by Guy McCrone
Arthur said, well, yes—there was some business to discuss.
“Of course, any of us would be delighted to see them.” Sophia came in comfortably at the end of the race.
But all the reply she got from Bel was: “Now try one of these sponge cakes, Sophia, they’re very light.”
“I thought Phœbe wasn’t very well-behaved today. Didn’t you think so too, Mary?” Sophia said, having embarked upon a sponge cake as she was bidden.
“A little unfriendly perhaps,” Mary answered—agreeing, but softening the accusation.
“Well, considering what was going on, you could scarcely expect her to behave as usual,” David said.
“It wasn’t that,” Sophia continued. “No. She didn’t seem particularly upset, which was queer too, now I come to think of it. But there were Mary and I, her own sisters, ready to be a comfort to her, and yet she seemed to be always trying to get away from us.”
“She struck me as rather a cold child,” Mary added. “But of course it may have been shyness.”
“Why should she be shy of us?” Sophia said.
“Because, if you had any sense, Sophia, you would see that sisters or not sisters, you were perfect strangers to her,” David snapped.
Sophia ignored this. “Do you know,” she went on, turning to Bel, “she wouldn’t sit with us during the funeral service, although there was a place for her, of course.”
“And where did she sit?” Bel asked. She had been listening to this conversation with great interest.
“I don’t know,” Sophia said aloofly.
“She stood between two of the servants—byre-women, I think they were,” David said. And as Bel seemed to want him to say more, he added: “One of them had an arm round her. The other was holding her hand.”
A look of gentleness on Bel’s face thanked David for making the situation clear. Her young brother-in-law had given her a vivid, moving picture of the little girl. Why had the Moorhouse men so much more intuition than the women? Had Mary, with all her ostentatious goodness, been unable to see that the child was trying to find comfort from familiar people, to steady herself in the face of the great change that had come into her life?
“The bairn was feeling it. Don’t you make any mistake,” Arthur said.
“Well, I would be sorry to think that Wil and Margy would behave like that if anything happened to William and me. While we were waiting for the men to come back from the cemetery, she went to her own room and wouldn’t come out of it. They could scarcely get her to come and say goodbye,” Sophia went on.
“When my father died,”—Bel’s voice sounded a little tart—“Mother tells me I missed him very much, and the way I showed it was by being very naughty.”
“Our stepmother was a strange, cold sort of woman.” Mary felt she didn’t quite see the point in Bel’s naughtiness being put forward in defence of Phœbe’s.
Bel was angry now. Mary was just as lacking in understanding as Sophia. There were moments in life when you had to take definite steps—whether they turned out rightly or wrongly. Moments when the hand had to be stretched forth to a fellow-being without counting the cost. This child was needing mothering—needing understanding—more understanding than her two smug half-sisters could give her. Bel’s impulsiveness got the better of her once again. The colour was high in her face when she spoke.
“Well, at any rate, I’ve been thinking about Phœbe,” she said. “I don’t see how the child can stay at the farm without a woman of her own kind to look after her. If Arthur wants it, I’ll be delighted to have her here.”
Old Mrs. Barrowfield would have called this more high falutin. She would have said: “Let the child go to a sister.” “Let her stay with her farmer brother.” Mary and Sophia, because, perhaps, they had been made to look mean and cold through their sister-in-law’s offer to undertake a duty that both of them were determined to avoid, called this speech of Bel’s—in their hearts—a mere piece of show-off.
But Arthur was glad that his wife should show his family that her blood ran redder and warmer than theirs, that prudence did not block the channels of her sympathy.
So Phœbe’s future was settled without any discussion, after all.
Bel had taken the plunge, everybody felt, and good luck to her. Another five minutes of steady, reflective munching persuaded the McNairns and the Butters to drop any rancour their hearts might still hold, and decide that everything had been settled for the best.
