Bel Lamington

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Leave her alone,” said the doctor as he released his pupil. “We’ll make a fisherwoman of her before we’re done.”

  “You won’t,” declared Louise. “Anyhow she won’t catch any fish this afternoon. It’s far too bright—and you know it.”

  “There might be some clouds later,” said the doctor hopefully.

  “If there are clouds there’s less chance than ever of Bel catching a fish because you’ll take the rod yourself, Daddy.”

  “Am I so selfish!” exclaimed Dr. Armstrong.

  “Yes, every bit,” replied Louise giggling.

  There were no clouds—there was not a cloud in the sky—so the lesson continued for about half-an-hour by which time Bel’s arms were aching and the doctor was tired of disentangling the line. Bel had caught herself three times and the doctor twice but she had not caught a fish. She had not even seen the glint of a fish in the pool. Secretly she was convinced that there was not a fish in the river.

  “It’s no good. I shall never learn,” said Bel at last.

  “I expect you’re tired,” said Dr. Armstrong. “We could have another lesson some time.” He hesitated and then added, “I think I’ll take the rod and go up the river a bit; there might be a chance in the broken water above the bridge.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  In the days that followed Bel came to realise that the river was of paramount importance. The river was—so to speak—the theme song of Drumburly. Bel heard it at night, gliding past beneath the windows of the room she was sharing with Louise. She listened to it lapping gently against the thick stone wall of the house. Sometimes if she woke in the night she would rise and look out of the window and see it, silvery in the moonlight or dark as indigo beneath a clouded sky. She saw it in the morning prancing along with the sun shining down upon it making the wavelets glitter and sparkle. In some places the river moved slowly and powerfully; in other places it streamed along in its rocky bed chattering gaily as it went, swirling round stones, hesitating in pools, tumbling down miniature cataracts. It poured through narrow fissures and spread out fanwise over stretches of clean yellow gravel. Smooth black rocks shouldered the green water into great curves like polished glass.

  The river was the reason for the existence of Drumburly. The little town would not have been there at all if the bridge had not been built. The bridge had been the first thing, then the change-house where coaches halted for fresh horses, then the little town had gradually grown up with its houses and shops and the church upon the hill.

  The river was the reason for The Shaw Arms and it was the reason for Mrs. Simpson’s prosperity. All the people staying in the hotel were here because of the river. The river was the subject of conversation: it had risen so many inches in the night; the water was clear—or drumly; the fish were taking—or not taking. People talked incessantly of the different pools where the big trout lay waiting to be caught.

  Quite soon Bel got to know the people staying in the hotel. There were Mr. Drummond and his sister—both of them keen anglers—both of them tall and slender with dark hair and eyes like peaty pools. Mr. Drummond was much better-looking than his sister and a great deal more agreeable. The Drummonds had been staying at The Shaw Arms when the Armstrongs arrived so they were friends already. Alec Drummond and Louise Armstrong were calling each other by their Christian names.

  There were Mr. and Mrs. Plack. He was a retired banker, rather plump, with a rosy face and iron-grey hair. In spite of advancing years Mr. Plack was a skilful fisherman; he was as keen as mustard and went out in all weathers to stalk the wily trout. Mrs. Plack was small and wispy. She took no interest in sport but spent her days writing letters or knitting or reading books from Mrs. Simpson’s well-stocked library. Sometimes she could be seen wandering vaguely about the town buying sweets and stamps and wool, or soap-powder with which to wash her nylon stockings and her husband’s socks. Bel felt sorry for Mrs. Plack—it must have been a dull sort of holiday for her—but Mrs. Plack seemed quite contented, at least she did not complain.

  There were other people besides these in the hotel; some of them were staying indefinitely, others came and went. Two young men arrived in a large Bentley; one of them extremely tall and thin, the other of more normal proportions—Mr. Thornton and Captain Wentworth Brown—but they were not accepted into the inner circle of The Shaw Arms for, instead of spending all their days fishing the river, they piled all their fishing gear into the car and went off at speed to fish in some other place—nobody knew where. Mr. Plack was of the opinion that they indulged in loch-fishing for which he had the greatest contempt.

