THE LOST FOLK'S ACRE
It was a high day and a holiday at the Bothy of the Wild of Blairmore--a
high day though a short one--one of the shortest of all the year, though
by this time it was well into January. But that made little difference
on our misty moors. There the frozen sea-fog bound us and the wind, when
there was one, stung extraordinarily bitter.
Sea-fog breezes yellowish (let this be marked), but the mist of the
fresh water moors is white with iridescent circles where the low winter
sun is trying to peep through. Little sounds carry far. You can hear
wild fowl calling far up in the brumous smother which hides the lift.
They are voyaging from lands of summer, and are already sorry they came.
For here the winter still holds grim, black and yet somehow raw, which
was the fault of the yellow sea-fog.
Stair had been up that morning long before the tardy January dawn,
Whitefoot had been sent from the farm the night before with the news
that Jean would meet him in the bed of the Mays Water opposite Peden's
Stone. There was now more freedom of moving about, for the freezing of
the snow enabled both man and beast to pass over it without leaving a
footmark.
He found Jean standing there in the dim orange-coloured dawn. She was
shivering dislike of the morning, which was at once clammy and freezing
hard, so that every stone and even the banks were covered with the
frozen fog. Jean had a great red shawl that had come from Holland about
her head and neck, and so kept herself as comfortable as might be while
she waited for her brother.
Stair had had to watch the signs of the countryside before he dared risk
letting himself down into the dark of the Glen. For the sea was always
open, and a landing party from the _Britomart_ might have lain unseen in
any of the fir copses or hidden behind the knolls.
Black and narrow ran the Mays, that at other times flowed so wide and
brown and free. The frost had bound it tightly, all save a trickle in
the centre, black as ink, and everywhere about clung the icicles, some
thick as a man's arm.
"Oh, Stair, here are letters--one for Mr. Julian and one for you," Jean
gasped, the sea-fog in her throat, "thankful I am to see you! I thought
you would never come. Here, too, are the provisions--be canny with the
eggs. They are on the top in a box by themselves, packed in sawdust, but
do not be throwing them down wi' a brainge to get at your letters. And
there in a big bag are the linen and clothes--cleaner and sweeter could
not be, though I say it that washed and laundried them."
"Is Patsy well?" queried Stair, for he knew that Jean must have a letter
of her own which she had read already.
"Famous," said Jean--"of course she is well. Are they not going to marry
her to a prince--?"
"Not Lyonesse?" The voice of Stair grew suddenly hoarse and threatening.
He looked capable of setting off to London with his musket over his
shoulder, to finish the job he had begun.
"Goose," quoth his sister, "no--of course not. Somebody she likes--a
young and handsome prince from Germany, or maybe Austria, and a great
friend and near neighbour of the Princess, when she is at home."
"You are mocking me," said Stair, regaining some of his composure. "It
is sheer nonsense that you are talking."
"Well," said Jean, adjusting the red Amersfort shawl about her head and
neck, "go back and read your letter. You will no doubt find it all
written there!"
Stair stood and watched her till she disappeared along the edge of the
Water of Mays. He could not ask her any further questions, having
Patsy's prohibition before him. Besides, there was his own letter, along
with one for her Uncle Julian. The last was by far the thickest, and he
wondered greatly as he turned it over in his hand, what it might
contain.
He could not read his letter down under the overhanging brow of the
copse. It was too dark down there at the water's edge, and so by a great
detour he made for the Lost Folk's Acre--that port of final harbourage
to which the drowned were brought. It lay high on the cliffs, so lonely
that if the Lost Ones were to sit evident on their crumbling head-boards
and watch for ships all day long, not even a passing gull would be
frighted.
"Dear Stair" (the letter read), "it is no use telling you about all
the grand doings I have been at. For you never take the least
notice. But I can tell you one bit of news that will interest you.
My Lord Duke of Lyonesse is better of his wound, for I have seen
him twice. He looks nearly quite right when he is riding on a
horse, but when he came with his brother York the other day to see
us at Hanover Lodge, he carried a Malacca cane all banded with gold
and he limped badly. I don't think he will ever get over it
altogether. Of which I was glad, and also proud that you could take
so good an aim in the dark. For of course you had no practice in
shooting Dukes.
"The Princess was particularly haughty that day, and would hardly
ask them to sit down. I said nothing, but bent over my needlework
like the good child keeping quiet in the corner. Oh, but they are
stupid, these royal people, all except my own Princess and the dear
old Queen at Windsor. Neither York nor Lyonesse knew in the least
what to say, and the Princess let them stammer on without helping
them. I could have laughed.
"What made her more angry still was the way they spoke about Uncle
Ju. They said they were sure of getting him, and that the Regent was
furious about his killing Wargrove. He could not expect any mercy.
