tell James very little about it, for if James knew how extremely unpleasant “dear Nestor” had been it would make him very angry. The Heddles were almost their nearest neighbors and James was continually meeting Nestor Heddle so it was wiser to leave things alone.
“Tell me about it,” urged James. “Come and sit down by the fire and tell me what happened. Was dear Nestor in his usual form?”
“I don’t know his usual form, but — well — first he was too nice and then he was too nasty.”
“The brute!”
“Yes, he is,” she agreed. “I didn’t mind so much when he was rude to me but he was horrible to Miss Heddle. That riled me.”
“It would,” said James with conviction. “I’ve noticed how you get riled when people are cruel to dumb animals.”
Rhoda hesitated and then she said quite seriously, “Miss Heddle isn’t dumb, she’s mad …” and she proceeded to tell James all about Miss Heddle and her amazing and alarming theories regarding the late Mr. Brown. Rhoda was a good narrator with a feeling for dramatic form and the story was sufficiently dramatic in itself to make it well worth her trouble. James listened with bated breath and they were both so enthralled by the recital that neither of them gave a thought to the third person in the studio nor noticed
that for once his busy pencil lay idle upon the table.
“Mad as a hatter!” declared James.
“Mad as the Red Queen,” corrected Rhoda. “There are no straws in her hair. In fact she looks so absolutely sane that you can’t help believing her — almost.”
“So old Mr. Brown is still at Tassieknowe! He wanders about and coughs but doesn’t appear in person. Pity he doesn’t, really,” said James, rising and stretching himself. “Perhaps they’d go away and we’d get some peace.”
27
DOCTOR FORRESTER was extremely busy with the after effects of New Year parties; colds and coughs and upsets due to unwise indulgence in the pleasures of the table affected the Drumburlyians, though not all of them, of course. Eleanor Steele had a touch of tonsillitis and Doctor Forrester visited her daily and had long talks with her cousin who apparently was in charge of the patient. Whether Doctor Forrester went to see the patient or the nurse was doubtful. The patient, who was in the best position to judge, was convinced that her medical advisor took little interest in her slightly swollen tonsils but a good deal of interest in Holly’s charms. Eleanor thought it would be nice if Doctor Forrester married Holly and, being altruistically inclined, she did a little hanky panky with the thermometer when Holly took her temperature at night so that the doctor should continue to call. Unfortunately Lady Steele became suspicious; Eleanor was hauled out of bed and sent for a walk and the doctor’s visits ceased.
When he could see Holly every day Adam had been happy, he had looked forward to seeing her from one visit to the next, but now that he was not seeing her daily (and indeed had little prospect of seeing her again except by some fortunate chance) he felt very unhappy indeed. He suggested to Nan that they should ask Holly to supper again and gave Nan no peace until she rang up and asked her; but apparently Holly was very busy, her engagement book was full, and she declined the invitation with expressions of regret. There was only one thing to be done, thought Adam, he must write to Holly … and this he did.
Several days passed and then one morning a bulky letter fell into the Forresters’ letter-box. They were having breakfast at the time but Adam had been listening for the postman. He rose at once and went and got the letter, and standing in the hall he tore it open and read it.
Nan knew what was happening of course; she toyed with her toast and marmalade and waited for Adam to return, but instead of returning to finish his breakfast he went into his own room and shut the door.
For a time there was silence and then Adam came into the kitchen with his overcoat on. “I’m off, Nan,” he said.
“Adam! But you’ve had no breakfast!”
“I don’t really want any,” he replied. He hesitated and then came in and leant against the dresser. “You may as well know,” he said in a level voice. “You said Holly wouldn’t be happy unless she could have all the things she was used to and you were right.”
“I’m sorry I was right,” murmured Nan.
“I’ve only known her for a short time,” continued Adam in a dazed sort of way. “It seems more. I’ve been an awful fool. We won’t talk about it if you don’t mind. Perhaps you would read her letter and then you’ll know.”
He put the letter on the table and went out. Nan heard the front door shut and his footsteps going heavily along the street.
Holly’s letter was written upon thick hand-made paper with her monogram in the corner; her writing was very large and rather straggly so although it was not really a very long letter it overflowed onto several sheets. As Nan took it up and began to read it she wondered whether Holly would mind — but that did not matter, Adam had given it to her to read.
