Jean sank into a chair with a book, but Pamela produced some visiting-cards and read aloud:
"MRS. DUFF-WHALLEY.
MISS DUFF-WHALLEY.
THE TOWERS, PRIORSFORD.
"Who are they, please? and why do they come to see me?"
Jean shut her book, but kept her finger in as if hoping to get back to it soon, and smiled broadly.
"Mrs. Duff-Whalley is a wonderful woman," she said. "She knows everything about everybody and simply scents out social opportunities.
Your name would draw her like a magnet."
"Why is she called Duff-Whalley? and where does she live? I"m frightfully intrigued."
"As to the first," said Jean, "there was no thought of pleasing either you or me when she was christened--or rather when the late Mr.
Duff-Whalley was christened. And I pointed out the house to you the other day. You asked what the monstrosity was, and I told you it was called The Towers."
"I remember. A staring red-and-white house with about thirty bow-windows and twenty turrets. It denies the landscape."
"Wait," said Jean, "till you see it close at hand. It"s the most naked, newest thing you ever saw. Not a creeper, not an ivy leaf is allowed to crawl on it; weather seems to have no effect on it: it never gets to look any less new. And in summer it is worse, for then round about it blaze the reddest geraniums and the yellowest calceolarias and the bluest lobelias that it"s possible to imagine."
"Ghastly! What is the owner like?"
"Small, with yellowish hair turning grey. She has a sharp nose, and her eyes seem to dart out at you, take you all in, and then look away. She is rather like a ferret, and she has small, sharp teeth like a ferret.
I"m never a bit sure she won"t bite. She really is rather a wonderful woman. She hasn"t been here very many years, but she dominates everyone.
At whatever house you meet her she has the air of being hostess. She welcomes you and advises you where to sit, makes suitable conversation and finally bids you good-bye, and you feel yourself murmuring to her the grateful "Such a pleasant afternoon," that was due to the real hostess. She is in constant conflict with the other prominent matrons in Priorsford, but she always gets her own way. At a meeting she is quite insupportable. She just calmly tells us what we are to do. It"s no good saying we are busy; it"s no good saying anything. We walk away with a great district to collect and a pile of pamphlets under one arm.... Her nose is a little on one side, and when I sit and look at her presiding at a meeting I toy with the thought that someone goaded to madness by her calm persistence had once heaved something at her, and wish I had been there to see. Really, though, she is rather a blessing in the place; she keeps us from stagnation. I read somewhere that when they bring tanks of cod to this country from wherever cod abound, they put a cat-fish in beside them, and it chases the cod round all the time, so that they arrive in good condition. Mrs. Duff-Whalley is our cat-fish."
"I see. Has she children?"
"Three. A daughter, married in London--Mrs. Egerton-Thomson--a son at Cambridge, and a daughter, Muriel, at home. I think it must be very bad for the Duff-Whalleys living in such a vulgar, restless-looking house."
Pamela laughed. "Do you think all the little pepper-pot towers must have an effect on the soul? I doubt it, my dear."
"Still," said Jean, "I think more will be expected at the end from the people who have all their lives lived in and looked at lovely places. It always worries me, the thought of people who live in the dark places of big cities--children especially, growing up like "plants in mines that never saw the sun." It is so dreadful that sometimes I feel I _must_ go and help."
"What could you do?"
"That"s what common sense always asks. I could do nothing alone, but if all the decent people tried their hardest it would make a difference....
It"s the thought of the cruelty in the world that makes me sick. It"s the hardest thing for me to keep from being happy. Great-aunt Alison said I had a light nature. Even when I ought to be sad my heart jumps up in the most unreasonable way, and I am happy. But sometimes it feels as if we comfortable people are walking on a flowery meadow that is really a great quaking mora.s.s, and underneath there is black slime full of unimagined horrors. A paragraph in the newspaper makes a crack and you see down: women who take money for keeping little babies and allow them to die, men who torture: tales of horror and terror. The War made a tremendous crack. It seemed then as if we were all to be drawn into the slime, as if cruelty had got its fangs into the heart of the world. When you knelt to pray at nights you could only cry and cry. The courage of the men who grappled in the slime with the horrors was the one thing that kept one from despair. And the fact that they could _laugh_. You know about the dying man who told his nurse some joke and finished, "This is _the_ War for laughs.""