  “Sitting all day in a boat!” said Mr. Plack.

  “I like it for a change,” declared Alec Drummond. “The doctor and I had a very good day on the loch on Saturday.”

  “No fun,” said Mr. Plack. “Sitting all day in a boat!”

  People talked to each other at meals. Each party had its own table but this did not prevent a certain amount of conversation from taking place. People talked to each other in the lounge. They talked all the time about the fish they had caught—or had not been able to catch—or sometimes about the weather.

  Bel found to her surprise that they liked talking to her. She knew nothing about fishing but that did not seem to worry them. All that they wanted was somebody who would listen—and Bel was a good listener. As a matter of fact Bel enjoyed listening to the fishing stories; she might have got bored if she had had to listen for too long, but it was all new to her—it was like looking out of a window at a strange prospect—everything was completely different from what she had seen before.

  It soon became evident to Bel that Alec Drummond had another interest in his life—besides fishing. It was Louise. There was nothing strange about this for Louise was exceedingly attractive. Indeed it would have been strange if a young man, thrown into the company of Louise, had not looked upon her with delight. He looked upon her constantly (Bel noticed). He would stop in the middle of a fishing story when Louise came into the room. Sometimes he would sit quite silent and gaze at her in adoration.

  Bel was interested of course (she was tremendously interested in everything to do with Louise) but for some days she was merely an onlooker; she had no idea what Louise was thinking. Although she and Louise talked incessantly in their usual uninhibited manner Alec Drummond’s name was never mentioned. What did this mean, wondered Bel. It seemed impossible that Louise was unaware of the havoc she was causing. Her manner to the young man was perfectly natural and friendly—but Louise was friendly to everybody in the place!

  Bel was aware that a good many young men had fallen in love with Louise but none of them had touched her heart; none of them was to be compared with Dr. Armstrong. Louise had told Bel this when Bel was staying with the Armstrongs at Coombe House. Bel wondered if Alec Drummond was just another unfortunate young man or whether he was to be the fortunate one.

  Alec Drummond was exceedingly nice—Bel liked him immensely—there was something solid about him, he was modest and unassuming, he was kind. It was obvious that Dr. Armstrong liked him for they often went fishing together and they were good companions, chatting and sharing jokes.

  Naturally Bel thought about it a great deal and wondered. She wondered what the young man did for his living. She had heard Miss Drummond say to Mrs. Plack that she and her brother were staying at The Shaw Arms indefinitely and when they got tired of it they would probably go on somewhere else.

  “For fishing, I suppose,” suggested Mrs. Plack.

  “Yes of course,” replied Miss Drummond.

  Was it possible that Alec Drummond had no business to attend to? What did he do when he wasn’t fishing, wondered Bel.

  *

  2

  One evening when Bel had gone upstairs to fetch a book she encountered Alec Drummond lurking on the landing. She smiled at him and was about to pass on but he stopped her.

  “Miss Lamington,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you—I hope you don’t mind—it’s a
bout Louise. You’re her friend and I just wondered—if you knew—anything.”

  “Knew anything?”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t talk to you like this but I’m really desperate,” he declared. “Absolutely desperate. Of course you don’t know what I’m talking about, but—but the fact is I’m terribly in love with Louise.”

  Obviously Alec Drummond expected his hearer to be astonished at this news. She was not astonished, but she was considerably taken aback to find herself being made the recipient of his confidence. She did not know what to say. She did not know what he expected her to say. She looked at him in silence.

  “No wonder you’re surprised,” he continued, taking out a large handkerchief and wiping his forehead. “I’m surprised myself. I’m thirty-seven, you see, and I’ve never fallen in love before. It’s quite—quite devastating. She’s wonderful, isn’t she?”

  Fortunately that was easily answered. “Yes, she is.”

  “She’s the most wonderful girl I’ve ever seen. I never knew there could be anybody so wonderful—so beautiful and good and sweet. Louise! It’s a beautiful name; Louise! She couldn’t be called anything else!”

  Bel agreed with him. She could not imagine Louise being called anything else. The thought passed through her mind that Alec Drummond resembled Orlando; he would have liked to wander through the woods carving the name of his beloved upon trees. He couldn’t, of course, because he was much too civilised. It was a pity, because it might have done him good. She felt very sorry for him.

