But when reasoned with mildly, Gracie merely laughed in her droll and captivating way. She had always mocked the proprieties and never had her mood been gayer, more teasing or more utterly bewitching than on that evening by the river when, kissing Daniel lightly on the forehead, she had darted off to keep an appointment with Henry.
That same night, spanking home late from a visit to Loch Lomond, the horse shied at a shadow. Woodburn lost control of the animal, and at a turn of the road the dog-cart careened into a ditch, smashing violently against a stone wall. By some miracle Gracie remained unhurt. Henry was killed instantly.
For some weeks Gracie remained indoors, then with her father she departed somewhat abruptly for Edinburgh. This seemed natural enough—she had need, surely, of rest and change—yet a feeling of surprise deepened in the town when several months went by and still Gracie did not return.
Then events took an even stranger turn as news came back that Gracie had married Nisbet Vallance, a civil engineer of 35, a steady, plodding sort of man, of no particular family or personal distinction, who had been on leave from his post as supervisor of the Central India Railroad to take a technical course at the Levenford shipyard.
No one had ever suspected that Nisbet, while regarded as a decent fellow, would ever aspire to Gracie. Yet married they were, in London, and left immediately from Tilbury for far-off India. And when Tom Lindsay returned to Levenford, even then beset by the business troubles which were increasingly to torment him, his grim, forbidding face deterred even the most presumptuous questioners.
Nevertheless, in a town such as Levenford the matter could not long remain a mystery. At least, the truth was rumoured and suspected.
It had all weighed heavily on Daniel. But now, walking with a rapt and fervent face under the faint twilight stars, he saw at last the chance to right an infamous and long-enduring wrong. At that moment the hand of Providence had never seemed more real to him. And in his breast, fanned by a rising exaltation, there was kindled the fire of a great endeavour.
He reached his house, a small red sandstone villa at the end of the toll road, and stood for a minute in his tiny, perfect garden, one of his few earthly vanities, where around the trim lawn the neat beds of primulas, snapdragon and calceolarias had already begun to bloom.
He breathed deeply once or twice, then, wiping his shoes carefully—Kate, his wife, forbade the slightest mark upon her spotless linoleum, and indeed in winter she made him remove his boots before entering—he went in. His heart was beating faster than usual, with a sense of expectancy and suspense.
Yes, it was there, on the table, where his tea, as usual, was set out, a rice-paper letter with an Indian postmark, and Kate had opened it. Inquiringly he gazed towards his wife as she stood, in troubled fashion, pushing back a lock of her iron-grey hair.
She was a grey woman, four years Daniel’s senior, and prematurely faded to neutral tints of unfruitful middle age. Her brow was good, even generous, despite the furrow which disappointments and frustrations had planted between her eyes, but the lower part of her face, the thin nostrils and the indrawn mouth, had been shaped by weariness and secret strife.
Her dress, cut from a “remnant” and made by herself on the treadle sewing machine that now stood, shrouded, by the window, was of homespun, old and drably grey, held together, or so it seemed, by the enormous cairngorm brooch planted in the centre of Kate’s bosom. This brooch, which opened behind, disclosing a plaited relic of her grandmother’s hair, was a solemn family heirloom and, save for her wedding ring, Kate’s sole article of jewellery. Somehow it seemed to emphasise the pathetic flatness of the barren bosom on which it rested.
“Kate,” Daniel said at last, “she is coming back?”
Slowly she nodded.
“We’ll have her here?” He spoke quickly, as though fearful of her decision.
“Yes, Daniel, we must have her here. And she’ll be welcome too.” Kate hesitated, then in a low tone added: “But, oh, I hope … in these years … she has learned to behave.”
Soberly she came forward and began to pour his tea.
Chapter Two
It was Saturday, a brisk, fresh day, with sunshine in the air and woolly puffs of cloud tumbling gaily across the blue sky. You could see a long way off. From the toll road it was possible to make out the sheep, moving high upon the Winton hills, and to the west, where a little tug-boat stood far out on the choppy water of the firth, you could clearly read the number on her bright vermilion funnel. A lovely day for Gracie’s homecoming!
