by Guy McCrone
“Bel, will you allow me to nurse the baby when it’s born?”
Bel, brought up to genteel reticence like every other young woman of her class and period, was so taken aback at such words coming from a ten-year-old girl that she could only say, “What baby?”
“Your baby, of course!” Why not? Young things at the farm had always fascinated her. This young thing would be the most enchanting of all.
“But who told you, Phœbe?”
“Nobody.”
For a moment Bel actually felt angry. But her fundamental sense came to her rescue, though of necessity she must remain a woman of her time.
“Phœbe,” she said, “you mustn’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s wicked.” What nonsense Bel knew she was talking.
“Wicked?”
“Well, no, not wicked. Unsuitable.”
“But I don’t see—”
Bel, fast getting out of her depth, must use her wits.
“Well, come here and I’ll tell you something. There is going to be a baby in May, and if you don’t say a word about it to anybody between now and then, I promise you’ll be allowed to nurse it sometimes.” And with that she turned off the gas and quickly took herself out of the room.
Phœbe pondered for a long time, sitting on her bed. Why? It would have been nice to think and talk about the baby.
Truly Glasgow was a strange place.
For a moment she leant from her window, looking out across the town. The glow of the street lights had caught the smoke hanging over the great city, giving it a luminous, dusky cover. Endless roofs. And did all these spires mean churches? What a lot there must be! In the near distance she could see indistinctly the shape of Sir Walter Scott’s statue standing silhouetted in the haze. She could see a part of the column too, although she could not see its base in George’s Square. Who could that be? She must remember to ask Arthur.
She turned back, filled with curiosity and excitement and with an avid desire to go on living. Yes, it had been a strange day.
And now her bed was strange. Not at all like the bed at the Laigh Farm. Her room was strange. Bel and Arthur were strange. But what, on this first evening of her new life, was not strange? She must lie quiet, listening to these strange town noises, and think about everything.
But in five minutes more Phœbe was asleep.
Chapter Eight
IT was just dark as Mungo said goodbye to Bel and Phœbe at the Arthur Moorhouses’ front door. In the morning Phœbe had asked Arthur if she might cross the town to see Mungo off, but she had been told no.
Now he had turned to raise his hand to them for the last time and was striding giant footsteps down the incline of Montrose Street. A few drops of rain fell upon his face.
Neither Phœbe nor he had shown any emotion at parting. But his thoughts as he paced quickly downwards, impelled by the slant of the hill, were with his little half-sister. On very few nights of her life had he and she failed to sleep under the same roof. For he had been scarcely ever away from the Laigh Farm, and she never. He was fond of her, he supposed, as he was fond of any of the other young creatures growing up about the farm. He wondered vaguely how she would settle into this new existence. Then he reflected that all the rest of his brothers and sisters had done so, and that they seemed busy and happy.
For himself, two days of it were about enough. He wasn’t built for all the fripperies and politenesses of the town. Bel had been very kind and had left no stone unturned in her anxiety for his comfort. But he had felt the constraint of her braw house and her starched housemaid. He had, indeed, been afraid to be left alone with his sister-in-law. For their thoughts and interests were such poles apart. Very quickly he had found conversation hard going. It wasn’t that he couldn’t get on with fine ladies on occasion. Finer ladies than his own relatives, if it came to that. Miss Ruanthorpe, the daughter of his laird, often hung over a gate and talked to him for half an hour on end, when he came across her, which, now he came to think of it, was not infrequently. And she never made him feel ill-dressed or awkward as he stood in his rough clothes. But then she talked his own language. She could talk of ploughing and reaping and sowing. How the young beasts were promising. She had a good idea of prices. Once or twice she had come to beg his advice about her ponies or her dogs. This had flattered him, for it showed that she considered his advice of more weight than the advice of the grooms or the keeper. And Mungo was well aware that she was right. He knew that he had a growing reputation as a farmer, that his help was of value.
