Bel Lamington

by D. E. Stevenson

  Bel did not say much, she was content to listen, it was delightful to see her friends getting on so well; and it was delightful to look at Ellis Brownlee and to know that he had not forgotten her but was still interested in her welfare. The little packet of letters was safely in the pocket of her cardigan and she looked forward to reading them when she had time.

  Ellis was staying at The Shaw Arms (the Armstrongs had told him to do so) and James suggested he should come to Tassieknowe tomorrow for a day’s fishing.

  “I could lend you a rod,” said James; he added thoughtfully, “I might take a day off, myself. The river is in pretty good condition at the moment.”

  “You must come to lunch,” added Rhoda. “I daresay Bel will consent to cook an extra potato for you.”

  “Or we might take sandwiches,” suggested James. “We’ll wait and see what sort of a day it is.”

  Bel wondered how long he intended to stay at Drumburly, she was aware that there must be a lot for him to do at the office, but Ellis did not seem to be in any special hurry to get home. He agreed to come to Tassieknowe tomorrow and stood up to take his departure.

  “Oh, but you mustn’t go!” exclaimed Rhoda. “I want to show you my painting of Bel. It isn’t finished, but I’d like you to see it.” She added, “We don’t often have unexpected visitors at Tassieknowe—it’s so far from everywhere—so when we do have anybody we hang onto them as long as possible.”

  “Couldn’t he play tiddly-winks with us?” asked Harry. “It would be much more fun for him than looking at a silly old picture.”

  “We want him to play tiddly-winks!” cried Nicky.

  “Don’t be silly,” said James. “Mr. Brownlee doesn’t want to play that ridiculous game.”

  “It’s not a dickiless game!” wailed Nicky; his mouth went down at the corners and two large tears spurted out of his eyes.

  “Perhaps I could do both,” suggested Ellis hastily. “We could have a game of tiddly-winks—I used to be rather a dab at it—and then I could see the picture. How would that do?”

  “Wouldn’t it bore you frightfully?” asked Rhoda. “It really is very naughty of Nicky to behave like that. We oughtn’t to give in to him.”

  “We certainly shouldn’t give in to him,” declared James – “What Nicky wants is a good spanking.”

  “Oh no!” exclaimed Rhoda in horrified tones. “It’s quite the wrong thing to spank children. All the books say so.”

  The children were listening to this discussion with the greatest interest. They were quite old enough to understand all that was being said. Bel thought it a pity that the little green books had omitted to mention that the treatment of children should never be discussed in their presence. Of course it was not her business, so she said nothing. It was her business to clear the table and this she did.

  When the table had been cleared Harry fetched the box of counters and they began to play the game. Bel had played with the boys several times but it had not been a success for they quarrelled incessantly; Harry sometimes cheated and Nicky wept copiously when he was beaten. This evening it was all quite different for Ellis took a firm line from the very beginning, he insisted on fair play, staunched Nicky’s tears with a large white-linen handkerchief, and won the game without the slightest difficulty.

  “You aren’t very good at it, are you?” he said as he rose from the table. “Tiddly-winks needs a good deal of practice. You’ll soon learn if you practise it a bit.”

  Considering that they played tiddly-winks nearly every evening this advice was somewhat damping—and actually the boys were damped. They said nothing in reply, and when Rhoda suggested it was time for bed they went off with Bel obediently without the usual fuss.

  *

  2

  Rhoda had mentioned her painting of Bel and Ellis Brownlee was anxious to see it, so she took him up to the studio and showed it to him. She had said it was not finished, but it was finished except for the hands and some details of the background.

  The painter was pleased with her work. She had managed to catch her sitter’s characteristic expression . . . the look of a good child, a wondering sort of look, innocent and serious.

  It was humility, thought Rhoda. That was the key-note of Bel’s character. Rhoda had never prized this virtue—she had thought it overrated—but now she realised, that she had been mistaken. Humility was not just an absence of pride, it was not a negative virtue, it was a definite “fruit of the spirit”. False humility was horrible of course (vide Uriah Heep) but real humility, growing from within, was beautiful.