Daniel and Kate were at the station early, 20 minutes before the ten o’clock train was due. Kate wore her new black dress and Daniel his Sunday suit. Turning the whole thing over in his mind as they marched in silence along Station Road Daniel told himself, with a full heart, that Kate had been splendid in all the arrangements she had made. The spare bedroom, an airy, pleasant room facing to the front, was now actually referred to as Gracie’s room, and Kate’s preparations there had been heroic. Muslin curtains had been hung, the furniture shifted to fresh positions, a new bedside rug laid upon the floor.
It was an agitating wait, but at last came a whistle and a flying pennant of steam, and the train pounded round the bend into the station. Doors flung open, a few everyday people stepped out, yawning and folding newspapers, and then, quite suddenly and simply, Gracie herself was on the platform, so real, so undeniably home at last, that Daniel’s heart stood still.
For a moment she remained poised, vividly outlined against the drab background of the train, her gaze going hither and thither uncertainly, expectantly. All at once she saw them. Her eyes lit up, and with a little cry of rapture she ran forward, both her hands out-stretched, too overcome even to attempt to speak.
She kissed Kate’s cheek, then Daniel’s, light as the touch of a bird’s wing. She was so little changed the shock of it was startling. Daniel felt his eyes grow dim. Perhaps she was more fragile than before. Yet she had always had the quality—and now her mourning black intensified it.
Behind her little spotted veil her small, pale face was still alive and bright, and she had the same trick of pointing her chin, as if in animated inquiry of life. Her thick brown hair had the same quick reddish lights in it. Her eyes, of the unforgettable red-brown tinge, could still smile beneath their tears.
She was now both laughing and crying, on her way to the cab which Daniel, pale and flustered, had summoned from the station archway. Mastering his feelings, for he felt the seasoned eye of the jarvey fastened curiously upon him, Daniel saw the luggage stowed, while Kate and Gracie stepped inside. A moment later he joined them, and they were off.
As they bowled along Gracie impulsively yielded a hand to each of them, sitting a little forward, her gaze fixed through the open window, tender and entranced.
Each familiar object drew from her parted lips the same sound of recognition—the Burgh Hall, the Library, the grey stone front of the Academy, yes, even Luckie Logan’s low-browed candy shop where as a child she had bought her “sweeties”, all had their part in the ecstasy of her return.
There was nothing beautiful, God knows, in the architecture of these buildings—they were small and weather-stained, beneath the cold slate roofs, to a bleak and dreary grey—yet for Gracie they had a rare appeal, the warm salutation of dear, familiar friends. The absence of change particularly excited her. The smell of hot rolls drifting out from Carrick’s bakehouse sent a tiny shiver through her body.
“It’s all the same as ever,” she kept whispering in between. “And, oh, it’s so good to be back.”
Gracie was always like that: acutely sensitive to the most delicate impression. A blink of sunlight on the muddy water of the common pond would make her stand catching her breath; a whiff of autumn wood smoke from Garshake would set her dreaming all the afternoon. And now an emotion, more poignant and more personal, the supreme emotion of her return, was catching at her throat with suffocating intensity.
As they turned down Church Stree
t and came to David Murray’s office she gave a little gasp and pressed Daniel’s hand.
“Look! Look! I believe I see Davie at the window. Oh, Aunt Kate, can I stop and have a word with Davie? It’s like a hundred years since I last caught sight of him.”
Kate’s expression was a study. Murray’s clear-cut, shadowed features were indeed visible, as he watched, almost covertly, it seemed, from behind the curtained window.
“I don’t think we’ll stop just now, dear. You must be tired after your long journey.”
“But I’m not the least tired,” Gracie replied, with eager eyes.
Kate managed a smile, solicitous and controlled.
“There’s so many people about, my dear. You wouldn’t want them to see you running into David Murray’s office the minute you were home.”
Gracie opened her lips to protest, then closed them. Perhaps Aunt Kate was right. She must not be impatient. With a sigh she relaxed and sat back, conscious, though uncaring, of the fact that curious eyes were watching the passage of the cab through the town, that heads turned, tongues wagged, and nods were interchanged.
