thank you. About breakfast, would nine o’clock suit you, or perhaps we might say half-past eight? It seems a pity to waste part of a May day.”
“I was just wondering how ye were going to put in your time,” said Mrs. Bruce, “but half-past eight’ll suit me fine. . . . I may tell you I never had a lodger till last summer, but we’re terrible anxious to make some money. Ye see, with Mr. Gideon in Canada the place is our responsibility. We canna be askin’ the lawyer for every sma’ repair, and ye ken fine a place is aye needing something. We’ve lodgers for five months this summer, so that’ll give us something to work wi’. Ye see, Davy’s ay been at Glenbucho Place; he was born here where his father was grieve afore him, and he’s fair bigoted on the Veitches. The old laird was the kindest, canniest man that ever walked. The tenants had just to ask and they got. It was fair ridiculous, and we knew there was but the one end to it. He had to sell most of his land afore he died—it was that that killed him. Maister Gideon has only the farm here, and the house and garden, and how long he’ll have them I don’t know. I’m vex’t for the laddie, but he’s young and he’s got his life afore him. I’m vex’ter for ma Davy. He’s one of the old kind. I don’t believe folk now care much for anything but makin’ money, but Davy cares for Glenbucho Place like a mother. As the Psalmist says, ‘Its very dust to him is dear’—and whiles I wish it wasna! Mebbe if we’d had a family he wouldna have been so set on the place, but there’s just him and me—and Glenbucho. Mercy! I don’t know why I’m standin’ here deaving a stranger with our troubles. I beg your pardon, I’m sure. Half-past eight. Good night, then. I hope you’ll find your bed comfortable.”
CHAPTER VII
It was warm, with a latent shiver in the air that made
the warmth only the more welcome.
Weir of Hermiston
Isobel slept so deeply that night that when she woke all recollection of the events of the day before had passed from her mind, and she was surprised to hear unfamiliar sounds.
Starting up she found herself looking, not at her net-curtained window in the Queen’s Court Hotel, but—the window being wide open—straight out to the miniature glen, with the burn and the rowan-trees. Some calves were looking through the fence at a black-and-white collie, and it, in turn, was watching a yellow cat on the prowl. Two lambs gambolled absurdly; a cock was crowing, someone was whistling; a new day was well begun.
Isobel looked at her watch. Half-past six. Two hours before she could go downstairs. Mrs. Bruce, she knew, would have enough to do getting the room and breakfast ready for the time appointed, without her lodger getting in the way; so, reaching for her writing-pad, she began a letter to Kitty Baillie.
“Dearest K.,” she began. “It is 6.30 a.m., and I have just woken up. I long to dress and go out, for there are all sorts of exciting things to see—calves and pet-lambs (at least I think they must be pet), a collie-dog, a burn with rowan-trees, and a hillside, but the hour is too ridiculous, so, instead, I am starting a letter to you.
“I’ll tell you later what I think of Glenbucho as a place, meantime, know that the rooms are all one could desire, clean—such pure white sheets I never encountered before; it must be the soft water and clear air—a comfortable bed, and—luxury!—a bathroom to myself. I had an idea that in Scotland they hadn’t even water in the house, and was bracing myself to wash in a tin basin, so the shining new bathroom came as a delightful surprise. It is quite palatial in size, having once been a small bedroom, and has a lovely view. I remember once, at Stratford-on-Avon, having a bathroom from which one saw the Avon and the spire of Shakespeare’s church; this one looks out to the hillside. From the sitting-room you see the garden and the stackyard, with the main road (not very ‘main’) and the hills beyond.
“My landlady, Mrs. Bruce, is fifty-ish, I should think, with a long, stern face and a most uncompromising manner. She only began to keep lodgers last summer, and she has still the air of not being quite sure how it is going to work, but whether it is herself or me she distrusts I can’t tell. Certainly I have no complaint to make. Last night she gave me an excellent meal, high tea, or supper, whatever you like to call it: bacon and eggs, scones and pancakes, honey and gingerbread. After hotel food it tasted like nectar. My obvious enjoyment of her cooking seemed to thaw Mrs. Bruce slightly, and she stopped to talk for a little about Glenbucho Place. Her husband was born on the place, and it seems to be a real grief to both of them to see its decline. There is only the home-farm left, and the old house. It was very wise, I think, of Gideon Veitch to go to Canada to make his own way.
“The Bruces are left to look after things as best they can. There is very little money for the upkeep of the place, and they are trying to make a little extra by taking in summer lodgers. I thought all this feudal feeling, this love for a family and a place, had died out. It is interesting to come across it here.
“3 p.m.
“I didn’t write much this morning after all, and as I find letters leave at 4.30, I’ll finish this now.
“It seems a long time since this morning. Then I was a stranger in Glenbucho, now I almost feel as if I belonged.
“After breakfast I sauntered out and made the acquaintance of the collie (he is called Yarrow), and the lambs (they are pet), and met Mr. Bruce, who is a slow-spoken, gentle creature, like so many men with managing wives.
“I am interested in the accent here. I find they say ‘efternin’ for afternoon, ‘perk’ for park, ‘gress’ for grass, but some of their words are very broad, ‘paurlour’ and ‘ma-an’—never ‘mon’ as some writers spell it. The effect is soft and beautiful, and I can understand wonderfully well, better than they can understand me. I speak too fast and slur my words.
“To continue. I set out to see the village of Glenbucho, and found that it is in three parts: the post-office, two churches, and a few villa-ish looking houses make one part; the station, a shop, the school, and school-house make another; the third is the real village, a row of houses on either side of the road, a shop, a burn with a bridge over it, and, round a corner, the churchyard. This scattered village lies cradled among solemn, round-backed hills, and this May morning the beauty of it made my heart leap. The hawthorn is out, and the broom and everything seems white and gold and green: the air is so tonic you feel as if you could walk for miles.
“First I looked for Miss Agnes Home, Merchant. Her shop is the one near the station. It is built on the top of a sharp slope, and the garden runs down to a stream called Glenbucho Water. It’s a real village shop, with a startlingly loud bell as you open the door, and a smell compounded of almost everything under the sun—oatmeal, onions, paraffin oil, soap, brown paper, apples, acid-drops—a most satisfying smell.
“Didn’t you imagine Miss Agnes Home as a gentle creature with a quiet brow? I did. But she isn’t. She is large and broad and rosy, with a friendly, forthcoming manner, a loud laugh, and a most hearty interest in everything that happens, and in everyone who enters her door.
“She greeted me with a wide smile, and a ‘What can I do for you?’ and after I had made a few purchases I thanked her for her kindness in telling me about the rooms at Glenbucho Place.
“ ‘Oh, ho,’ she said, standing back a little to have a good look at me, ‘so you’re at Mrs. Bruce’s. I saw you pass in Jardine’s car from the six train last night, and I just thought ye’d be going there. And are you comfortable? Ay, I thought ye would be. Mrs. Bruce hasn’t