My dear Adam,
I was very touched by your sweet letter and all the wonderful things you say about me. I am sure I don’t deserve them but I am very glad you think them. You say in your letter “when we are married” but, Adam dear, you know I never said I would marry you. I am very fond of you and I admire you very much but quite honestly I could never marry a poor man — there now, I have said it straight out. You see Adam I am not clever at housekeeping like Nan and I could never be happy living in a tiny house with no maid and trying to make ends meet. I like going about and having fun. I know this sounds horrid but it is just the way I am made and I can’t help it. I would not be happy and neither would you. It is better to be sensible, isn’t it? I have enjoyed our friendship very very much and I hope we shall go on being friends because I don’t want to lose you altogether. I think perhaps it is kinder to tell you a piece of news because you may hear it in Drumburly and I would rather you heard it from me. The news is that I have promised to marry somebody else. He is a good deal older than I am but he is a dear. I have known him for some time and always admired him. He really is a dear and so very devoted to me. You are such an understanding person — I have always told you that haven’t I — so do try to understand this as well as all the other things. I must stop now Adam dear and go to bed. It is very late indeed. I wish you every good wish and I send you my love. Even if you don’t want to be my friend any more I shall always be your friend
Holly.
Nan read the letter several times. She thought it was a very good letter; it conveyed unpalatable news in the kindest way imaginable. Perhaps Holly had had some experience in this form of correspondence! But although this unworthy thought crossed her mind Nan did not blame Holly severely. It seemed to her that the letter was straight-forward and sincere. Nan understood Holly’s reluctance to become the wife of a poor man (perhaps this was because she knew so well what it was like to be the sister of a poor man). Holly’s fault lay in leading Adam on, in bewitching Adam. Nan blamed her for that.
It was tea-time when Adam returned, for he had had to go out into the country. He had been out all day, had missed his lunch and had had practically no breakfast. He looked cold and miserable, his eyes were circled with dark rings and his face was pinched. Nan felt a little sinking of the heart. She longed to say something comforting but he had said he did not want to talk about Holly so she refrained.
“I’m awfully tired,” said Adam as he took off his coat.
“Of course you’re tired,” agreed Nan. “And I expect you’re hungry too. Tea will be ready in a moment.” She linked her arm with his and they went into the kitchen together to have their tea.
After tea, they settled down comfortably. It was getting dark outside and as Nan drew the curtains she noticed great banks of heavy clouds coming up from behind the hills; she shut them out and sat down in her usual place. Adam took up a book and began to turn over the leaves in a desultory manner; he looked better now, Nan decided, the dreadful pinched look had gone … but he was very thin. She must try to give him more nourishing food. Perhaps the butcher would let her have a bone for soup. He must drink more milk — let it stand and give him the top, thought Nan — and he must go to bed earlier. He must go to bed early tonight.
But Adam did not go to bed early; the telephone bell rang and Nan, watching Adam’s face as she always did on these occasions, realised it was an urgent summons.
“It was Mr. Heddle,” said Adam as he replaced the receiver.
“Tassieknowe!” exclaimed Nan in horrified tones. “You can’t go out to Tassieknowe tonight!”
“I’ll have to. Miss Heddle has been taken ill suddenly. It sounds like a stroke.”
“Adam, surely —”
“I must,” declared Adam. “You had better go to bed. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Nan knew that it was useless to persuade him. She made him put on an extra cardigan beneath his overcoat and a thick scarf round his neck. When they opened the door the wind whistled into the house like a Fury bearing with it a few stray snowflakes.
“It’s all right,” said Adam reassuringly. “It’s only ten miles when all’s said and done. I shall be there in half an hour. Don’t worry if I’m not back soon.”
“If the storm comes on badly you should stay there for the night.”
“Perhap
s I will,” he replied.
“You’ll put on the chains, won’t you?”
“Of course I will,” said Adam. “Don’t fuss, Nan.”
Nan said no more. She did not often fuss Adam, for she knew he hated it, but tonight she could not help fussing. She had a feeling of apprehension, a heaviness of spirit.
“Good-bye, Adam!” she cried as she watched him stride off to get his car.
He turned and waved. It was snowing hard by this time and as he passed beneath the street-lamp his cap and his shoulders were already powdered with white.
28
THE ROAD to Tassieknowe was narrow and winding and there were some fairly steep gradients to be negotiated, but Adam knew the road and the little car was going well; the chains bit into the powdery snow with a satisfactory crunch. Adam’s only trouble was with the windscreen for he had no warming device and, as he was heading straight into the storm, the snow froze upon the glass and blocked the wiper. Every now and then he was obliged to stop and clear it away. It was very dark and the snow limited the visibility, his head-lights lighted up the driving snow and little else. He was obliged to go slowly and by the time he got to Mureth, which was halfway to his destination, the snow was a good deal deeper upon the road. The lights of Mureth cheered him; they were friendly lights; Adam would have liked to stop and warm himself before continuing on his way, but already he had been delayed by various circumstances and he decided to push on. After Mureth the road was even more hilly and winding as it climbed into the hills and the snow had begun to drift and swirl in the wind but Adam held on doggedly and at last he reached the gates of Tassieknowe and turned in.
As Adam stopped his car before the steps of the house the front door opened and a blaze of light streamed out into the darkness. Mr. Heddle had opened the door himself.
Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3) Page 18
