for sea-gulls. When remonstrated with by his governess, he replied, “Wumman, d’ye want them to be fund deid wi’ their nebs in the snaw, seekin’ meat?”
Sir Walter said Border Scots was a fine foundation for Eton, and so it proved. The boys came home from school speaking correct English, but always able, at a moment’s notice, to drop into the speech of their childhood.
“Well,” said Nicole, “what d’you say to my suggestion?” Barbara merely shrugged her shoulders, but Lady Jane was unusually firm.
“Darling, I said I didn’t mind where I went; but I do draw the line here. I’m afraid I can’t fill the vacant place left by Mrs. Jackson. Suburbs are for people who have business in cities: we have none. Why not a small house in, or near, a country town? I think I should like that, only—not too near Rutherfurd, please.”
“That,” said her daughter, “is the correct idea. A country town. A rambling cottage covered with roses. Delightful Cranford-ish neighbours, quiet-eyed spinsters and gallant old men who tell good stories. I see it all.”
Barbara wore a most discouraging expression as she said, “I never saw a cottage that ‘rambled.’ What you will probably find in any country town is a number of new semi-detached villas occupied by retired haberdashers. Cranford doesn’t exist any longer—the housing problem killed it. You’re a most unpractical creature, Nik. You don’t know how horrible such a life as you want to try would be. Imagine living always with people like Mrs. Jackson! Just think how you would miss your friends—Jean Douglas, the Langlands . . .”
Nicole shook her head impatiently. “My dear, why will you insist on saying things that jump to the eye? Don’t you suppose I am full of thoughts about having to leave the old friends? I never loved Mistress Jean as I do to-night, and the thought of Kingshouse makes me want to howl like a wolf. The jollities we’ve had there! And Daddy Langlands, and Miss Lockhart, and even Tillie Kilpatrick, though, poor dear, she does paint her face more unconvincingly than any one I ever saw. But Mistress Jean will be the great loss. To know that there is no chance of suddenly hearing Johnson announce ‘Mrs. Douglas,’ and to hear her say ‘Well,’ and then, ‘This is nice,’ as she settled down beside us.”
“Then why not stay where we are known? There are lots of small places that would suit us, and people would be glad to have us stay, and would make things pleasant for us.”
Nicole turned to her mother. “What do you say, Mums?”
“My dears, I don’t think I could remain near Rutherfurd. Let us try Nicole’s plan for a year and see how it works. . . .”
“You mean,” said her daughter, “that we should go to a new place and make a niche for ourselves? Let’s, Barbara. I’m sure there are places without semi-detached villas, where we shall be able to cultivate ‘high ideels’ like Mr. Jackson. . . . But you must promise to make the best of everything—it would be terribly unsporting of you to grumble.”
“Oh, very well,” said Barbara. “Let’s try it for a year. A lot can happen in twelve months.”
CHAPTER III
“It is a sedate people that you see.”
Glasgow in 1901.
While the Rutherfurds made plans for the future, Mrs. Jackson regaled her family circle with an account of her expedition to the Borders. They sat, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson and their son Andrew, in the dining-room of Deneholm. It was a fairly large room, elaborately decorated, with two bow windows and a conservatory.
Mr. Jackson and his wife sat at either end of the long oval table, while Andrew faced the fire-place. There was a reason for that. Behind him was a picture which his mother did not consider quite delicate. When it had been first bought and hung, and Andrew was expected home from school, she had arranged that he must change his seat and sit where he could not see it. Now he was thirty-two, and unlikely to be affected by any picture, but he still kept his back to it.
A long shining damask cloth covered the table, and the only decoration was a tall vase of rather packed-looking chrysanthemums. One felt had there been a daughter things would probably have been different. No large white table-cloth for one thing, but a polished table with embroidered mats: no bleak, tall vase, but a wide bowl with flowers.
Wherever Mrs. Jackson went, though it were only into town in the car to shop, she gave her men-folk on her return a circumstantial account of everything that had happened to her. Accustomed to her ways, they were apt to pay but a cursory attention to her talk.
To-night she was still somewhat breathless from the late home-coming and her hurried dive into the gown which she described as “a semi-evening,” but between spoonfuls of celery soup she bravely panted out details.
“Oh, it was a lovely drive,” she began. “Not at first, of course, for there was all that coal district to go through—Hamilton and those places. But afterwards, the Clyde valley, and round Lanark, and down the Tweed. . . .” She turned to the parlour-maid, “Another bit of bread, Mary. Thanks.” Then, “. . . I got an awful fright as we left Lanark; we very nearly ran over a wee dog.”
Mr. Jackson laid down his spoon and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He was a small man with sandy hair turning grey, and a scrubby moustache.
“What kind of place is Rutherfurd?” he asked.
But his wife was not to be hurried. “I haven’t got that length yet,” she said placidly. “We went away down past Peebles—d’you remember, Father, we stayed at the Hydro there one Easter? Was that before the War, I wonder? I think so, for Andy was with us, and we met yon people from Manchester—d’you mind their names? They stayed with us afterwards at Innellan; the man had asthma. . . . I don’t care much for Galashiels, it’s awful steep about the station yonder, but it’s lovely all round about it. We seemed to go a long way down the Tweed, and, of course, I had no idea whereabouts Rutherfurd was. In the end we had to ask. We came to a cluster of cottages—mebbe they called it a village, for there was a post office—and a man told us it was the first gate-house we came to, about two miles farther along the road. Sure enough we came to it, white-washed, with creepers, and an old woman who curtseyed as we passed. The drive winds, and crosses a stream with bridges about three times, and there are parks with deer. Deer—fancy! I wondered if we were ever coming anywhere, then we turned a corner and there was the house.”
She stopped dramatically.
“A good house?” asked her son.
“Beautiful. How many houses have I looked at, Father? Nine, is it? and not one of them was just what we wanted. Two were only big villas—we’ve plenty of them in Pollokshields. The old ones were awfully damp and decrepit. One was built in a hollow and got no sun, and the oldest of all was nothing to look at—it would have been a waste of money to buy it. . . . But Rutherfurd’s a place you’d be proud of.”
Mary removed the soup plates and presently they were engaged on the fish course.
“It’s a big house,” Mrs. Jackson continued as she ate her sole, “but not overpowering, if you know what I mean. A butler let me in—quite the old family servant—and I left my coat in the outer hall. Then he took me through the hall, a place just like a big room, with tables and chairs,