  Ellis Brownlee stood and looked at the portrait in silence; he was astonished beyond measure at its excellence. Obviously Rhoda Dering Johnstone was a very good painter indeed. Here was the real Bel! He had seen her look exactly like that, times without number. Here was Bel with her bright brown hair, her pretty little ear, the delicate curve of her cheek and the slope of her shoulder. Ellis had a sudden curious idea that Bel would look absolutely right in an old-fashioned sort of dress, like the portrait of his grandmother which hung above the chimney-piece in the drawing-room at Rose Hill. Bel was not really like his grandmother—for one thing her colouring was different—but she was of the same ilk. Her face had the same serious sweetness of expression.

  “You don’t need me to tell you it’s good,” said Ellis at last.

  “It is rather successful, isn’t it?” Rhoda agreed. “I’ve caught her mood. It wasn’t terribly easy because she’s shy.”

  “Did you ever think of painting her in an old-fashioned dress?”

  “Yes, of course! She would look marvellous in one of those nineteenth century frocks with bare shoulders and a tiny waist, but she would have to have ringlets—little curls like sausages hanging down on each side of her face.”

  Ellis nodded. He remembered now that his grandmother had little curls like sausages.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Rhoda said.

  “Like it isn’t the word! It’s quite marvellous. Why haven’t we heard about you, Mrs. Dering Johnstone?”

  “Oh well, I’m busy you know,” she replied with a little smile. “I’m a farmer’s wife—first and foremost. I thought at one time that I would make painting my career and then I decided to marry James instead. I’ve never regretted it for a moment. I do have things in the Academy sometimes but I’m interested chiefly in portraits and there aren’t many subjects at Tassieknowe.”

  Ellis had a feeling that there was a good deal behind this short statement of fact. He would have liked to hear more. He had been astonished to find this extraordinarily beautiful woman in such an isolated place and it was even more astonishing to discover that she was an accomplished portrait-painter. Perhaps the most astonishing thing of all was the fact that she was completely happy in her chosen rôle of a sheep-farmer’s wife. She was happy—there was no doubt of that.

  “Are you staying at Drumburly for some time?” asked Rhoda.

  “I don’t know,” Ellis replied. He hesitated for a moment and then added, “It all depends on Bel. I ought to be in London attending to my business—it needs my attention badly—but there are some things that are even more important than business.”

  “Come over to Tassieknowe whenever you like,” said Rhoda.

  There was no time to say more (Bel came in to tell Rhoda that the boys were in bed) but fortunately there was no need to say more. Rhoda Dering Johnstone and Ellis Brownlee understood each other perfectly.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The following morning was fine and dry but there were clouds about, so it was not too bright for fishing, and there was a slight breeze in exactly the right direction. Ellis Brownlee arrived at ten o’clock as had been arranged and found his host busily engaged in getting out the rods and tackle for the day’s sport. Presently, when all was ready, they walked down to the river together.

  The two men had led entirely different lives: the one as a sheep-farmer in the Border Country; the other as a businessman in the City of London. But i
n spite of this they found a great deal to say to each other. Curiously enough both of them were surprised. Ellis was surprised to discover a sheep-farmer at the back of beyond who was intelligent and well-read and interesting to talk to; James was surprised that a London business-man could be human and companionable.

  They began to exchange information about their affairs and this was surprising too. Ellis began to realise that sheep-farming required brains and skill and quite a lot of scientific knowledge. He enquired about the breeding of sheep and learnt the importance of improving the strain by choosing the best type of rams. He learnt also that since the elimination of rabbits the sheep had improved enormously; their fleeces were thicker and heavier, their health better and the incidence of twin lambs had increased.

  “Why is that?” asked Ellis with interest.

  “The ewes are stronger and fitter because they get better food. And they’ve got much better milk when the lambs are born—that makes a tremendous difference.”