  “I didn’t mean to talk to you like this,” said the unhappy young man. “I meant to be quite sensible and just ask you if—if you had—any idea—any idea whether there was any hope. I mean you’re her friend, aren’t you? I wondered whether she had ever said anything . . .” He paused and looked at Bel like a spaniel asking for a biscuit.

  “No, nothing,” said Bel regretfully.

  “You’ll tell me if she does, won’t you?”

  “Oh no!” exclaimed Bel. “I couldn’t possibly promise that!”

  “No,” he said sadly. “No, of course you couldn’t. Silly of me to ask. It’s just—I don’t know what to do. If there was any hope I’d stay on and—and go on trying. I’d go on trying for months if there was any hope! But if not I’d better go away. I can’t go on like this. Of course I know I’m not nearly good enough for Louise but—but I’d do my best to make her happy. I’d do anything for her—anything. Do you think there’s any hope?”

  “Why don’t you ask her,” suggested Bel.

  “Oh, I’ve tried. I’ve tried twice—leading up to it, you know. It isn’t the sort of thing you can blurt out all of a sudden. But—well—I don’t seem to be very good at it. Somehow I don’t seem to be able to—to get there—if you know what I mean. She sort of rides me off and the next minute we seem to be talking about something else.”

  “Fishing?” suggested Bel.

  “Yes.” He wiped the palms of his hands and put away his handkerchief. “Oh goodness!” he exclaimed. “I don’t know what to do. What do you think I ought to do?”

  Bel had no idea what he ought to do.

  “I can’t go on like this,” he declared. “It’s making me quite ill. I think about it all the time. Even when I’m fishing I keep on thinking about Louise. If I were certain that there was absolutely no hope I’d leave here tomorrow. Jean would be annoyed but that can’t be helped. Jean could stay on here by herself if she wanted to.” He heaved a sigh and added, “If there’s no hope I’ve a good mind to leave here and go to Loch Leven.”

  “Loch Leven?”

  “Yes. That ought to take my mind off—if anything could.”

  Bel was surprised. She was so abysmally ignorant that she associated Loch Leven with Mary Stuart; that unfortunate queen had been imprisoned upon an island in the middle of Loch Leven and had escaped in a small boat under cover of darkness. It was very romantic, of course, but Bel failed to see how it could help in the recovery of Orlando.

  “Do you think you could possibly help me?” asked Orlando. “I’ve no right to ask you, I know,” he added hastily. “No right at all. I just thought if you could possibly—I mean if you could sort of—sound her about it. If you could put in a word for me and—and——”

  “I don’t think so,” said Bel reluctantly. “I’m sorry, but honestly I wouldn’t like to interfere.”

  “It wouldn’t be interfering.”

  “It would, really—and it might do harm. Louise is the sort of person who likes to manage her own affairs.”

  Bel might have added that Louise liked to manage other people’s affairs as well—it would have been true—but it might have given quite a wrong idea of her character, for although Louise certainly managed people, and liked doing it, she was not what is usually described as “a managing person”.

  The conversation seemed to have come to an end. They were both silent. It was rather an embarrassing silence so Bel was not sorry when Mrs. Simpson came up the stairs. Mrs. Simpson was on her way to see if the new girl had put in the hot-water-bottles and turned down the beds in the correct manner. The girl had been shown exactly how to do it, and she seemed fairly intelligent, but Mrs. Simpson wanted to make quite sure.

  “The glass is falling,” said Mrs. Simpson cheerfully. “There’s going to be rain. It’ll be a grand day for the fishing tomorrow, Mr. Drummond.”

  “Oh, good,” said Mr. Drummond with a surprising lack of enthusiasm.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The river was particularly interesting to Bel, because she had never known a river before. She had seen rivers of course—she had had a nodding acquaintance with them so to speak—but she was getting to know the Burly as if it were a friend. It had a definite personality. All the same it was pleasant to get away from it occasionally; Bel and Louise had several delightful walks over the hills, taking their lunch—sandwiches of brown bread and ham, little rolls filled with tomato-purée or salad, and scones with honey in them. Mrs. Simpson made a speciality of delicious lunches.

