The Day of Small Things

O. Douglas

Description

This book is a sequel to the earlier novel, The Proper Place, concerning an aristocratic Scottish family, the Rutherfurds, forced by circumstances to sell the family estate. Lady Jane has lost both of her sons in the recent Great War; the subsequent death of her husband and unexpected financial hardship prompts her one remaining child, a daughter, Nicole, to suggest they move to a smaller establishment more within their now more limited means. Accompanying them is Lady Jane's niece, Barbara, but she has married and is back at Rutherfurd Hall at the opening of Small Things, leaving Lady Jane and Nicole in their new home, Harbour House, close by the sea's edge in the fictional east coast town of Kirkmeikle.

Sujets

• Fiction
• Historical

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 05 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774642993
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Day of Small Things
by O. Douglas

First published in 1930
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

The Day of Small Things



by O. Douglas
















Who hath despised the day of small things?
zechariah , iv. 10.

TO ALICE

WITH LOVE
CHAPTER I

  ‘ Every neighbourhood should
have a Great Lady. ’
JANE AUSTEN.
Mrs. Heggie had a cold which, she felt, might easilygo into bronchitis if she were not careful, and the daywas wet, one of those dripping October days when it isreally too close for a fire, but miserably cheerless withoutone, a day when polished furniture looks smeared,and everything feels sticky to the touch.
Mrs. Heggie stood in the window of the drawing-roomin Knebworth, Kirkmeikle, and looked out at fallenleaves on which the steady rain pattered, at the red tilesof the houses clinging to the brae face beneath her, atthe grey sea with the grey sky resting on it.
Surely, she thought, it was a very long afternoon;only half-past three now, and it seemed half a daysince luncheon.
A pile of books lay on a table and she took up onewhich had an attractive paper cover, but after readinghalf a dozen pages without getting an inkling what thestory was about she gave it up in despair, and wonderingruefully why every one nowadays was so clever, shelifted a newly launched illustrated magazine for women.After looking through the recipes, she began a storywith a promising title, but before she could get interestedin it she had lost it, and it was too much troubleto track the rest of it to its hiding-place among advertisementsof tinned fruits, the latest electric cleaners,and cures for all ills that flesh is heir to— Epilepsy andits Treatment ; My Life was made a Burden with SuperfluousHair ; Healthy Legs for All .
Answers to correspondents on the subject of healthnext caught her eye, and she read several. Some wereinteresting: the delicate child with the cough (howstupid not to advise the mother to give it cod-liver oil, not emulsion but the old-fashioned pure oil!): thelady of thirty-two whose circulation was so bad thather fingers went dead; and the husband afflicted withnightmares. Odd to write to a paper about one’s ailments! . . .This woman sounded rather like herself:inclined to be stout; sixty years of age; acidity;throbbing in the head. . . . What did they say to thepoor body? Advised to seek at once the advice of aqualified medical man.
Mrs. Heggie moved uneasily in her chair. She wasnot sure that she felt quite well. Certainly she did havesome odd sensations at times, especially if she had eatenunwisely. Pork, for instance. . . . Of course, a littleindigestion was nothing: but was it indigestion? ‘Aqualified medical man.’ In her case that was Dr.Kilgour. She wished he was not so terribly bracing.He would come in like a blast of east wind, and beforeshe knew where she was, blow her off to a Nursing Homefor an operation.
Well——. Mrs. Heggie braced herself up. It wasbest to face the worst. Almost every one sooner orlater had an operation. And wasn’t there a NursingHome just started in Langtoun? Somebody had spokenof it—yes, Mrs. Stark. She had said in her definite way,‘My dear, I enjoyed my illness. I simply wouldn’thave dared to be ill in my own house—I can see thefaces of my domestics!—but in this Home I was madeto feel important; a victor. It’s a doctor’s widowthat runs it—a Mrs. Pirrie, and she is both kind andcapable; superintends everything herself. The cookingand service leave nothing to be desired. A perfectbed, good home-made food, a fresh rose on your breakfast-tray—whatmore could you ask? Oh, I assureyou, I stayed on much longer than was necessarysimply because I was happy.’