Pamela nodded. "It hardly bears thinking of yet--the War and the fighters. Later on it will become the greatest of all sagas. But I want to hear about Priorsford people. That"s a clean, cheerful subject. Who lives in the pretty house with the long ivy-covered front?"
"The Knowe it is called. The Jowetts live there--retired Anglo-Indians.
Mr. Jowett is a funny, kind little man with a red face and rather a nautical air. He is so busy that often it is afternoon before he reads his morning"s letters."
"What does he do?"
"I don"t think he does anything much: taps the barometer, advises the gardener, fusses with fowls, potters in the garden, teaches the dog tricks. It makes him happy to feel himself rushed, and to go carrying unopened letters at tea-time. They have no children. Mrs. Jowett is a dear. She collects servants as other people collect prints or old china or Sheffield plate. They are her hobby, and she has the most wonderful knack of managing them. Even now, when good servants seem to have become extinct, and people who need five or six are grubbing away miserably with one and a charwoman, she has four pearls with soft voices and gentle ways, experts at their job. She thinks about them all the time, and considers their comfort, and dresses them in pale grey with the daintiest spotted muslin ap.r.o.ns and mob caps. It is a pleasure to go to the Jowetts for a meal, everything is so perfect. The only drawback is if anyone makes the slightest mark on the cloth one of the silver-grey maids brings a saucer of water and wipes it off, and it is apt to make one nervous. I shall never forget going there to a children"s party with David and Jock. Great-aunt Alison warned us most solemnly before we left home about marking the cloth, so we went rather tremblingly. There was a splendid tea in the dining-room with silver candlesticks and pink shades, and lovely china, and a glittering cloth, and heaps of good things to eat--grown-up things like sandwiches and rich cakes, such as we hardly ever saw. Jock was quite small and loved his food even more than he does now, dear lamb. A maid handed round the egg-sh.e.l.l china--if only they had given us mugs--and as she was putting down Jock"s cup he turned round suddenly and his elbow simply shot it out of her hand, and sent it flying across the table. As it went it spattered everything with weak tea and then smashed itself against one of the candlesticks.
"I wished at that moment that the world would come to an end. There seemed no other way of clearing up the mess. I was so ashamed, and so sorry for my poor Jock, I couldn"t lift my eyes, but Mr. Jowett rose to the occasion and earned my affection and unending grat.i.tude. He pretended to find it a very funny episode, and made so many jokes about it that stiffness vanished from the party, and we all became riotously happy. And Mrs. Jowett, whose heart must have been wrung to see the beautiful table ruined at the outset, so mastered her emotion as to be able to smile and say no harm had been done.... You must go with me and see Mrs. Jowett, only don"t tell her anything in the very least sad: she weeps at the slightest provocation."
"Tell me more," said Pamela--"tell me about all the people who live in those houses on the hill. It"s like reading a nice _Cranfordy_ book."
"But," Jean objected, "we"re not in the least like people in a book. I often wonder why Priorsford is so unlike a story-book little town. We"re not nearly interested enough in each other for one thing. We don"t gossip to excess. Everyone goes his or her own way. In books people do things or are suspected of doing things, and are immediately cut by a feverishly interested neighbourhood. I can"t imagine that happening in Priorsford. No one ever does anything very striking, but if they did I"m sure they wouldn"t be ostracised. n.o.body would care much, except perhaps Mrs. Hope, and she would only be amused."
"Mrs. Hope?"
"Have you noticed a whitewashed house standing among trees about half a mile down Tweed from the bridge? That is Hopetoun, and Mrs. Hope and her daughter live there."
"Nice?"
Jean nodded her head like a wise mandarin. "You must meet Mrs. Hope. To describe her is far beyond my powers."
"I see. Well, go on with the houses on the hill. Who lives in the one at the corner with the well-kept garden?"
"The Prestons. Mr. Preston is a lawyer, but he isn"t much like a lawyer in appearance--not yellow and parchmenty, you know. He"s a good shot and an ardent fisher, what Sir Walter would have called "a just leevin" man for a country writer." There are several daughters, all musical, and it is a very hospitable, cheerful house. Next the Prestons live the Williamsons. Ordinary nice people. There is really nothing to say about them.... The house after that is Woodside, the home of the two Miss Speirs. They are not ordinary. Miss Althea is a spiritualist. She sees visions and spends much of her time with spooks. Miss Clarice is a Buddhist. Their father, when he lived, was an elder in the U.F. Church.
