Reluctantly she went upstairs to tell Fairlie. “I shan’t stay more than two nights,” she promised herself.
“You’ll just see,” said Fairlie soothingly; “you’ll mebbe like it fine. . . . You’ve nothing much to pack—just the coat and skirt and the lace dress (I took off the cape last night after you went to your bed and I think it hangs better now), but Mrs. Lithgow won’t have company when you’re there; it wouldn’t be seemly. And I’ll try to do everything here just as you would like, and of course I can always ring you up if there’s anything I don’t know about. Sir Samuel didn’t say when they’d expect you in London?”
“No. He said Lady Dobie would write. Now that everything’s changing and breaking up, perhaps the sooner I go to London the better. After all, Fairlie, they are my relations in a way, and I ought to feel nearer to them than I do, say, to the Lithgows.”
“Of course,” Fairlie readily agreed, “blood’s thicker than water.”
“I’m Elaine’s step-aunt. It’s a ridiculous relationship.”
“Oh, ay, but you’re aged more like sisters, only four or five years between you. I mind Miss Elaine at Greenbraes long syne. An impident wee thing she was, ordering us all about! She was as dark as you was fair; she was but a bairn then and you were a long-legged lassie.”
“It sounded an alarming household,” Beatrice went on, “from Sir Samuel’s description. They seem all so occupied that I doubt if they’ll ever take in that I’m coming!”
“No fear of them; they’ll be only too glad to have you. . . . Is Mistress Lithgow calling for you, did you say? See you’re ready in good time, dearie. Mistress Lithgow’s a lady that’s always rather before her time than after it, and it wouldn’t be nice to keep her waiting. I’ll take the suitcase to the front hall to be ready.”
Beatrice smiled faintly. “I’ll not be late, I promise you. It’s a blessing I’ve still got you to keep me right.”
True to her word she was in the hall when Mrs. Lithgow’s Sunbeam drew up at the door, and earned for herself a word of praise from that lady.
“That’s right, always be punctual. I’ve simply no use for the haphazard ways of the girl of to-day. Some of Peggy’s friends are just awful: don’t reply till the last minute and then refuse, or else accept and never turn up. But I can tell you if they treat me like that once they don’t get the chance again. Peggy just laughs and says, ‘What does it matter?’ But it’s not good manners and it does matter.”
Beatrice smiled non-committally and made some remark about the beauty of the day, a subject her companion eagerly followed up, for she was anxious that there should be no pauses.
“Yes, isn’t it? I think Glasgow on an autumn morning’s just lovely, and there’s such a nice cheery feeling of everything beginning again, people settling down after the summer, ordering winter clothes.” She stopped, feeling she was being tactless, and started again brightly and at random. “Did you ever see anything lovelier than that flower-shop there? So tasteful the way the autumn leaves and the flowers are arranged! It’s a very good shop that. I always go there for my wreaths . . . I’ve been reading a very nice book just now. I wonder if you’ve read it. It’s called—what is it called? I’ll forget my own name next, anyway it’s awfully nice. I’ll let you have it when I’ve finished reading it. Oh, there’s Mrs. Murray! She doesn’t see us.” Mrs. Lithgow leant forward and waved frantically but without success. “She’s been tempted out by the good morning to take a walk; she’s heavy on her feet, poor body. And here we are at home, and here’s Peggy.”
Mrs. Lithgow’s daughter had been watching for the car from the dining-room window and came running down the front door-steps to welcome the guest. She was a happy-looking girl, with a mop of dark hair and breezy manners, and after she had kissed Beatrice affectionately she began to chaff her mother about some mistake that lady had made.
“You who are so particular, Mother! Always down on me for my slap-dash ways. But I don’t put wrong letters into right envelopes. Mrs. Morris has just been to ask if you’re going to help her with her beano for mothers—I don’t know what it is—next Wednesday, for the reply she got from you this morning began ‘Dear Lucy,’ and as Mrs. Morris’ name is Janet she gathered it wasn’t for her.”
Mrs. Lithgow sat down on the settle in the hall, and clucked with her tongue at her own stupidity.
“Now, isn’t that awful! I was writing to Lucy Beatson at the same time. I never did such a thing in my life before. Anno domini, I suppose! But you needn’t look so triumphant, Peggy—need she, Be’trice?—it’s easy done.”
“Ah, but it’s fine once in a while to get a handle against Mother! Come along, Bee, and I’ll show you your room. It’s nice of you to come to us!”
They mounted two flights of stairs, Peggy explaining: “Mother wanted you to have the spare room on her floor, but I thought you might like to be up beside me—the view’s nicer.” She went to the window. “If it’s clear you can see right away to the hills. And we can share a bathroom. It’s a shabby affair compared to the one downstairs, but it’ll do. And I’ve put in lots of books, and a comfortable chair, and you stay up here just as much as you like. Now, don’t mind refusing if Mother wants to take you out and you’d rather stay in. You’re to do just what suits you best. They’ve brought up your case; shall I ring or would you rather unpack your own things? All right. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“No, oh no. What a lovely, comfortable room! And the flowers! You’ve taken a lot of trouble, Peggy.”
“Bless you, no. I liked it.” She bent down to sniff at a bowl of violets, hesitated for a moment and then said, “I’ll leave you now. Lunch is at 1.15 prompt.”
Beatrice went over to the window when the door closed, and stood looking out at the neat little back gardens of the crescent, the roofs of innumerable houses, and, far away, a line of blue hills all glorified by the noonday sun. It was odd to find herself an inmate of Mrs. Lithgow’s household, but then, she told herself, everything from now on would be odd and unfamiliar. Sometimes—not very often—she had gone to stay for a night or two at some one’s house, for a dance, perhaps, or some festivity, but how gladly had she hastened back to Park Place and her mother. That had always been the real fun of a visit, to recount to her mother everything that had taken place. And now there was no mother and very soon there would be no Park Place.
But no, she wasn’t going to pity herself. . . . Glancing at the clock she remembered Peggy’s warning and began laying out what Fairlie had packed, and her hands were washed and her hair smooth when the gong sounded. A sister of Mrs. Lithgow’s, a Miss Turnbull, who lived quite near in a very select boarding-house, was also at lunch, and the conversation never flagged, chiefly owing to Peggy’s efforts. Beatrice was grateful to her for behaving naturally, more especially as Miss Turnbull felt it right to adopt for the occasion a subdued manner and a lowered tone, and kept casting sympathetic glances at the black-frocked girl opposite to her.
“Peggy has such high spirits,” she said, apologetically, across the table.
“And why not?” demanded that young woman. “If I hadn’t high spirits now when would I have them? I’m only rejoicing in my youth as the Bible tells us to do.”
“Before the evil days come,” added her mother, helping herself to red-currant jelly with her mutton.
“Oh,” said Peggy, “I expect the evil days’ll come all right, but I should think you’re better able to bear them if you’ve done some rejoicing before. Life’s good and bad for everybody, but more good than bad for most. I’m sure, Mother, you haven’t much to complain of.”
“Indeed I haven’t,” said Mrs. Lithgow. “So far I’ve had what you might call a flowery path. And even in these hard times Father’s business isn’t too bad.