James Stott, butcher and acting Provost of the burgh, swathed in his blue-and-white apron and suitably hung with steel, was hooking a half-bullock at the door of his establishment and passing the time of day with Apothecary Hay. At the sight of the cab Hay rubbed his hands together till the knuckles cracked,
“Well,” he said, dryly, “there she goes, Provost.”
Stott took up the druggist’s ironic tone. “It’s a handsome equipage,” he remarked, with a satiric eye on the dilapidated four-wheeler. “I suppose you would call it a return in state.”
And the Reverend Douglas Mowat, minister of the parish, walking down Church Street with his wife, while avoiding all comment, infused his portly person with an air of righteous reproach.
At last, however, the cab reached the toll road, and Gracie entered Daniel’s house, enwrapped by a sweet haze. Those seven years in India had in many ways been hard for her to bear, yet now she was here they became obliterated, almost as if they had never been at all. Levenford was her home: she had never wished to leave it.
After lunch, at which she ate but little, she produced her presents, a fine Kashmir shawl for Kate, and for Daniel a set of brushes with carved ivory from Cawnpore. Then taking Daniel’s arm, she drew him to the little garden and they began to pace the lawn. A note of charming earnestness mingled with her vivacity and misted her lovely eyes as she said impulsively:
“Dear Uncle Dan, your welcome means so much to me. It gives me new hope and confidence.” There was a pause, then, sensing his silent sympathy from the touch of his fingers on her sleeve, she continued with an intimate smile: “I am not well off, you know—not one of those rich widows one reads of. Oh, I daresay I shall have a pension from the company but only a small one. I may have to earn my living: and I want so much to do something useful. You don’t know how wasted these last years have been. I’m not blaming Nisbet: he was decent to me, poor man. But I never really belonged out there. This is where I belong, Uncle Dan, and now that I’m back I want to make a real future for myself.”
He was deeply moved, and although he had not expected to broach the vital subject upon his mind so early as this, the opportunity which she had given him seemed too favourable to be missed.
“Gracie,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder, “you know that your happiness is everything to me—and it is for that reason … there is a question I must ask you … I hope it will not be painful for you.”
“Painful?”
She smiled in surprise, and Daniel summoned all his courage.
“It is about your child, Gracie.”
Without daring to lift his eyes, he felt her stiffen. After a silence, which became oppressive, she answered in a strained and altered voice: “I had hoped all that had been forgotten.”
“Yes, yes,” Daniel said hurriedly, fearing she would misunderstand. “No blame attaches to you. If there was a fault it was that of Henry Woodburn. But when he died, Gracie, the responsibility for that young life became yours.”
She drew up and turned to face him, lips trembling. “I scarcely expected this from you, Uncle Dan. And so soon after my arrival. Don’t you understand what I suffered? Father was almost out of his mind. Nisbet did not want to be burdened with a child, and I was too worn out to resist. I felt it was better for the child to be brought up on the farm near Perth where father put him, with the good country people, the Langs.”
“Yes, yes, my dear,” Daniel soothed her. “I know your situation was difficult, but now you have the chance to put things right.”
“It was put right at the time.” She stood rigidly. “Isn’t it best to leave it as it is?”
“No, no, you have a moral obligation, Gracie, and it isn’t only that, it is a question of your happiness and that of your son.”
“He is happy there, I know,” and she added, with a touch of bitterness, “He would not remember me.”
Daniel shook his head, “I tell you, your life will never be complete unless you take him back.”
Again a long, heavy silence fell. She seemed to have been moved by her uncle’s last words and looked at him doubtfully.
“Do you really think so, Uncle Dan?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Don’t you understand …” she stopped, blushed, and said with an effort, “ I don’t feel at all like that. I was forced to abandon him, to forget him. Now that part of me is dead. How could he come back … and love me?”
“Wouldn’t he be able to love you, my dear?”
Emotion gripped the girl in spite of herself. She sighed. This suggestion, so unexpected and contrary to her plans, was very disturbing.