  “You’ll have to keep the rabbits down.”

  “You bet,” agreed James. “We don’t want any more of that ghastly disease—it really was disgusting—but I mean to keep them down by trapping and shooting. That’s the thing to do.”

  It was now James’s turn to seek information. He began by saying rather enviously, “I suppose you can take a holiday whenever you like?”

  “Good heavens, no!” exclaimed Ellis. “Just between you and me I do most of the business of the firm. One of my partners is a delicate man and he’s just recovering from a serious illness, and I heard this morning that my other partner has been wafted away to a Mental Hospital.”

  “That’s bad!”

  “Well, I’m not really surprised. He’s been a bit queer for some time . . . more than a bit queer,” added Ellis thoughtfully. “I doubt if he will ever be fit to come back.”

  “You won’t be sorry,” suggested James who had deduced this from his companion’s manner rather than his words.

  Ellis smiled and said, “Not very. We’ll take young Copping into the firm. He’s very young but he’s got his head screwed on all right. It will be Copping, Brownlee and Copping—not quite so euphonious and a bit difficult to say but otherwise satisfactory.”

  “Good,” said James nodding. “Let’s hope the man will recover sufficiently to enjoy life but not sufficiently to return to work.” He hesitated and then asked, “Does that mean you’ll have to rush back to London?”

  “It means I certainly ought to rush back to London. It means I ought to be rushing back to London at this very minute instead of fishing for trout at Tassieknowe.”

  “But you’re not going to?”

  “I’ll wait a day or two,” said Ellis with an odd sort of look. “A day or two won’t make much difference. Fortunately we’ve got a very capable chap as manager of the wharf.”

  “Tell me about the wharf,” said James. “That’s your principal concern, isn’t it? Just as the hirsel of Tassieknowe is mine. What happens at the wharf?”

  “Now you’re asking!”

  “Yes, I’m asking. I’m abysmally ignorant about business matters. I want to know what goes on. Don’t tell me if you’d rather not,” he added hastily.

  “Of course I’ll tell you,” declared Ellis.

  As a matter of fact Ellis was delighted to talk about his business affairs to James. He told James about Copping Wharf, its history and its traditions and about the ships that came to the Pool of London from Greece and Turkey, from India and Ceylon, from Italy and Spain and a dozen other countries. He explained how the goods were unloaded and stored in the huge warehouses and later distributed in a fleet of vans to different towns all over the United Kingdom.

  “For instance,” said Ellis. “Those little cakes we had yesterday at tea were full of sultanas.”

  “You mean they may have come by way of Copping Wharf and your warehouses?”

  “Quite likely.”

  “By Jove, that’s interesting!” exclaimed James. “I always thought business was stodgy!”

  “I used to think sheep-farmers were a bit dim,” retorted Ellis.

  They laughed and decided that you were never too old to learn.

  There was another thing that Ellis had learnt during this conversation. He had learnt why Rhoda Dering Johnstone was perfectly happy living at the back of beyond.

  *

  2

  Bel had been making her bed. She looked out of her window and saw the two men walking up the bank of the river side by side. They were talking earnestly, she noticed, but suddenly they stopped and looked at each other and roared with laughter. Then they walked on again. She wondered what they were talking about and what had made them laugh.

  Last night she had opened the little packet and read the letters. She had waited until she was in her room, preparing for bed. The letters were very friendly and interesting, full of information about what the writer was doing and all the things he had seen. Of course Bel had typed hundreds of letters for Ellis Brownlee (letters about business affairs) but these were not business-letters and they were written in a very different style. Bel liked them immensely, she read them several times. She decided that they were exactly like the writer; she could almost hear him talking. There was one thing about the letters which distressed her considerably. The first letter said, Be sure to write to me; and gave the address of the Bank at Buenos Aires to which letters were to be addressed. Subsequent letters said, Why haven’t you written?—or words to that effect. The last one of the sequence said plaintively, I do wish you would write. I hope you aren’t ill or anything. Please let me know.