But Bel and Sophia and Mary. They lived in a world of gentilities for which he could raise no enthusiasm. He supposed all town ladies must be like that. Endless tattle about dress. He had heard a great deal about bustles, which were just coming in about this time. What was to be got in the shops. Meetings of this, that and the other kind in connection with the church, at which so far as he could gather—especially from Sophia—you had as many misunderstandings as possible with other ladies. Indeed, the church seemed to be the hub of their universe. Sewing meetings. Missionary meetings. Prayer meetings. Tea meetings. He caught himself wondering just what good all that did. He had always thought of church as a place to go to at twelve o’clock every Sunday. Where you sat in peace and reverence. Not as cockpits of social strivings. Well, he supposed it kept town women out of mischief and prevented a great number of them—especially the unmarried and therefore unwanted—from turning into those sluts who were so much to the fore just now; who claimed that women should have votes and stand equal with men in the world; who had the effrontery to call themselves the New Women.
He had taken his way down the Candleriggs in order to bid his brothers goodbye, and now he was at their door. Arthur was hard at it, directing his men. David was in the back office, sucking the end of a pencil.
He gave them both a hurried farewell, for he saw that Arthur was preoccupied. And he invited them both to come and see him now he was to be by himself. Especially David, for he thought he looked none too robust in his stuffy little counting-house.
No. He didn’t want their kind of life. He knew that Arthur was building up a good business, and he admired him. He knew that his brother’s name was one which was slowly gaining respect in the City, and he honoured him for it. But he had no desire to stand in Arthur’s shoes. The very thought of eternally working in the Candleriggs was abhorrent to him. Packing-cases. Straw. Gas-flares. Account books. The never-ending clatter of dray-horses’ hoofs. The oaths and the shouting. No. Never.
It was raining more heavily as he hurried along Argyle Street. The muddy street was shining in the lights. Several times the wheels of the passing buses splashed him, for in his hurry he tried to keep to the less-crowded outside of the pavement. Filthy urchins were calling an evening paper. Hucksters of various kinds were calling their wares. Fresh herrings. Mussels. Caller oysters. Here and there at the turn of a side-street, a barrow of vegetables. John Anderson’s Royal Polytechnic was a blaze of light.
Now down Jamaica Street and across the Glasgow Bridge. It was raining heavily. He bent his head as the rain struck against his face. A steamer boomed in the darkness. Above the sound of the traffic he could hear the beat of paddles as another steamer pounded itself against the force of the black, muddy river into position along the quayside of the Broomielaw. Its bow was almost under the bridge.
But here was Clyde Place and the Bridge Street Station steps. In a moment more he was under shelter.
In a few minutes he would be out of it all. And a good thing. For he was a countryman, and he was going back to the country.
II
The rain lashed in bitter bursts against the windows of his carriage whenever the train was free from the covering protection of the station. The raindrops glistened and sparkled on the panes as the train, working its way outwards across the points, moved past street lamps and lighted shops and houses.
Two stout women, with large, uncomfortable bundles on their knees, sat and s
tared before them in the pale gas-light, bothering neither to speak to one another, though they were obviously together, nor yet to place their bundles on the seat beside them or on the rack above. But Mungo did not think this odd, for, without actually considering them, he rightly took them to be country-folk like himself. And it is the habit of such when on the move to sit clutching their belongings. Indeed, all three of them now sat forward, swaying with the lurches of the railway carriage, in that almost inanimate state of waiting that belongs to peasant people of all lands. It is impossible for townsmen to tell whether they are patient or impatient—whether, indeed, they have sensations of any kind.
At a side-station after Kilmarnock, the two stout women bundled themselves out. Mungo came to life enough to help them with their packages.
He did not move again until the train had roared through the Mossgiel Tunnel. Then he stood up stiffly and got down his bag.
The rain was falling, soft and steady, as he stepped out on the station platform. Here he halted—alive again, breathing familiar air and bidding one or two local people good-evening. This rain was good after the coldness. It would take the frost out of the ground and let him get on with his ploughing.
