Eliza for Common

O. Douglas

Description

The domestic chronicles of a minister's family that bears a remarkable resemblance to the Buchans themselves, Eliza for Common is set in Glasgow just after the Great War. As Eliza grows up she longs for beauty and excitement, and gradually emerges from the confines of being a daughter of the manse to find her own way in the world...

Sujets

• Fiction
• Coming of Age

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 11 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774644690
• Langue: English

Extrait

Eliza for Common
by O. Douglas

First published in 1928
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
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.


{3}
ELIZA FOR COMMON


by O. DOUGLAS










TO AGNES ROBB THE DEAR ‘ANTAGGIE’ OF OUR CHILDHOOD “Kind, kind, and gentle was she.”
CHAPTER I

“Well, now let us begin. When we have got to the end of the story we shall know more than we do at present.”— Hans Andersen.
Jim Laidlaw swung on the piano-stool in the drawing-room of Blinkbonny,Pollok Road, Glasgow, picking out tunes from Songs of the North withone finger.
It was after four o’clock and the short January day was done. Downstairsthere were lights and preparations for tea, the drawing-room was coldand fireless, a damp fog pressing close to the window, but Jim sat on,striking notes uncertainly and humming in a rather tuneless voice thechorus of a song:

“Linten Lowrin, Lowrin Linten, Linten Lowrin, Linten Lee. I’ll gang the gait I cam again, And a better bairnie I will be....”
A head came round the half-open door and a voice said—“I say, Jimmie,Mother says you’re to come down.”
Jim paid no attention but began again at the beginning of his song:

“I sheared my first hairst in Bogend Down by the fit o’ Benachie; And sair I wrought and sair I fought But I wan oot my penny fee.”
The boy at the door breathed heavily against the paint for a minute, {8} then, “Come on, Jimmie,” he said. “It’s dreary up here and Eliza’smaking hot toast for tea.”
The song finished with a crash of discords. Jim rose and, pushing hisyoung brother before him, left the room.
It was certainly more cheery downstairs in the dining-room, with a goodfire, and red and white cups on a white cloth, and a red-shaded lamp inthe middle of the table.
Mrs. Laidlaw was seated at the tea-tray, with a large family teapotbefore her, a woman of forty-eight, with sad blue eyes and heavy,patient lids, contradicted by a wide, practical, humorous mouth. Therewas nothing in the least unusual about her, but if you had gone roundher large circle of friends and asked them what woman of theiracquaintance they liked best to visit them, or to whom they would mostquickly turn in any time of trouble, they would almost certainly allhave answered, “Mrs. Laidlaw.”
Some would have said it as if half-amused that it was so; some surprisedat themselves—“Why—I believe—Mrs. Laidlaw”; some quickly andgratefully; but all would have said it.
Her husband, the Rev. Walter Laidlaw of Martyrs’ Church, sat opposite.He had a way of crossing his legs and sitting sideways at table whichannoyed his wife. He was doing it now. A tall man, he had rather a longface, greying hair, and amused eyes. A boy, Rob, sat next his mother, anempty chair beside him, and across the table was his sister Eliza, aschoolgirl of sixteen with two long plaits of yellow hair.
Jim slid into the place beside his sister, while Geordie, who hadsummoned him and followed him downstairs by the way of the banisters,took the {9} vacant seat beside Rob, not, however, without some interchangeof courtesies with that worthy.
Rob and Geordie looked as if they ought to be twins, but Rob was fifteenmonths older than his brother. They were considered by all who had thedoubtful privilege of their acquaintance to be, perhaps, the mostcomplete pair of miscreants that ever were bred in a manse. Geordie hadfreckles and sandy hair and a short nose and looked what he was, whereasRob was of a most refined appearance, with a singularly gentle smile,but they both fought “like wild water-horses,” as Mary-from-Skye said,with anyone who would fight with them, and generally came in withdamaged faces, and coats torn and buttonless.
This afternoon they were unusually silent and subdued, eating steadily,with their eyes on their plates.
It had been a long miserable Saturday in Blinkbonny.
A short time before, Jim had gone up to Oxford to try for a historyscholarship and had come home with high hopes. This was the day, aSaturday, that the results were expected to be out, and Jim had arrangedwith a friend to wire to him if his name appeared on the list ofsuccessful competitors.
Always sanguine, the Laidlaws had begun to watch for a telegram from anearly hour. Rob and Geordie, giving up their Saturday football, hadstationed themselves in the branches of a big elm tree which stood bythe front gate and from which they could command the road and be thefirst to rush and get the news.
But no telegram had come.
Telegraph boys, generally so rife, seemed to shun Pollok Road thatmorning, so that the watchers in the {10} tree had not even the excitementof sighting them and betting on whether or not they would stop atBlinkbonny; a million pounds was their lowest bet.
Never had the hours of a Saturday so dragged. It was a clammy coldmorning, and the old tree was not a comfortable watch-tower—besides,what was the team doing without its leader? Rob captained a footballteam made up of boys in the near neighbourhood, a team of no reputationit is regrettable to state. Every autumn they started with greatintentions, determined to raise money for a new ball and goal-posts, notto speak of jerseys and other things. For this end they collected at thefront doors of their parents’ friends, Rob, with his hair beautifullysleeked down and his gentle smile irradiating his face, being spokesman.He was hard to resist, and they yearly raised quite a respectableamount, which, however, was used for no other purpose than to feast themembers of this nefarious team. Not that they meant to cheat, but at thecommittee-meeting called to decide how to lay out the money, discussionusually degenerated into a free fight, and the only thing that restoredpeace was the idea of a feast.
Rob took another look down the road and yawned, partly with cold, partlywith boredom. Geordie, happy for the moment defacing the bark of thetree with his knife, paid no attention to his brother, and Rob slid downthe trunk and wandered into the house.
“I’ll ask Mother for apples,” he said to himself, and went upstairs tolook for her. Mrs. Laidlaw was not in her bedroom, but Rob walked aboutthe room, touching things, and refreshing his memory about what lived inthe little drawers in the bureau.... Evidently his mother was going out,her coat and hat {11} were spread on the bed, and the sight of them set himoff on a fresh track. He picked up the hat and put it on. Then he donnedthe coat, and buttoning the high fur collar round his throat, admiredhimself in the wardrobe mirror. Would he be able to cheat Geordie? Hisface wore the serene smile that always meant mischief as he steppedcautiously downstairs. At the dining-room door he remembered about theapples and, assuring himself that if he had made the request it wouldhave been granted, he took two from the dish on the sideboard, hitchingup the long coat in order to stow them into his pockets. As he was aboutto open the front door and assume a mincing, lady-like look for thebenefit of Geordie, he noticed in the umbrella-stand his cherished swordwhich had been lost for nearly a week. Forgetting everything else hegripped it, and shouting “My brand—Excalibur!” hurtled into the frontgarden.
Mr. Laidlaw, standing at his study-window with his sermon for the nextday in his hand, saw what seemed to his short-sighted eyes to be hiswife leap with surprising agility from the top of the stone-steps,waving a sword. At the same moment he saw his neighbour, Mr. Dyson, aneat, rabbit-like gentleman, pass the gate and stand, open-mouthed,staring at the spectacle. For a few seconds he stood transfixed, then,averting his eyes, he raised his hat as if a funeral were passing, andwent on his way.
Walter Laidlaw grinned broadly. “That wretched boy!” he murmured tohimself. “What is poor Dyson to think?” Then he chuckled.
One o’clock came, and the early dinner would have been a silent meal hadit not been for Jim, who, {12} affecting high spirits, chaffed his youngbrothers, while they, feeling it was a spurious gaiety, rolled theirheads uncomfortably and kicked each other beneath the table to relievethe tension.
After dinner, “I’m going for a walk,” said Jim. “Anybody coming? Youtwo?”
They agreed and went, tumbling over each other in the doorway, to lookfor their caps. There was generally one cap missing and each claimed theexisting one as his own.
“We’ll walk till tea-time,” Jim declared as they set out.
It was the winter of 1919-20, a year after Peace was proclaimed, and thesuburbs had got back their men—such as had survived—and were sinkingback into their old comfortable ways. Motor-cars were possible again,and every little while the walkers were warned by a loud hooting that acar was about to emerge from an entrance gate to take its owners for aSaturday afternoon outing. Warmly clad, healthy children walked besidenurses wheeling perambulators; vans delivered provisions for theweek-end; peace and plenty reigned.
And Jim’s heart failed him. All these villas, smug and prosperous,seemed to lie like a weight on him, holding him down, making certainthat he did not escape from Glasgow to that city of dreaming spires,Oxford.
It would have been idle to remind him that there was culture in Glasgow,brains of the best, splendid traditions; useless to point out that thesuburbs of one city were very like the su