It had certainly sounded attractive as described byMrs. Stark. Convalescence in the Langtoun Home(supposing you were spared to convalescence) might berather pleasant. Friends coming in with flowers andgossip, nurses always about, nice chats with the doctor’swidow. Certainly much more lively than sitting alonein Knebworth with a cold! . . . If only some one wouldcome to call, but she could think of no one who waslikely to pay her a visit. Joan was locked into herroom writing poetry. Not that Joan was much use asa conversationalist; she scorned to talk of people, andher mother cared to talk of nothing else. It was unfortunate,Mrs. Heggie couldn’t help thinking, that Joanwas so circumscribed. It was possible, surely, to carefor poetry and art and yet enjoy a comfortable gossip.There was Nicole Rutherfurd. She was culturedenough, and yet who was more delightful to tell thingsto? Her air of breathless interest was most inspiring,and then she was so willing to laugh! Mrs. Heggiesmiled to herself remembering that laugh, and thoughtwhat a blessing it was that the Rutherfurds would soonbe back at the Harbour House. That very morning,in Mitchell the baker’s, she had seen Agnes Martin, theRutherfurds’ cook, who had said they were expecteddirectly. . . .
Another hour till tea! If only some one wouldcome in, even a collector would be better thannothing.
She went again to the window. The rain still slanteddown; a long spray of creeper had been dislodged andhung down in a disreputable way; the chrysanthemumsthat yesterday had stood up so gallantly were batteredand spoiled; the leaves were all over the lawn and——Whatwas that stopping at the gate? The baker’scart most likely, or a van from Langtoun. Peeringthrough the rain-dimmed pane, Mrs. Heggie was surprisedand excited to see that it was a car, out ofwhich was stepping a lady in a blue leather coat. Avisitor!
Mrs. Heggie moved as swiftly as her bulk wouldallow, to the bell.
‘Bella,’ she said breathlessly when the parlour-maidappeared, ‘a motor has stopped. Bring tea in abouta quarter of an hour and see that everything is verynice. Hot toast and the best silver. . . . There’s thebell.’
All expectation, Mrs. Heggie seated herself in a highchair, and presently ‘Mrs. Jameson’ was announced,and following her name came a woman of about five-and-thirty,with alert grey eyes under a becomingblue hat.
‘Oh,’ said her hostess, ‘Mrs. Jameson ! And on such a day!’
As an oasis to a traveller in the desert so was thisvisitor to Mrs. Heggie. A newcomer to the district,the purchaser of Windywalls—here was new country toexplore! She beamed and repeated, ‘On such a day!’as she drew forward a chair.
But the visitor would not be pitied.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘it looks worse than it is, and it’s thebest sort of day to find people in. I was sorry to missyou when you called at Windywalls.’
‘Not at all,’ said Mrs. Heggie, wondering how longMrs. Jameson had been a widow. With her gay coloursand cheerful voice she was strikingly unlike anything ofthe kind. Widows as she knew them were subduedthings, black or grey or purple; by their demeanourreminding the world of what they had lost. She herselfhad never got beyond a little grey or white in herhat, although her James had been gone fully ten years.. . . Still, this was a comparatively young woman,times were changing, and it did not do to be narrow-minded. . . .‘And how do you think you’re going tolike this part of the world? Perhaps you have someconnection with it?’
Mrs. Jameson, smiling pleasantly, shook her head.
‘No. I heard by chance of Windywalls, and when Isaw it I liked it, and here I am.’
There were a hundred questions on the tip of Mrs.Heggie’s tongue. It was almost more than she coulddo to bite them back and merely remark, ‘Indeed!Perhaps you play golf?’
‘I play, but I’m not much good. No, I didn’t comefor the sake of golf. I came because I like the country,and quiet, and a garden, and a sight of the sea.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs. Heggie, and added brightly, ‘andpleasant neighbours. With me it’s always more thepeople than the place.’
The visitor nodded. ‘Neighbours certainly count,’she admitted, ‘tell me about the people here. I knowno one, for I always seem to be out of reach whencallers come, and yours is the first call I’ve returned.I’d be grateful if you’d put me wise about theneighbourhood?’
Mrs. Heggie sat forward in her chair, her broad facebeaming, all gloomy fears were banished; here was atask that her soul loved.
‘Tell you about the people? Certainly I will, but—Ihardly know where to begin.’
‘Mayn’t we begin where we are? What a prettyhouse this is! Do you live alone?’
‘With my daughter Joan.’ She looked deprecatinglyat her visitor as she continued: ‘It seems absurdwith me for a mother, but Joan writes poetry. Yes,she’s had one little volume published, and people whoknow say it’s good, but I’m no judge. The only oneI could understand Joan said was poor. Her father,too, was so unlike anything of the kind. He likedwhat you might call the practical side of life, and Idoubt if he knew a line of poetry, but you never reallyknow what a family’s going to take to. There’s myson George out in China—— But I mustn’t wanderaway. We were to talk of our neighbours. . . .Haven’t you met any one ? Not even the minister?’
‘Not even the minister. Ought I to have made apoint of seeing him first? . . . I dare say I might haveseen callers if I hadn’t been so keen to get things on inthe garden before the winter’s upon us. I’m afraid Ididn’t encourage the servants to come and look f