Outside the station, one of his men was waiting with the trap. The pony, standing in the wet with hung head, suddenly came to life at this known step, shook himself in his harness, put forward his ears and screwed his head round to look at Mungo. Mungo passed his hands down the front of the animal’s nose and over his quivering nostrils. Then he greeted his man, jumped up and took the reins. The high-mettled little beast, pleased with the feel of its master’s guiding hands, stretched his back and trotted sharply off on the road homeward.
Mungo was happy now. The country round about him was shrouded in darkness. By the help of his own gig-lamps he could see the road a little. That was all. Yet he and his beast knew every turn by instinct. If a black shape passed over his head, he knew it was a certain branch of a tree, which tree it belonged to, and how it looked in the daytime. The very echo of his pony’s hoofs told him where he was.
He chatted in a desultory manner with his man. Everything was, of course, as he had left it two days ago. There was nothing to tell. Yet it was pleasant to speak of his own things after the trivialities of the town—to smell the wet, wintry earth and horsey odour from his pony.
In his own farmyard the two dogs, Nith and Doon, were circling and baying with joy. They followed him barking into the glowing firelit kitchen, where Jean welcomed him with a quiet show of country pleasure.
How was Phœbe? she asked. Phœbe, he told her, was fine. Was she going to be happy in the town? He said he thought so. The woman was bursting with questions. About Phœbe. About Mrs. Arthur’s grand house in Glasgow. About Glasgow itself. For to her it might just as well have been Paris or St. Petersburg and almost as remote. But Mungo looked thoughtful and she dared not bother him.
It was queer to see only one place laid. For so long there had always been at least four. And often too the inside servants, if they were at liberty, had sat with them. There had always been his father, his stepmother and Phœbe as well as himself. Often, apart from his father calling for a blessing on their food, little or nothing had been said. If Phœbe had been talkative sometimes, she had been told to be quiet. For a mealtime is not always a social event among those who labour heavily. It is a time of rest. Now they were all gone, he missed the strong sense of companionship.
But for his own dogs, he was alone. It pleased him to be at home again in these surroundings, yet he was lonely. He found himself wishing that his little sister were with him.
When, after he had finished and had taken down his pipe and filled it and seated himself in his father’s chair, the woman came in to clear away, he was glad to exchange a word or two with her—even to tell her a little about Glasgow—although he had scarcely ever bothered to speak to her in his life before.
Presently everything had been taken away, washed, brought back and put in its place on the shelves of the scrubbed dresser. His heart was strangely empty tonight, but it was pleasant to sit again with his jacket and collar and tie off, and his sleeves rolled up at ease in the Laigh Farm kitchen.
Nith and Doon had settled down in peace in their own separate corners of the room. They were never allowed nearer to the fire than that.
Mungo did not know how long he had sat thus ruminating over his pipe when he heard a thin whine at the door. He got up with slow deliberation and opened it. It was his father’s old dog Clyde, gaunt and shaky on his legs, for now, since the loss of his master, he would not eat. The animal showed no pleasure; he merely cast his cloudy eyes about the kitchen as though he were looking for someone. Mungo bent down and patted him. In two days his ribs had become more prominent.
One of the men had said: “That dug’ll no’ dae nae mair guid, wi’ yer faither awa’.”
He had been quite right. The dog was doing no more good.
“He’s no’ here, Clyde. He’s no’ here, lad.” Mungo ran his hand over his ears.
The old dog looked about him stupidly. Mungo tried to bring him into the warmth, but he whimpered and wanted to go out again, so he let him go. He himself came back to his chair by the fire.
No. They were not here.
On a sudden impulse he called his other dogs. They sprang to their feet and came to him. He laid down his pipe and ran his hands down their sleek, long muzzles. This was unheard-of spoiling for creatures who must work for their living. But dogs are tactful beasts. One soon had stretched himself across Mungo’s feet and the other sat, resting his head on his master’s knee beside his hand.
