Oranges and lemons

by Mary C. E. Wemyss

The scullery-maid refused to look out of the window. She preferred to read. She knew what the country looked like. She had been to Epping Forest twice. Books for her, please! The kitchen-maid was from Skye. She hung out of the window drinking it all in. The housemaid tried to sleep. She was a bad traveller. She had nothing to say against Skye, but as they weren’t going there there was no need to think about it. It was beds she was thinking of. The mattresses wouldn’t be “box,” she was despondingly certain of that. “Not even spring, I should say,” Mrs. Oven said. At one of the stations—a small private station—the train stopped to take up a party of fishermen—a man, a girl, and a boy. The gillies got into the next compartment with the rods and landing-nets. Marcus glanced quickly at Diana. She looked perfectly fresh, tidy, and delightful. Her eyes sparkled. She was hoping Uncle Marcus would speak. She remembered a horrible story he was wont to tell of two men who had lived for twenty years in the same house in Jermyn Street, who had never spoken to each other, although they met constantly on the stairs. He had seemed proud of the story as illustrating something rather fine in the English character, but now, throwing all Jermyn Street restraint to the winds, he spoke. He asked them what luck they had had. The boy started off to tell him. He took ten minutes to tell how he had lost a fish. The girl, in one, told how she had seen one. The man had got two. Moreover, he prophesied that by tea-time Diana would have got one—if not more—to her own rod. “You are for Glenbossie?” he said to Marcus. And Marcus said he was and that Diana was his niece.

“Nice people,” said Diana when they had gone, and Marcus beamed. Where was Aunt Elsie now? Scotland was the place to bring a girl to, of course. What was the good of picnics and dances? English picnics! English dances!

At last they arrived at the station that for two months was to be their own. Marcus had never seemed to care for a station before—had never before patted one on the back, as it were. Diana was amused to see him greet the station-master as his best friend in the world. He looked as though he were longing to tell him how glad he was he had elected to be a station-master. It was delightful to Diana. She had never seen Marcus purring to this extent. She had known him very polite, but this was something far pleasanter, and much funnier. The station-master was his long-lost brother, that was all. So was the keeper: Macpherson by name: and more of a brother than any—an elder brother—was John. John with a wrinkled face and a twinkle in his eyes. Nature is a wonderful needle-woman when she takes the time and trouble to “gather” an old face. She had made thousands of “gathers” on John’s face without in any way spoiling the material, and Diana loved every wrinkle. Most of them stood for smiles and many of them for sunshine. “I shall love John,” she confided to Marcus.

“Dear old man,” said Marcus, and Diana was further amused. If Scotland could do this for one man—then Scotland forever, for all men. There was a lorry for the luggage—a car for Marcus and Diana, and for the household a kind of a char-à-banc, Pillar presiding over all and preventing Marcus from interfering. He showed no excitement. He knew his Scotland; if not one part, then another. They were all the same. In one, less grouse than in another—seldom more: in another, more fishing: scenery more or less the same in all parts. Mountains higher in one part than another—nothing much to choose between them—and midges everywhere. He himself had a weakness for sea-fishing, but would quite understand if Mr. Maitland had forgotten to remember it. In the back of his head he had a shrewd suspicion that they had come to Scotland for a set purpose—that Scotland was to be the means of marrying Miss Diana—and of defeating Miss Carston. It was always easy to get the right kind of gentlemen to come to Scotland, not that there had been any great difficulty in London, but gentlemen would recklessly face a recognized danger for the chance of a “royal”—whereas for a dinner—well, in London they were cautious. Pillar had an idea, unexpressed, that Miss Diana would prove highly dangerous in Scotland. He had faith—the utmost faith—in her tweeds and boots. She would make no sartorial mistakes—moreover, the more like a boy she looked the better she looked. They arrived at Glenbossie. It was exactly as Marcus had described it: a low, white house set on a hillside; surrounded by moor. On one side was a birch wood; a short distance below the lodge ran the river, getting, of course, lower and lower every minute as rivers will. Where were the rods? Marcus asked, all eagerness to begin fishing. The rods had arrived! Pillar said it with such emphasis that Marcus asked what had not arrived?

“The stores, sir.” A happy gloom here expressed itself on every feature of Pillar’s face.

“The stores? Oh, that doesn’t matter.”

“Very good, sir,” said Pillar.

“What sort of stores?” asked Marcus, this resignation, beautiful in its selflessness, on the part of Pillar looked bad.

“Oh, just ordinary stores, sir, tea and coffee and sugar, jam, marmalade, bacon, vermicelli, rice, oil, vinegar, sultanas, raisins, every kind of cereal, tapioca—macaroni—pickles.”

Now many of these things Marcus hated, but he wanted them all the same. He didn’t see why the railway company should have them. There was Mrs. Oven to keep happy, but it would take more than stores, it appeared, to make Mrs. Oven happy. The fire wouldn’t burn.