Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (36 page)

Guthrie now appears, looking quite pleasant again – his ill humours are always short-lived – and remarks that there is a fine breeze on the loch, and can Hester come, or does his mother intend to work her all day long like a galley slave over this forsaken dinner? Mrs. Loudon replies that
she
does not work Hester like a galley slave, and perhaps Guthrie has forgotten that galley slaves were used to row ships when he chose that particular metaphor.

Guthrie actually has the grace to blush, though protesting, not altogether truthfully, that we always take it in turns to row.

We collect the fishing tackle and make our way down to the loch, where we find Betty and a boy of about her own age – or slightly older digging in the gravel. Annie is sitting close by, knitting a multicoloured jumper, which, I feel sure, must be intended for Bollings – Tim's batman – to whom she is engaged. Guthrie says he has no idea who the boy can be unless he is one of Donald's offspring, which are numbered as the sands of the sea. I reply that Betty would find another child to play with her if she were marooned upon a desert island.

At this moment Betty sees us, and calls out that Ian is showing her how to dam the burn with stones. Guthrie says
he
knows how to damn the burn without stones.

‘Oh, do you?
How
?' says Betty with interest.

I feel slightly worried at the probable development of this conversation, as it looks as though it might turn out to have a damaging effect upon my child's morals (no pun intended).

Ian now remarks, in a soft Highland voice, that he is aware the burn
could
be dammed with sods, but he doots the laird would like us to be cutting them.

I can see that Guthrie is about to say that he can damn it without sods, so I make a face at him and he remains silent.

Betty now says that she is tired of damming burns, so can she and Ian come fishing with us if they promise to be very quiet? (She knows from experience that this promise usually appeals to the adult mind.) Guthrie says they may, and we all embark without further ado.

It is a grey, cloudy day with small ripples and a whitish glare upon the water. The top of Ben Seoch is swathed in mist. Guthrie takes out his rod and says solemnly he is doubtful about the fish today. They don't as a rule take well with mist on the mountains. I reply facetiously that the fish can't possibly know about the mist unless somebody has told them.

‘But the kelpies tell them, of course,' replies Guthrie gravely. ‘I thought you knew that much, Hester. How ignorant you are, to be sure!'

Ian gazes at Guthrie with large brown eyes, and asks if Mr. Loudon has ever seen a kelpie talking to the fishes. This puts the good man in rather a hole, and he spends some time fabricating a long and somewhat complicated answer to the question.

After a couple of drifts during which no rise is seen, Betty begins to get slightly restive, and asks why Guthrie doesn't catch a fish – don't the fish
want
to get caught?
She
thinks that fish like worms best, and, if Guthrie likes, she and Ian will go and dig some up for him. Bryan always uses worms when he goes fishing.

Ian suddenly says, ‘Whisht!' and points to a ring in the water about twenty yards from the boat. He is obviously no tyro at the sport. We approach our prey, and Guthrie casts over the place with great skill. A large fish rises and looks at the flies disdainfully, but utterly refuses to be caught. Betty reiterates her conviction that fish prefer worms.

The morning passes without success. We learn from Ian that he is indeed the son of Donald, and that he intends to become a ghillie. Guthrie suggests the navy as a more suitable profession, but Ian is not attracted by the idea and says he would not like to be spending his whole time climbing masts; it would be an easier thing to be tracking the deer upon the mountains – so it would.

After some time spent in flogging the water without any result, even Guthrie has to admit that it seems pretty useless, and we return home with an empty bag. We are walking back to the house somewhat disconsolately, when Betty suddenly turns to me and asks with her usual directness, ‘What is the
use
of fishing, Mummie?'

I am slightly taken aback, but reply, after a moment's thought, that it is to catch fish, of course.

‘I'm sure I could invent a better way,' she says. ‘I would make a little trap for them with flies inside – if they really
like
flies, though
I
think they like worms better – and then, when they were all inside eating the flies – or worms –the trapdoor would shut, and there they'd be.'