And so they remained for a long time. Long enough, indeed, for coals to fall in the great open fireplace, and for the cheerful glow from the ashes to sink and dwindle.
But Mungo Moorhouse did not notice. He was asleep.
Chapter Nine
BEL set David’s small white tie with all the care of an arch-conspirator.
“There. Now let me look at you.”
David straightened himself, and tugged at the front of his brand-new tail-coat.
“Now turn round slowly.”
He turned. When he could see himself full length in Bel’s bedroom mirror, he halted.
The reflection showed him the picture of a handsome young aristocrat, with a wealth of chestnut hair and side-whiskers trimmed with restraint and refinement that afternoon by Glasgow’s Greatest Tonsorial Artist.
“You don’t think they’ve cut my waistcoat too high?” David looked down dubiously at his trim black waistcoat.
Bel cast her mind back to a recent performance of “Astonishment” at the Theatre Royal and to the aspect of the handsome Mr. Kendal who had, in flawless evening clothes, so brilliantly led the company, in partnership with his talented wife. Bel and Arthur went very seldom to the devil’s playbox, but an influential customer had kindly given Arthur cards, which, presumably, he could not use himself. Thus, much to Bel’s delight, pleasure had, for once, become a matter of business. For Arthur could not dare tell anyone so important that he had not cared to profit by his kindness.
But Bel did not say anything to David about her mental picture of the brilliant Mr. Kendal. She wanted rather to give her brother-in-law the impression that she was more than used to that kind of thing, to convey to him that she was a woman of the world. That David—as a near relative—knew all about her did not damp this hope. So she looked at his waistcoat critically and said, “No, I think it’s just right as it is.”
She was pleased with the appearance of David. To her eye, at least, he looked as though he might be anybody. In things social Bel and David were allies. They both had ambitions. David’s—to rise in the world generally, not so much by hard work as by getting to know the people whom he considered to be deserving of that elusive qualification right. Bel, while quite approving of the right people, was directing her aims at a handsome house situated out West. The increasing unfashionableness of Ure Place and the increasing
prosperity of her husband had created within her the desire to move.
It was Arthur’s stubbornness and lack of understanding that had driven Bel and David into this alliance. Couldn’t she be happy where she was? her husband asked every time they touched upon the subject. There were moments when really he was infuriating. Couldn’t he see that this quarter of the town would, in time, become impossible? Now that he was the father of a boy of three, and a little year-old girl, he really ought to think of a suitable environment for them. And there was Phœbe, nearly fourteen. In a year or two she would be a young lady. She knew Arthur wanted to do well by his sister. She did too, if it came to that. Were they only to have Mary McNairn to depend on for getting to know nice people? (Mary’s possession of a wide, if somewhat pious circle, did not increase Bel’s affection for her.)
But now, a month ago, David had come to her with a beautiful, gilt invitation card asking him to a Dancing Party in Dowanhill. What should he do?
Bel looked at the card. “Mrs. Hayburn and Messrs. Stephen and Henry Hayburn request the pleasure of Mr. David Moorhouse’s company”, and so on. “Dancing.”
“‘Dancing’ means that it’s a full-blown dance,” David said uncertainly.
Bel turned the card about, admiring but thoughtful, and said “Yes.”
“That will mean full evening dress,” David said, feeling his way. In the Moorhouse circle none of the men had evening dress. (Except Mr. McNairn, of course, who, now one of the City’s Baillies, was really forced to get it. Mary had explained: “You see, we have so many wearisome official functions, dear!”) No, they were entertained and returned entertainment—the ladies in what might be called semi, the men in a dark suit.
Bel still went on twisting the card and pondering. It had ceased to be a card in her hand. It was the thin edge of a wedge.
“Who are the Hayburns, David?”
“They’re very rich. Their father died last year. Hayburn and Company. Something to do with iron. I know Stephen. There are two sons. They live with their mother near the Botanic Gardens.”