“We will talk about it again,” she said slowly. And, resting her cheek on his shoulder, she seemed to be touched by his affection.
“You are so good to me, dearest uncle, and I am so happy to be with you again. Have I really been away for seven years? My life is beginning again.…”
When Daniel departed for the studio Gracie rested in her room—despite her denial the journey had fatigued her—and towards late afternoon she fell into a light sleep. But in the evening the sound of voices drew her downstairs.
Refreshed, wearing a soft gown with lace about the throat, she entered the parlour where, seated before the fireplace—now filled by a pot of spiraea—engaged in their weekly game of draughts were Daniel and Apothecary Hay.
Gracie smiled and greeted the druggist, then seated herself on the revolving piano stool, to watch the progress of the game. Somehow, from her presence, the atmosphere of the stiff Scots parlour with its formidable mahogany, its horsehair upholstery, its Highland cattle lowering from maroon walls, seemed to brighten.
For Daniel the whole room was lighter, warmer. He gazed at her from time to time with a timid happiness, not caring a whit that he was losing. And at length he said:
“Play something, Gracie.”
“I’m out of practice,” Gracie answered gaily in the local dialect. “Besides, Mr Hay doesn’t want me to.”
“I’m not minding what you do,” the druggist interjected with native caution.
“Well, I will, for that,” smiled Gracie. She swung round on her stool, opened the upright piano, hesitated a moment, then began to play.
It was a nice piano—a handsome wedding present to Kate from her brother Tom, which Kate, in the passion of her possessiveness, had not grudged to keep in tune. She had a special private arrangement, half-price, with the blind tuner from Shawland’s in the High Street. And Gracie’s touch was worthy of that instrument—Miss Gilchrist, music mistress of the Academy, had not spent her time in vain. She played one of Schubert’s Impromptus. It was beautiful.
Outside the light was failing, and through the open window the mingled scent of moss roses and new-cut grass came stealing in from Daniel’s garden. Gracie’s figure, slender and small, had a strangely unprotected quality. Her white throa
t, almost luminous against her black dress, the fragility of her wrists, the very movements of her fingers had a delicate and fastidious charm.
Daniel felt his heart swell as he looked at her. Even Hay was touched as, with his long shanks outstretched and his eyes fixed sardonically upon the ceiling, he drummed the draught-board in pretended indifference.
From Schubert Gracie drifted almost idly into the traditional airs of Scotland, the native songs of her own land, until suddenly, with a glance at Daniel, she began that song he liked best of all. It was, of course, a sacred song: “And the city hath no need of light.”
Leaning forward, fascinated, Daniel could scarcely breathe. Gracie’s voice, though small in volume, had an almost birdlike purity. It soared towards him, threading the stately melody with lovely words. It became no longer Gracie’s voice but Gracie’s spirit, aspiring finally towards goodness, a white soul struggling upwards through the nets of Earth, Indescribably touched, Daniel buried his face in his hands, seeing the happy vision of Gracie, reunited to her child.
The song ended, and it was as if none of them dared to move. Presently, however, the door was opened and Kate came into the room bearing a taper with which, lowering the frosted globe of the chandelier, she lit the gas. It was then that Daniel saw that Gracie’s cheeks were wet with tears.
On Wednesday forenoon of the following week Daniel was in the studio, moving spryly, strapping his photographic gear in a brown canvas cover, humming cheerfully under his breath.
One of his “ big days” lay ahead of him. He was going to the Academy to photograph the classes in the Elementary School, row upon row of children ranged on benches, with well-washed faces, alert and wide-eyed, in the sunny, dusty playground.
Most of Daniel’s business came from this annual group work. He had most of the schools in Levenford, together with the Oddfellows, the Masons, the Bowling Club, and a score of other old-established institutions controlled by the Burgh Council.
If on a Levenford mantelpiece you saw a formidable gathering of top-hatted gentlemen and their parasol-holding ladies—say, the ceremonial opening of the new waterworks at Garshake, or the presentation of prizes at the annual Flower Show—you might be certain that in the corner of the mount would be the neat little sign: Dan’l Nimmo. Photographer. The Studio. Wellhall, Levenford.