I sometimes wonder what he would say to his daughters now. When he died they left the U.F. Church and became Episcopalians, then Miss Clarice found that she couldn"t believe in vicarious sacrifice and went over to Buddhism. She took me into her bedroom once. There was a thick yellow carpet, and a bed with a tapestry cover, and almost no furniture, except--is it impious to call Buddha furniture?--a large figure of Buddha with a lamp burning before it. It all seemed to me horribly unfresh. Both ladies provide much simple amus.e.m.e.nt to the townsfolk with their clothes and their antics."
"I know the Speirs type," said Pamela. "Foolish virgins."
"Next to Woodside is Craigton," went on Jean, "and there live three spinsters--the very best brand of spinsters--the Duncans, Miss Mary, Miss Janet, and Miss Phemie. I don"t know what Priorsford would do without these good women. Spinsters they are, but they are also real mothers in Israel. They have time to help everyone. Benign Miss Mary is the housekeeper--and such a housekeeper! Miss Janet is the public one, sits on all the Committees. Miss Phemie does the flowers and embroiders beautiful things and is like a tea-cosy, so soft and warm and comfortable. Somehow they always seem to be there when you want them.
You never go to their door and get a dusty answer. There is the same welcome for everyone, gentle and simple, and always the bright fire, and the kind, smiling faces, and tea with thick cream and cake of the richest and freshest.... You know how some people beg you to visit them, and when you go they seem to wear a surprised look, and you feel unexpected and awkward? The Duncans make you feel so pleased with yourself. They are so unselfishly interested in other people"s concerns; and they are grand laughers. Even the dullest warm to something approaching wit when surrounded by that appreciative audience of three.
They don"t talk much themselves, but they have made of listening a fine art."
"Jean," said Pamela, "do you actually mean to tell me that everybody in Priorsford is nice? Or are you merely being charitable? I don"t know anything duller than your charitable person who always says the kind thing."
Jean laughed. "I"m sorry, but I"m afraid the Priorsford people are all more or less nice. At least, they seem so to me, but perhaps I"m not very discriminating. You will tell me what you think of them when you meet them. All these people I"ve been telling you about are rich people, "in a large way," as Priorsford calls it. They have all large motor-cars and hothouses and rich things like that. Mrs. M"Cosh says Priorsford is a "real tone-y wee place," and we do fancy ourselves a good deal. It"s a community largely made up of women and middle-aged retired men. You see, there is nothing for the young men to do; we haven"t even mills like so many of the Tweedside towns."
"Will people call on me?" Pamela asked. "Is Priorsford sociable?"
Jean pursed up her mouth in an effort to look worldly wise. "I think _you_ will find it sociable, but if you had come here obscure and unknown, your existence would never have been heard of, even if you had taken a house and settled down. Priorsford hardly looks over its shoulder at a newcomer. Some of the "little" people might call and ask you to tea--the kind "little" people--but--"
"Who do you call the "little" people?"
"All the people who aren"t "in a large way," all the dwellers in the snug little villas--most of Priorsford in fact." Jean got up to go.
"Dear me, look at the time! The boys will be home from school. May I have the book you spoke of? Priorsford would be enraged if it heard me calmly discussing its faults and foibles." She laughed softly. "Lewis Elliot says Priorsford is made up of three cla.s.ses--the dull, the daft, and the devout."
Pamela, looking for the book she wanted to lend to Jean, stopped and stood still as if arrested by the name.
"Lewis Elliot!"
"Yes, of Laverlaw. D"you know him, by any chance?"
"I used to know a Lewis Elliot who had some connection with Priorsford, but I thought he had left it years ago."
"Our Lewis Elliot inherited Laverlaw rather unexpectedly some years ago. Before that he was quite poor. Perhaps that is what makes him so understanding. He is a sort of distant cousin of ours. Great-aunt Alison was his aunt too--at least, he called her aunt. It will be fun if he turns out to be the man you used to know."
"Yes," said Pamela. "Here is the book, Jean. It"s been so nice having you this afternoon. No, dear, I won"t go back with you to tea. I"m going to write letters. Good-bye. My love to the boys."