Every one said that it would rain. It was most depressing. You had
only to mention that you intended to spend your summer holiday in a
Highland glen, to set the torrent of warning in full flow. "It will
rain all the time.--It always rains in Scotland... You will be
soaked... You will be starved... You will feel as if you have gone
back to winter. You will miss all the summer in the South... You will
get rheumatism... You will be bored to death." On and on it went, each
newcomer adding volume to the chorus, until it became quite difficult to
remember that one was starting on a pleasure trip, and not on a perilous
Arctic exploration.
"Take plenty of wraps!" urged the wise ones. "Don't imagine that you
will be able to wear pretty white things, as you do at home. Take old
things that don't matter, for no one will see you, and you will never
want to wear them again. You will shiver round the fire in the
evenings. Be sure to take rugs. You won't have half enough blankets on
the bed. I was in the Highlands for a month two years ago, and we had
one fine day!"
"Well!" queried Margot of this last Job's comforter, "and what was
_that_ like? Were you glad that you were there for that one day at
least?"
The speaker paused, and over her face there passed a wave of
illuminating recollection. She was a prosaic, middle-aged woman, but
for the moment she looked young,--young and ardent.
"Ah!" she sighed. "That day! It was wonderful; I shall never forget
it. We went to bed cold and tired, looking forward to another dark,
depressing morning, and woke in a dazzle of sunlight, to see the
mountains outlined against a blue sky. We ran out into the road, and
held out our hands to the sun, and the wind blew towards us, the soft,
wet, heathery wind, and it tasted like--_nectar_! We could not go
indoors. We walked about all day, and laughed, and sang. We walked
miles. It seemed as if we could not tire. I--I think we were `fey.'"
She paused again, and the light flickered out, leaving her cold and
prosaic once more. "The rest of the time was most unfortunate. I
contracted a severe chill, and my sister-in-law had rheumatism in her
ankles. Now, my dear, be sure to take good strong boots--"
Margot and Ronald listened politely to all the good advice which was
lavished upon them, but, after the manner of youth, felt convinced that
in their case precautions were needless. It was going to be fine. If
it had been wet in previous years, all the more reason why this coming
summer should be warm and dry. The sun was going to shine; the clouds
were going to roll away; Mr Elgood was going to fall in love with Ron
at first sight, and prove himself all that was wise, and kind, and
helpful. Delightful optimism of youth, which is worth more than all the
wisdom of maturer years!
Margot set about her preparations unhampered by the financial troubles
which befall less fortunate girls. Her father was lavishly generous to
his favourite daughter, supplementing her dress allowance by constant
gifts. It was one of his greatest pleasures in life to see his pretty
Margot prettily attired, a pleasure in which the young lady herself
fully concurred. She had too much good taste to transport all the
frills and fripperies of London to a Highland glen; but, on the other
hand, she set her face firmly against the mustard-coloured tweeds
affected by so many women for country wear, choosing instead a soft dull
blue, a hundred times more becoming. For headgear there was a little
cap of the same material, with a quill feather stuck jauntily through a
fold at the side, while neat, strong little boots and a pair of doeskin
gloves gave a delightfully business-like air to the costume. In the
rug-strap was a capacious golf cloak, displaying a bright plaid lining.
This was waiting in readiness for the six-mile drive at the end of the
journey, and inside the large dress-box was a selection of well-chosen
garments--a white serge coat and skirt for bright weather; cottons and
lawns for the warm days that must surely come; a velveteen dress for
chilly evenings, blouses galore, and even a fur-lined cloak. Margot
felt a thrill of wondering satisfaction in her own prudence, as she
packed this latter garment, on a hot June day, with the scent of roses
filling the room from the vase on the toilet table.
She packed sketching materials also, plenty of fancy-work destined to
provide presents for the coming Christmas, a selection of sixpenny
novels, and one or two pet classics from her own library, which
travelled about with her wherever she went.
Ronald's preparations were more easy, for surely no stock-in-trade is so
simple as that of an author! His favourite stylographic pen, his
favourite note-book, and that was an end of it so far as work was
concerned. He took his half-plate camera with him, however; and the two
handsome free-wheel bicycles were carefully swathed for the journey.
"I can't understand why you couldn't be content to go to some nice
south-country place, instead of travelling to the other end of the
country in this dusty weather," Agnes opined, as she assiduously fixed
the label to every separate piece of the luggage which was piled
together in the hall. "It's so foolish to waste time and money when
there are nice places at hand. Now, there's Cromer--"
"You don't get heather-clad mountains at Cromer, Agnes, and we shan't
have promenades at Glenaire, nor bands, nor crowds of fashionable people
quizzing each other all day long. We prefer the real, true, genuine
country."
"Oh, well, you'll be tired of it soon enough! Margot will hate it. We
shall have you hurrying back at the end of a fortnight, bored to death.
I don't think that lock of yours is quite safe, Margot. I shouldn't
wonder if you found some things missing when you arrive. The guards
have a splendid chance on these all-night journeys," prophesied Agnes
cheerfully. She stared in surprise when Margot burst into a peal of
laughter, and repeated, "Poor old Agnes!" as if she, secure and
comfortable at home, were the one to be pitied, instead of the careless
travellers into the unknown!
The sisters kissed each other in perfunctory manner, Ron shook hands,
and nodded vaguely in response to half a dozen injunctions and
reminders; then the travellers took their places in the cab, bending
forward to wave their adieux, looking extraordinarily alike the while--
young and eager and handsome, with the light of the summer sun reflected
in their happy eyes.
Agnes felt a little chill as she shut the door and walked back into the
quiet house. All the morning she had looked forward to the hours of
peace and quietness which would follow the departure of the two children
of the household; but now that the time had arrived she was conscious of
an unwonted feeling of depression. The sound of that last pitying,
"Poor old Agnes!" rang in her ears. Why "poor"? Why should Margot
speak of her as some one to be pitied? As her father's eldest unmarried
daughter and the mistress of the house, she was surely a person to be
approved and envied. And yet, recalling those two vivid, radiant faces,
Agnes dimly felt that there was something in life which Margot and Ron
had found, and she herself had missed.
"I don't understand!" she repeated to herself with wrinkled brows. A
vague depression hung over her spirits; she thought uneasily of her
years, and wondered if she were growing old, unconscious of the fact
that she had never yet succeeded in being young.