Guthrie says bitterly that after this morning's so-called sport he is inclined to agree with Betty.

Betty says, after reflection, that she likes damming burns much better than fishing.

– The afternoon is spent doing the flowers a task which is made more difficult for me by Mrs. Loudon, whose ideas on floral decorations have already been chronicled. We also write out the menu cards, and arrange how everyone is to sit at table.

‘I wonder what like that Baker man will be?' says Mrs. Loudon. ‘I'll have to have him on my left, and I'll put you next to him, so mind and talk to the creature, Hester, and you can have Major Morley on the other side to make up.'

‘What good will that be if I can't talk to him?' I enquire innocently.

‘You know what I mean well enough,' she replies. ‘You're getting too uppish altogether, and if there's any more of it I'll pack you off home. Now where will we put Miss MacArbin?'

Our deliberations are interrupted by the arrival of the post, and I am overjoyed to receive a letter from Tim. He has written before, of course, but only miserable, scrappy communications to convey the news that he is well and very busy getting his company into trim. This letter looks more promising, and I have hopes that it may contain information about houses. Perhaps Tim has had time to visit some of the ‘desirable residences to let', whose names I obtained from the agent at Biddington.

‘Away with you and read it in peace,' says Mrs. Loudon suddenly, so I fly upstairs with it to digest it at my leisure.

The letter begins with the announcement that Tim has been very busy with his company, but that he has found time to examine some of the pigsties on the agent's list, and most of them are absolutely foul. There is only one he likes the look of it is called ‘Heathery Hill', on account of one small piece of heather which is dragging out an exiled existence in the rockery. I perceive at once that the charm of ‘Heathery Hill' consists in the fact that there is a stable at the back which Tim can use for his charger, and I have grave doubts whether Tim has looked at any of its other amenities.

The beds, the furniture, the kitchen range, and water supply, the condition of the roof, and the drains are completely ignored in Tim's description. He touches lightly on the fact that the drawing room has a southern aspect, and the existence of a cupboard under the stairs, and asks me to wire at once whether or not he is to take it, as there are several other people after it. This threat does not disturb me, as agents invariably try to hustle prospective tenants in this manner, but I hastily scan the remainder of Tim's letter in the hope that I may gather a few more crumbs of information anent my future home. Alas, there are no crumbs! The rest of the letter deals exclusively with a description of his charger, whom he has named Boanerges on account of his dark colour and rolling eye. Tim hopes that I approve of the name. Boanerges is absolutely the pick of the officers' mounts, but not up to the colonel's weight, of course, and old MacPherson likes something quieter. He is very comfortable to ride, and has excellent paces. Boanerges seems such an admirable steed that I can't help wondering why he has been relegated to the junior major of the battalion perhaps the postscript explains in some part the anomaly; it is added in pencil and is ominously brief ‘Have just discovered, rather unexpectedly, that Boanerges does not like his father.'

I dress early for the dinner party, and don my new frock with great satisfaction. It is beige lace with orange flowers, and I note in the mirror that it is really very becoming.

Betty calls to me to come and say ‘Good night' to her, and, when I comply with her request, I find her having her supper in bed, with the faithful Annie in attendance.

‘Oh, you
do
look nice, m'm!' exclaims the latter ecstatically.

Betty looks at me appraisingly, and says that
she
likes me much better in my Fair Isle jumper.

‘But your mother could never wear it for dinner,' says the scandalised Annie.

‘Why not?' asks Betty truculently. ‘When I'm grown up I shall wear what I like best all the time – I shall wear my pyjamas all day if I want to.'

I kiss my daughter, and suggest to Annie in an undertone that perhaps a little fig syrup might be a good thing, and, having fulfilled my maternal duties, wend my way downstairs.

Although I am early on the scene my hostess is before me. She is seated by the fire, looking very dignified in black lace, and engaged in reading
The Times
, which only reaches this remote spot at dinner time.

She looks up and says, ‘I hoped you'd be early. What a pretty thing you are! Come and warm yourself, child.'