“What perfectly delicious black bun!” Sophia said presently. “Do you think, Bel dear, I could have a wee bit cut off to take home? William’s old uncle and aunt are coming in for tea to see the children tomorrow and I haven’t a scrap of black bun in the house. I don’t know why we’ve been too busy to make it. But you know what old people are. They expect, at a time like Christmas, just to find all the usual things. Perhaps if you could spare—?”
Chapter Six
THE winter afternoon was getting on as the train containing Phœbe and Mungo beat its way along the last lap of the journey towards Glasgow. Phœbe had never been in a train before. The nearest she had got to it was when she went in the trap to the station to meet her father or Mungo coming home from the markets in Ayr or Kilmarnock. She had asked her mother if she might not go with them one day, and her mother had put her off by telling her that they would take her soon. But soon had gone on receding ahead of her and nothing had happened. Once she had driven in the trap some ten miles to Ayr, and her mother had taken her down to wade in the sea, while her father had bought a new cart-horse. That had been her furthest and most thrilling journey.
Now she was on the way to Glasgow, large, magic and unknown, and she could not sit still for excitement. It was fortunate that they had the carriage to themselves, for now that they had passed Paisley and were speeding across the flat to the great City—where her grand half-sisters and brothers lived, where, she had been told, you could walk and walk and never get to the end of the streets—she kept running from window to window, looking at this and that, as her train went by. Distant spires. The boats on the Glasgow-Johnstone canal—this house—this building—everything excited her. Mungo sat staring a placid farmer’s stare out of the window, his handsome, weather-tanned face lighted by the setting sun, and let his little sister jump to her heart’s content.
Phœbe had left the farm with a mixture of feelings, but by far the greatest of these was curiosity at what lay before her. She was a child avid for experience, and she had so far known little of fear. Gracie and Jean had packed her little black tin box for her. Her simple and few things were washed and mended to perfection. For, decent souls, they were determined that that Mrs. Arthur to whom Phœbe was going should find nothing amiss in the way they had tended her.
The child had hopped about, watching them. She kept asking them endless questions. What would she do in Glasgow? What kind of school would she go to? Would meals be at the same time? Would she have to help Arthur with his business? That would be fun—she would like that. Did it rain in Glasgow? No, they told her. There was a very large umbrella that the Lord Provost put up every time it rained, so that the town was always dry. She laughed at that. But who was the Lord Provost? And so on her questions went.
Strangely, she seemed to think little about the familiar things she was leaving. She had asked if she could come back on holiday, and Mungo had assured her that she might. That appeared to satisfy her. It was Glasgow that engrossed her.
But at their early midday meal today she had scarcely eaten anything. And when her box was lifted into the trap and she had made to jump up after it, suddenly the sight of Jean and Gracie weeping at the door into their drugget aprons had touched her, and she had run back to them as they stood there and clung to them one after the other, inhaling from them the familiar farm smells of cows and chopped winter feeding, of soap and their own wholesome bodies.
Yet presently she was done with all that and was waving to them valiantly as the pony clattered along the road, causing
the farm to shrink into the distance.
II
Now she was at the station. Mungo was buying tickets. Third-class tickets. One for himself and—oh, unbelievable thrill—one for her. What were the glorious people like who travelled first- and second-class? Now the porter had rung his big brass bell. Now the great engine was bearing down upon them. Now the carriages came alongside. This time she was to have a place and was to be allowed to climb in. Now they were off! Trees and houses were rushing past her. Suddenly everything was wiped out. Darkness! The Mossgiel tunnel! The railway tunnel that pierces the rolling uplands of a farm that once was ploughed by the hand that wrote “The Cottar’s Saturday Night”. But to Phœbe it was just “the tunnel” she had heard them talk of. In the darkness she sat close to Mungo. Now another station, a different porter, a different bell. Now Kilmarnock where the men came to market. How busy it was! How anxious people seemed to get themselves into the train! There was another girl of her own age. What nice clothes she was wearing. Phœbe wished she would come in so that she could have a look at them. “Looking for the first-class, Mum?” A porter spoke to the lady who was with her. “Further up the train, Mum.” So it was people like that who went first-class. Should she herself be looking like that? Would Bel, whom she had never seen, object to her wearing such a plain black dress? But she liked Arthur. She felt Arthur wouldn’t mind. Besides, Arthur had seen her in this very dress at the funeral. Here was another station. There was a sheet of water. What was that, Mungo, a loch? Yes. A loch. Now Paisley. Busy and much like Kilmarnock. Now they were away again. They would soon be in Glasgow. Was the station at Glasgow bigger than the ones at Paisley and Kilmarnock? Yes. Mungo thought it was. Now houses and streets and endless backyards. There was fog a little and endless strings of lighted lamps. Was this Glasgow now? Yes. The train was slowing down. It had stopped. A porter was running along opening all the doors. A big porter with a bushy beard shouting in an accent that was Highland, like her mother’s, “Bridge Street.” He offered to help with the box, but Mungo paid no attention. He reached up and got it down for himself.
