laughter in the house—— A rosy and golden haze seemed the future as she peered into it.
CHAPTER XVI
“Be this, good friends, our carol still—
‘Be peace on earth, be peace on earth
To men of gentle will.’ ”
W. M. Thackeray.
The Rutherfurds had settled down in the Harbour House in a way that surprised themselves. It seemed almost unbelievable that a bare three months ago they had known nothing of Kirkmeikle and its inhabitants and were now absorbed in the little town.
Nicole’s desire to know only Kirkmeikle, and Barbara’s determination to know as little of the town and as much as possible of the county, had resulted in a compromise. People from a distance were welcomed and their visits returned, and Barbara suffered Nicole’s Kirkmeikle friends, if not gladly, at least with civility. The Bucklers she liked, and the Lamberts and Kilgours, but Mrs. Heggie and Miss Symington she could not abide, and marvelled at her cousin’s tolerance for those two ladies.
“The appalling dullness of them, their utterly common outlook on life, their ugly voices and vacant faces, how you can be bothered with them, Nikky, passes me.”
“But it’s the way you look at them,” Nicole protested. “You expect to find commonness, so of course you do. I find nothing but niceness in Mrs. Heggie. Just think what fun she is to feed. I met her the day after we had had her to luncheon and she went over the whole menu with reminiscent smacks. ‘The grape fruit! delicious: and that new way of doing eggs . . . and such tender beef I never tasted . . . and the puddings were a dream. I simply couldn’t resist trying both, though I know it was rather a liberty the first time I had lunched with you, and the whole thing so recherché!’ Isn’t it worth while to have some one like that to a meal? I think it is. As for Joan Heggie, she is rather ugly and awkward, but she can write poetry. . . . Miss Symington interests me.”
“You like them,” said Barbara, “because they make a little worshipping court for you; you shine against their dullness.”
But Nicole only laughed, and called heaven to witness that she had a very rude cousin.
As for Lady Jane she was gently civil to every one who came, but preferred Mrs. Brodie and her noisy brood, and old Betsy with her talk of Tweedside, to any of them.
December is a month that, for most people, “gallops withal,” and it seemed to be Christmas before any one was prepared for it at the Harbour House.
It was the morning of Christmas Eve, and the drawing-room did not present its usual orderly appearance. White paper, gay ribbons, boxes of sweets and candied fruits, and crackers for the out-going parcels lay about on the big sofa, while the long table at the far end of the room was piled with parcels which had arrived by post. Nicole gazed round her ruefully, remarking that everything must be packed before luncheon, whereupon Barbara came briskly to the rescue.
“Say what’s to go into each parcel,” she said, “and I’ll tie them up. These are the local ones, I suppose?”
“Thank goodness, yes. All the others were packed days ago. I wish I hadn’t gone to Edinburgh yesterday and I wouldn’t be in such a state of chaos to-day! Are you sure you can spare the time? . . . Well, first a parcel for Mrs. Brodie from mother; just oddments to make a brightness for the children. Is there a box to put them in? These gaudy crackers, sweets, dates, shortbread, and sugar biscuits: a tin of tea for Mrs. Brodie, and those toys for their stockings. Will they all go in? Good. That’s the only really bulky parcel. You do tie up so neatly, Babs. Providence obviously intended you for a grocer.”
“What about this?” Barbara asked, holding up a large flat box.
“That only wants a ribbon round it and a bit of holly stuck in. It’s for old Betsy; shortbread. I had it made with ‘Frae Tweedside’ done in pink sugar—a small attention which I hope she’ll appreciate. Mother is sending her tea, and other things. The framed print is for the Bucklers, they haven’t many household gods; the Bond Street chocolates are for Mrs. Heggie, she has such a sweet tooth; the book of Scots ballads for Dr. Kilgour.”
“I can’t see that Mrs. Heggie needs anything,” Barbara said, as she wrapped each thing in white paper and tied it with a red ribbon. “It will only make her insist on us all going to dinner at her house.” . . . She looked round at the articles remaining and asked, taking up a Venetian glass bowl with a lid, “Who is this pretty thing for?”
“It is pretty, isn’t it? I’m going to fill it with my own special geranium bath-salts, put it in a white box, tie it with a length of carnation ribbon and present it to Miss Janet Symington.” As she spoke Nicole looked impishly at her cousin, who said, “Ridiculous! What will she do with such a present?”
“Nothing, probably, but I’m determined she will have at least one pretty thing in her possession. Pack it, Babs dear, very gently, with cotton wool and lots of soft paper. . . . These are all the things for Alastair’s stocking. He’s coming here after breakfast to-morrow to get the big toy Mums has for him. The Lamberts are having him for early dinner and tea, so he’ll have quite a cheerful day.”
“You spoil every one,” said Barbara.
“I like spoiling people, but I quite see I’m a horrible trial to you. You would have liked this house to keep up its reputation for exclusiveness, wouldn’t you, poor pet? . . . But we’re not really over-run by my new friends. They never come unless they’re asked, and we have quiet jolly times, old Babs, you and Mother and I. I sometimes think it is almost unbelievable that we can be so happy after—everything.”
Barbara touched her cousin’s hand. “I know—— I didn’t approve much of coming here, as you know, but I’m bound to say I think Aunt Jane has been the better of it. She takes more interest in people and things than she did. I was really afraid for her before we left Rutherfurd, but now she is less of a gentle spirit and more of a living, breathing mortal. It pleases her to have Alastair so much with her, and she likes Mr. Beckett. D’you notice how she looks at them sometimes—the little boy and the grown man? I think it hurts her to see them, and yet the pleasure exceeds the pain. When Alastair plays round preoccupied and busy, talking to himself, she sees again Ronnie and Archie, for all little boys are very much alike: and in Mr. Beckett she sees them as they would have been now.”
Nicole nodded. “I’m rather dreading to-morrow for her. One can go on from day to day, but these special times are difficult. . . . What do outsiders matter after all, Babs? It’s we three against the world—though you and I do bark at each other whiles!”
After luncheon and a belated post had been discussed, Lady Jane and her niece settled down to cope with the last of the preparations, while Nicole set out to deliver parcels.
It was about three o’clock before she started. The frost of the morning had increased in intensity, so that walking was difficult on the cobbled stones, and Betsy’s outside stair, which had been recklessly washed, was now coated with ice.
Betsy herself was sitting wrapped in a shawl by the fire. “Come in,” she cried, “I kent yer step. Bring forrit a chair and get a warm. It’s surely terrible cauld?”
“It’s a