And the Princess said, 'Ah, I thought it was only women whom the
Regent abused without mercy--I think your brother Cumberland told me
so!'
"And this made York burst into a roar of laughter, but Lyonesse grew
very red and angry, for he fancies himself the favourite of his
lordly eldest brother. Then the Princess said to me, 'Go and see
that the maids have closed the windows of my room. I am going up
there as soon as these gentlemen have gone!'
"Upon which I escaped, and after a little while the Princess
followed me, smiling, and apparently quite pleased with herself.
"'Now I wonder,' said she, 'what good they suppose they have done
themselves by that. I am convinced it was the fault of that gipsy
hat with the second ring of roses climbing over the crown. Ah, there
is Eitel--I shall be down presently. Go and entertain him! I hope
they met him coming through the park. He would be sure to scowl at
them!'
"Shall I tell you who Eitel is? Well, if you are nervous and
unaccustomed to shocks, sit down in the biggest and strongest chair
in the Bothy and take hold of both arms. There--one, two, three.
Shut your eyes and grip.
"Well, Eitel is a Prince, Prince Eitel of Altschloss, who wants to
marry me! There. Of course you will not believe it, and indeed, to
tell the truth, I hardly do either. But they all want me to--even
the dear Queen would be pleased. She said as much only yesterday. I
think she was sorry about having helped to stop Elsa marrying Uncle
Julian a long time ago.
"And the young man--well, he is a good soldier--has fought a lot
against Napoleon, and will fight again. To look at?--Oh, he is big
and round and rosy, with yellow moustaches and cheeks like apples,
nice plump red apples. He goes 'Hum-hem-hum' in his throat when he
speaks to me, and he always kisses my hand. Generally he calls me
'Most Noble Lady,' and then I wonder how many hundred yards I could
give him and beat him in a mile race along the sands. I daresay he
would be quite nice if I cared about princes--because he does not
swear all the time, nor gamble away his money with Hangers and
Beaujolais and suchlike cattle. Nor does he habitually get so drunk
that he has to be carried to bed. In his way he is quite a pattern
prince, and if I marry him I shall be the Perfect Princess! But
shall I? What do you advise? The Principality of Altschloss is not
large, but it is rich and the people are very well off and
contented, that is when 'Bony' lets them alone. So the Princess
says, and she knows all about it, for she lives, as it were, just up
the next street--I mean in the next Principality or Duchy or
whatever it is.
"They have got me into a corner, Stair, and here in London among
great folk I do not see how to get out. If it were only dodging them
among the pine of the Glenanmays woods or losing them among the
sand-dunes at the Abbey Burnfoot, my feet would trip as lightly as
ever they did in the yellow sandals--I think the Prince has written
to my father, and I know that the Princess has enclosed a letter to
Uncle Julian." (Stair could feel it at that moment between his
finger and thumb.)
"So, Stair, they have arranged with everybody, or are in the way of
arranging with everybody--except one, Stair--except one.
"They have not yet heard Patsy Ferris speak her mind. They are, poor
people, taking a great deal for granted. And there are things in
this little girl's mind that she has not told to any one.
"If I married the Prince, I know I should make him desperately
unhappy. Yet how to cheat all these wise plan-making people who love
me and wish me, according to their lights, the very best sorts of
Well--I do not yet see. It will come to me, however. Do you remember
how we used to play hide-and-seek so that you could not find me, not
even with your dog--I could cheat you so cunningly. Well, Stair, I
am not caught yet. If I am hard pressed on land, there is still wind
among the tree tops.
"Say nothing of all this screed to Uncle Julian. He will most likely
spend the day in writing. Do you go out somewhere (unless the day is
too wet) and write also. I needed to tell you, for though every one
here is kind, I cannot be sure of this one or that. And I fear me
there is no help for _this_ trouble in the gun you carry over your
shoulder, Stair. It is not the same sort of carrying off as that of
the White Loch, and the Prince with all his apple face and his body
like a comfortable bolster means everything that is most honourable
and princely. I cannot have him shot.
"And oh, I forgot--the second time that the Royal Dukes--the same
pair as before--came hither to Hanover Lodge, Prince Eitel was there
and he stood over me all the time they stayed like a soldier on
guard, asking me funny questions about my embroidery, in which, I am
certain, he was not interested a little bit! But they knew well
enough that he was the Prince Eitel who had been at Austerlitz and
Wagram, and that he could demand of them as a right the satisfaction
which they might deny to a commoner. So I was grateful to him for
cowing them, though I really believe that your way is the best,
Stair. There is nothing like a charge of slugs in the back for
teaching a royal duke manners!
"If the worst comes to the worst, do not be surprised if--but I
cannot write it down. At any rate do not be surprised at anything I
may do--only be ready to help me when I do it. And remain always, as
I shall, faithful to the memory of the White Loch.
"PATSY."