Everybody was getting out. Was she to get out too? Yes, of course. Jean had told her to see that she kept her gloves on. That it was more genteel. She had taken them off, but now she hauled them on again over paws that were dirty from the carriage. Little black ones that Jean had knitted herself. She jumped out. What crowds! What a noise of puffing, of steam! What shouting! A fat lady had come to meet another fat lady! What a fuss they were making! There was the child she had seen at Kilmarnock! Yes. Her clothes were nice. But her face looked petted—or, as Jean would have said, thrawn. Here was Arthur running up the platform! He was all hot with running.
III
“Hello! I thought I was going to be late.” He was giving Mungo his hand and bending down to kiss her. Once more she liked the look of this brother, and felt reassured at the thought of going to stay with him.
A porter had seized her black box and was marching down with the main stream to the entrance. Phœbe looked up at the flares of gas burning in the station, although the daylight was not yet altogether gone. Suddenly she realised that she was walking under great roofs of glass! She could count three of them! She was walking in a great glass-house! They were through the barrier. What a wide stair leading down into the street! And what a busy street! Arthur said it was Clyde Place. And there was the Clyde! He called her attention to two great steamers, their paddle-boxes gleaming with golden paint, lying against the other bank. That was the Broomielaw, where the steamers were. One of them, he said, went all the way to Ireland. Behind them were high houses. She read the words “Lord Byron Hotel”. Why did people go to hotels? Because they had no friends to stay with?
But Arthur was debating with Mungo what to do with Phœbe’s box. “We’ll have to get a cab for this,” he was saying.
But Mungo seemed annoyed with the extravagance. “Not at all. We’ve good legs. Can ye not get a barrow? There’s a laddie there.”
A boy no bigger than herself but much older-looking came forward and tugged at the glossy skip of his dirty cap. He pointed to a little flat hand-cart. “Tak’ yer trunk, sir?”
Arthur nodded, and Phœbe was amazed to find with what agility and apparent strength he swung it up and on to his little cart. Arthur waved a directing hand, said “Across the town,” and away he went, keeping to the street just in front of them, while they followed on the pavement. In a few moments he was turning to the left over Glasgow Bridge.
Phœbe was glad that her brothers had so much to say, for she was enraptured with what she saw and wanted to be left alone. There was the great river stretching away to the west, the water glittering in the sunset. A steamer was turning round. Churning her paddles in midstream. And down beyond on both sides the shining waters were fringed by forests of sailing-ship masts, interspersed here and there by a steamship emitting clouds of smoke and steam. Distant tugs and ferries and even rowing-boats looked like water-beetles against the light. She had come indeed to a place of magic. The very bridge she was walking on was lit by handsome lamps, set high on the balustrades on either side. The gas-flares inside them looked like pale jewels against the fading eastern sky.