  It was all the fault of that horrible woman! That despicable woman! Of course Bel would have written if she had received the first letter and had known the address!

  *

  3

  Bel was still watching the two men walking up the river when Rhoda came into her room.

  “Oh, there you are!” exclaimed Rhoda. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I want a sitting.”

  “Oh no! Not this morning! I can’t, really! I’ve got an awful lot to do,” declared Bel in consternation.

  “I want your hands.”

  “But, Rhoda, honestly——”

  “I want your hands,” repeated Rhoda. “Hands are troublesome and I feel in the mood. Effie can carry on without you.”

  Bel was aware that when Rhoda was feeling “in the mood” it was useless to protest so she gave in with as good a grace as possible and followed her employer to the studio.

  “There’s no need to bother about lunch,” said Rhoda as she settled Bel in the big chair and arranged her hands in a suitable position. “James said all they wanted was sandwiches and coffee. We can give them a good solid meal in the evening when they come back. It’s nice for James to have a day’s fishing—he enjoys it—and he doesn’t take a holiday very often.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Bel agreed.

  “They won’t have gone very far,” added Rhoda. “We can make the sandwiches later and you can take them to the river in the picnic-basket. That will be the best plan.”

  “Yes,” said Bel meekly. She had intended to make a steak and kidney pie for the midday meal but it would do just as well in the evening when the anglers would return, hungry as hunters after their day in the open air. Bel was thinking about the steak and kidney pie with its rich brown gravy and its delicious covering of puff pastry when suddenly she was startled out of her gastronomic dream.

  “Are you going to marry Ellis Brownlee?” asked Rhoda in a conversational tone of voice.

  “What!”

  “You heard,” said Rhoda smiling. She had taken up her palette and was busy mixing paint.

  “Rhoda! What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. Are you going to marry the man? I think you should. Oh, of course I’ve no right to butt in—you can tell me to mind my own business—but when I’m fond of people I feel they are my business. As a matter of fact I’m famed far and wide for rushing
in where angels fear to tread, but I can’t stand aside and watch people wrecking their lives.”

  “Wrecking their lives!”

  “Yes,” said Rhoda nodding. “You wouldn’t stand aside and see a ship drifting onto the rocks without doing something about it, would you? You’d shout or throw them a life-belt or something—well, I’m shouting at you.”

  “Shouting at me?”

  “Bel,” said Rhoda earnestly. “Ellis Brownlee is a dear.”

  “Yes I know, but——”

  “He’s a bit older than you are but that’s all to the good. You need somebody safe and solid, Bel. He’s the right man for you.”

  “But Rhoda, he—hasn’t asked me! I’m sure he hasn’t ever thought——”

  “Hasn’t asked you; hasn’t ever thought!” exclaimed Rhoda. “What do you imagine the man has come for? Do you think he’s come all the way from London to catch a few trout in the Burly or play tiddly-winks with the boys?”

  “I don’t know,” said Bel in a whisper.

  “I do,” declared Rhoda. She added fretfully, “You’ve moved your hand, Bel. I wish you wouldn’t. Hands are so troublesome to paint.”

  She came and re-arranged the troublesome hands. “There, like that,” she said. “You’ve got very pretty hands and I want to get them right. I wish to goodness you’d wear gloves when you’re preparing the vegetables and washing up the dishes. Why don’t you?”

  Bel was not thinking about hands. She said, “Rhoda, listen——”

  “No, you listen to me,” said Rhoda. “Ellis Brownlee loves you. He’d ask you to marry him if you gave him a chance, but you’ll have to meet him half way. He’s not the sort of man to sweep a girl off her feet; he’s the sort that needs—well, he needs just a little encouragement, see?”

  “I don’t—l-love him.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Rhoda. “You know, Bel, there are different ways of falling in love. There’s love at first sight—at least I suppose there is, though to tell you the truth I’ve never met it and I wouldn’t give an awful lot for it if I did. Pretty risky,” said Rhoda thoughtfully.