“What part of Scotland do you come from, Mrs. Rattray?”
“Scotland?” she said faintly: then she flushed. “How did you know? I haven’t a trace of accent.”
“No. But you’re some sort of a Celt: and there’s a tune in your voice, every now and then. It isn’t Welsh, it isn’t Irish; there’s nothing it could be but Highland. I’d say you were a Highlander who had lived in London, or a Londoner who spent a lot of time in the Highlands.”
“I’m not Scottish, really. My mother was. I was born in London. We went up a few summers to my granny’s place. I never learned to speak her way, though. That’s why I can’t think how you guessed.”
“They were good summers, were they?”
“Lovely.” The refined Cockney had come back into her voice. She glanced pettishly at the clock.
“I can’t think where David is.”
“He’ll be back soon. Tell me about your summers in the Highlands.”
She glanced at him, unwillingly, and made a small restless movement. He could see that she did not want to surrender.
“He’s usually in before this,” she said.
“Too bad. Have you been up there since you married?”
“We went for a part of our honeymoon.”
“Wasn’t it a success?”
“No. It rained, and brought on my rheumatism. David hated it. He wouldn’t let me go there since.”
“D’you want to?”
“I couldn’t stand the journey. And it’s so wet up there.”
“I never mind the wet,” Ellis said. “It’s worth it, for the colours afterwards.”
“Yes.” A memory gleamed in her eyes. “I remember once, when I was only about six or seven, and it had been raining all day, suddenly it turned fine about six, and I thought it was the end of the world, and asked Granny if we were in Heaven.”
“I know. The new Jerusalem.”
“Yes.” The gleam faded. She looked hunted and worried. Before Ellis could speak, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” she said, in a moan he realised to be her habitual public protest against her invalidism.
The door opened, and the little girl put her head round.
“Please’m, I got to go home now. Dad said I wasn’t to stop a minute after ten.”
Mrs. Rattray uttered a whimper of distress and anger. She rolled an eye at the clock, like a frightened horse.
“That’s all right,” Ellis assured her heartily. “I’ll stay here and look after Mrs. Rattray till Mr. Rattray comes back. You go off home.”
The girl looked mutely at him, then at her mistress.
“Very well,” she whispered. “Goodnight’m.”
She went out. There was a silence. Looking at his hostess, Ellis saw with horror that she was smiling again. He caught at her mood before she could speak.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Rattray,” he cried, with his best assumption of bluffness. “I’m a good, safe, dependable married man. Anyway, it’s your husband’s fault. If he stays out working, and leaves you alone, he can’t complain if another man takes care of you till he comes back.”
Vigorously, without pause, he set himself to dominate and charm her. Before she could resist, he had dragged her back to the Highlands. She shall not look at that clock, he decided. So, while her eyes faltered and ached to turn towards it, he put forth all his power, telling her story after story of the Highlands, using the strength of his voice, every power he had, in the effort to hold her attention and charm or bludgeon her into forgetfulness of the present.
And he succeeded. Her eyes, gazing into his, at first unwillingly, then mournfully, lightened, came alive, then gleamed with pleasure and disturbance. The sickly face became animated, the drooping mouth relaxed, and he saw, in flashes, the girl she must once have been, the girl that took David Rattray’s staid but passionate fancy and won his heart. She laughed: her breath came faster: she uttered little exclamations of delight and recognition. For close on a quarter of an hour she forgot the clock. Then a hurried step sounded, the door opened, and David Rattray rushed in.
His wife turned with a small tearful cry in which joy and relief were already smothered in remonstrance. Ellis had time to notice the speed with which, although for a few minutes she had wholly forgotten him, she switched to a note of reproach, before all his attention was claimed by Rattray.
The man appeared distraught. His face was white, his hair dishevelled, his eyes staring, and he breathed as if he had run a mile. He rushed towards his wife, began to gasp out some cry of endearment and contrition, when suddenly he saw Ellis.
The effect on him was extraordinary. He pulled up with the abrupt irrelevance of a figure in a stopped cinematograph film. His already white face set like marble, his eyes went dark and small, and he began to babble and stutter as if he had had a stroke.
Then, sibilant and breathy, the words came.
“You here. You—what are you doing—you—at this hour.”
His voice burst through the obstruction and leaped out in an uncontrolled shout.
“What do you mean by coming here when I am away, and badgering my wife with your questions? You coward! How dare you! Torturing a poor helpless invalid who can’t defend herself, when I am not here to protect her!”
For a moment after he stopped the echoes of his voice seemed to blare from the walls. Then Ursula Rattray made a queer little mewing noise of protest.
“But, David dear, Mr. McKay hasn’t been bullying me at all. He’s been telling me the most lovely stories about the Highlands.”
The effect of this was to infuriate Rattray still more. He stuttered helplessly, his eyes rolled in his head, and foam appeared at the corners of his mouth.
“Highlands!” he got out at last. “Highlands! Damnation! I won’t have anyone talk to you about the Highlands!” He pointed to the door. “Get out! Get out this instant!”
Ellis was on his feet, pugnacious, square, his lower lip thrust out. His voice rang clear in contrast to the other’s thickened shout.
“Pull yourself together, man. Don’t talk rubbish. I came here to ask you a question, at a time when I was given to understand you would be at home. When you did not appear, and the child who was here had to go home, I stayed to keep Mrs. Rattray company till you came. If you object to that, you should come home at the proper time.”
A mew came from the sofa.
“Yes, David darling, pet, truly you should. You’ve never been so late. Pet rabbit was so frightened. At least, she would have been if nice kind man hadn’t stayed and told her lovely stories.”
Rattray looked at her without speaking, then at Ellis. He began to shake all over, turning finally to her with a look of desperate appeal. Then, regardless of Ellis, he plunged blindly forward, and fell on his knees, burying his head in her lap. Groans came from him. She cooed and stroked his hair. Her face was transfigured with tenderness.
“There, Davie pet. Own rabbit will forgive ’oo, make ’oo well.”
Ellis felt that in a couple of seconds he would be sick. He coughed imperatively.
“I am going now, Rattray. If you will be so good as to come to the door with me, I will ask you the question I came to ask.”
Slowly, Rattray turned to him a bleared, bewildered face. All the fight had gone out of him. He was like a tired man wakened suddenly from sleep.
“Yes,” he said, and lumbered to his feet. “Yes.” He turned to his wife. “I won’t be a moment, darling.”
“Good-night, Mrs. Rattray,” Ellis said. “Thank you for entertaining me so well.”
She barely raised her eyes: she had forgotten him.
“Yes,” she said simply. “Don’t be long, Davie.”
“I won’t. I won’t.”
Silently he accompanied Ellis to the gate. There, Ellis wheeled round on him, about to snap out his question peremptorily, in the need to break into his mood. Seeing Rattray’s face, he checked himself in amazement. The schoolmaster was looking at him composedly. His face was still pale, but he had quite recovered.