She made to dart across to look at the river on the other side. Mungo caught her shoulder. She was to stay where she was! Now she was in the town, she must learn to be careful. Did she want to get herself kicked to pieces by the bus horses as they rushed past? Phœbe walked on, sobered for a moment. She did not like to ask which were buses, for she was not sure. But presently she decided to ask Arthur. Was that big thing with three horses in front coming up to the crown of the bridge a bus? Yes. That was a bus. She watched it as it passed. How funny! She would like to have a ride on that, especially on the top, where things like two summer seats were arranged, back to back. People were sitting sideways, huddled in their winter coats. She was surprised that they did not appear to be enjoying their exciting position. And how funnily the sides of the buses were painted, with criss-cross colours to represent tartan!
Now they were on the other side. The shops were beginning. First, right on the corner, facing the bridge, Thomson’s, clothier and outfitter. The boy with the barrow was well ahead of them now, hurrying up Jamaica Street, so that they had no option for the moment but to take the way he had gone—for the brothers had no intention of letting him out of sight. So Phœbe was able to enjoy herself, casting hurried glances at the lighted shop-windows, as they passed up.
Now they were at the crossing of Jamaica Street and Argyle Street. They halted for a moment, shouting to the barrow-boy to turn to the right, along Argyle Street. Phœbe had never seen anywhere so busy. She counted four of these tartan buses crossing in different directions while they stood. And there were several cabs, two or three men on horseback, a huckster with a donkey, and endless people. Where could everybody be going to? It was getting darker now. To the left, beyond Anderston, the sunset was deepening to a lurid crimson.
Argyle Street, as they went along it, was gay and busy. Phœbe wondered that so many people dare walk about in the middle of the street, with so much traffic on the move. The sound of horses’ hoofs was never out of her ears. The shops were ablaze with gas-flares and most of them still had their Christmas and New Year display of goods and decorations. As they passed the opening to St. Enoch’s Square, Arthur pointed out to Mungo the position that the great new railway station and hotel were to occupy.
IV
And now, after much walking, they were going up a narrower street. Phœbe was able to read its name on the corner. It was called Candleriggs. She had heard them talk of the Candleriggs. She asked if that was the same thing. They told her it was. It was a cheerful street. Through open doors men were working in the gas-light, moving boxes and bales, or perched at high desks writing in books under a single flare. This was the street where Arthur worked, she was told. Here he had his business. She would like to come and work here too. Would Arthur allow her?
The brothe
rs laughed heartily and said here was Arthur’s warehouse. Phœbe, a little sulky, said nothing more. She looked up and read: ARTHUR MOORHOUSE AND COMPANY. What was there to laugh at? She had always worked about the farm, and liked it, for she was a managing little body. Besides, her elders had seemed to expect her to help.
Inside the place was spotless. Great cheeses were ranged on scrubbed shelves. Packing and expediting was in full swing, for though it was four o’clock and almost dark, there were still several hours of work before the warehousemen. Phœbe walked about with her hands behind her, concealing her intense interest under a business-like air.
Suddenly, in a little gaslit den at the back, she came upon the backs of two men perched up, writing. A fire burnt in a little black iron fireplace, making the place hot and stuffy. The men were working with their jackets off and their sleeves rolled up. One of them wore a wide black tie encircling a high collar. Over the edge of this crept the thick chestnut hair of her brother David. Phœbe walked primly round to the side of his desk and said: “Hello, David.”
David looked down upon her, smiled quizzically, and shut one eye.
He was untidy, his face was dirty and his fingers were stained with ink. He was not at all the grand young man she had seen on the day of the funeral. She liked him much better as she found him now.
“Jimmie,” he said to the elderly clerk at his side, “this is my sister.”
“The Maister wis sayin’ ye wis comin’ tae Glesca, Miss.” The man climbed down and shook hands.
Phœbe had never been called “Miss” before. For a moment it made her feel very important. Presently she said goodbye with dignity and went out again, bent upon seeing anything else there was to see.
Mungo and Arthur seemed to be having an endless discussion with Arthur’s head man on the subject of cheese. Finding nothing further of vital interest, Phœbe went to the door.