I sit down beside her chair on a footstool, and we both gaze at the fire for a little while without speaking. A fire of birch logs is a lovely sight. The under part glows redly, like a miniature forge, and little blue tongues of flame come licking round the bark as if it tastes nice.

At last Mrs. Loudon breaks the spell of silence. ‘Hester, I'm beginning to think Guthrie sees through that girl,' she says thoughtfully. ‘What do you think about it?'

I don't know what to reply I would tell her about our conversation if I thought she could persuade Guthrie where I have failed, but she couldn't, I know. If she were to speak to him they would both lose their tempers, and there would be a row, and Guthrie would rush off and marry the girl offhand. Besides, if he
is
going to marry the girl it will be better for Mrs. Loudon to think that he is still infatuated with her. All these thoughts have boiled in my head for two days, until I am quite muddled with them. I see no loophole of escape. Guthrie has all his mother's obstinacy in him he is determined to marry Elsie and the more opposition he finds to his foolish course, the more determined he will be.

‘Well?' she says. ‘You haven't answered – what a girl you are for dreaming!' She turns my face up to hers and looks at me earnestly. ‘He has spoken to you,' she says, in a breathless voice.

‘He is quite determined to marry her,' I reply in the same low tone. ‘My dear, you will have to make the best of it. I've done all I can. I'm sorry.'

Mrs. Loudon clings to my hand. ‘He's all I've got left,' she says, ‘and I can't be friends with that girl. She's got nothing in her that I can get hold of nothing that I can understand. She's not a bad girl, I know, but she's just different. She'll take Guthrie right away from me she hates me.'

‘She's rather frightened of you, I think.'

‘Yes, I suppose I
am
rather a fearsome old woman to people to people who don't understand my way,' she says pathetically. ‘It's the way I'm made, and I'm too old to change now.'

I hold her tightly. I can hear her heart beating very quickly under my ear, and feel the rise and fall of her hurried breathing.

‘It will ruin him,' she says, still in that low breathless voice. ‘They will both be miserable. He needs a woman to understand him – for the creature's a fool in some ways, though I say it. The right woman could have made Guthrie, the wrong woman will ruin him.'

Of course she is right. I can only hold her thin body close and pat her shoulder.

‘Gracious me!' she exclaims at last, pushing me away and blowing her nose loudly on a large linen handkerchief. ‘What a fool I am! It's no wonder Guthrie's one, with a mother like me. Here are we, croaking like sybils, and guests expected any minute! Me with a red nose, too! No, Hester, you can keep your powder –I'm too old now to start powdering my nose. If it's red, it's red, and there's an end to it.'

‘It's not very red,' I reassure her.

‘That's a mercy,' she replies. ‘For they'll be here directly. Dobbie's gone to fetch the MacArbins. They're very poor, and their car is a ramshackle affair to go out at night. By the way, Guthrie said I was to warn you that you've to call the man MacArbin – they're a brother and sister, you know – “last scions of a noble race” .'

‘Mr. MacArbin,' I suggest, wondering what else I would be likely to call him.

‘No, just MacArbin – here they are, I declare – he's
the
MacArbin, you see.'

I don't see, and decide not to address the man under any circumstances whatever, and then I shall not betray my ignorance.

His appearance completely overwhelms me. I have seen lots of kilts, but never one worn with such an air of confidence and pride. ‘Mrs. Christie, may I introduce MacArbin,' says my hostess, in her dignified manner.

We both bow, he with a strangely foreign grace, which seems to spread upwards from the chased silver buckles on his shoes to the crown of his iron-grey hair. I take in at a glance the perfection of his attire: his green kilt, his snowy falls of lace at neck and wrist, the silver buttons on his black cloth doublet, the jewelled dagger in his stocking. From this I go on to take stock of himself: flashing brown eyes, long thin nose, long thin fingers and sensitive hands and decide that here, indeed, is the portrait of a Highland gentleman come to life.