  One day the girls walked over to Crossraggle. Another day they crossed the bridge and walked along a very hilly road to Boscath Farm. It was a perfectly lovely morning with bright golden sunshine and blue skies; not the sort of weather to suit fishermen, but delightful for a walk. The road was little more than a cart track; it wound hither and thither amongst the rolling hills where there were patches of boggy ground and outcrops of rocks and heather. The heather was now at its best, the hills were covered with purple blossoms; they smelt of honey, sweet and tangy; the pollen was thick and yellow. Thousands of wild bees were at work, their small brown bodies burrowing avidly amongst the tiny flowers. There was a curious toughness about the heather with its thick springy brown stems coiling about the rocks and stones, straggling across the path. It was a plant of the hills, hardy and strong. Here and there small silver burns ran down amidst tiny valleys of bright green grass. It was here that the sheep liked to gather; the smooth sheep-bitten turf was soft as velvet.

  A grey misty cloud with rainbows in it came up quickly from behind the hills and in a moment the sun went out like a blown candle and the girls were enveloped in a sharp stinging shower of rain. They sheltered for a few minutes behind a giant boulder and then quite suddenly the sun was shining again and the rain-cloud fled across the valley trailing its shadow on the ground, leaving behind it diamonds upon the heather, diamonds glittering amongst the grasses, diamonds glistening upon a spider’s web.

  “How lovely it is!” said Bel with a sigh of delight.

  “Yes, lovely,” Louise agreed. “We’ll have our lunch here, shall we? I’m going to have a drink from this little burn.”

  They sat and had lunch and drank the clear water and were very happy and peaceful.

  *

  2

  Bel was enjoying every moment of her holiday; she enjoyed the walks, she enjoyed the good plain meals, she enjoyed shopping in the little town. By no means the least delightful moments were those which were spent
getting ready for bed; undressing in a leisurely manner while she chatted to Louise about the events of the day. Neither of them had ever known what it was to have a sister so this was an entirely new experience. It took them a long time to get ready for bed but that did not matter for time was not important at Drumburly. Bel had said it would be fun to share a room with Louise, and so it was. They liked it so much that when a room fell vacant and Mrs. Simpson offered to move Bel they decided to remain as they were.

  “I like Alec Drummond,” said Bel one night when they were getting ready for bed.

  Bel had not intended to say it—she had told Orlando quite definitely that she wouldn’t interfere—but she was so distressed at his love-lorn condition that she had changed her mind. It could do no harm to mention his name to Louise.

  “Oh yes,” said Louise. “Alec is a perfect dear.”

  “He thinks you’re a perfect dear.”

  “I know,” agreed Louise. She sighed and added, “It’s taking me all my time not to fall in love with Alec.”

  Bel was silent.

  “Daddy likes him too,” Louise continued. “That’s important, of course. Daddy is very wise. I go a lot by what he thinks of people. He sums them up, you know, it’s part of his job. Daddy has made friends with Alec.”

  “Yes, I noticed that.”

  There was another little silence and then Louise said, “Sometimes I think it would be delightful to fall in love with Alec—but it wouldn’t work.”

  “Wouldn’t it?”

  “No,” said Louise, shaking her head. “No, it wouldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Look at Mrs. Plack!”

  “Mrs. Plack?” echoed Bel in astonishment. “What has Mrs. Plack got to do with it?”

  “Everything,” replied Louise. “When I begin to think too much about Alec I’ve only got to look at Mrs. Plack. That pulls me up with a jerk.”

  “But why——”

  “Look at her!” exclaimed Louise vehemently. “Just look at her! The woman who marries Alec Drummond will be just another Mrs. Plack; sitting in hotels all day long and knitting shapeless jumpers, trailing round the shops and buying all sorts of things she doesn’t really want—just to put off time. That’s what Mrs. Plack does every day and all day long: she-puts-off-time! What sort of life is that? It isn’t a life at all. It’s an existence. I’d rather be the wife of a ploughman and cook and scrub and wash his clothes! I’d be more use in the world, wouldn’t I?”