The brother and sister were both good to look at, in ways so different

that the two made a striking contrast. Aline knew that in appearance

they were a romantic pair of travelling companions. Every one stared at

them when they were together, for he was very tall and dark, more like

an Italian or a Spaniard than an Englishman, and she was gracefully

slender and fair, dressing with a subtle appreciation of herself and all

her points. Aline West's and Basil Norman's photographs, taken together

or apart, for newspapers and magazines, were extremely effective, and

were considered by publishers to help the sale of their books. Norman

might have sat for Titian's Portrait of a Gentleman: and there were

those who thought Mrs. West not unlike Lady Hamilton. Since the first

expression of this opinion in print, she had changed the fashion of her

hair, and at fancy-dress balls, of which she was fond, she generally

appeared as the beautiful Emma. Certainly the cast of her features and

the cutting of her lips faintly recalled those of Romney's ideal; but

Mrs. West's pretty pale face had only two expressions: the one when she

smiled--always the same delicate curving of the lips which lit no beam

in the deep-set forget-me-not eyes; the one when she was grave and

wistfully intellectual. She had a beautiful round white throat which she

never hid with a high collar. Her hair was of that sun-in-a-mist gold

that eventually fades almost imperceptibly into gray--if left to itself.

But in Aline's case it was improbable that it would be left to itself.

Every morning when dressing she examined it anxiously, even fearfully,

to see whether it was becoming thinner or losing its misty glints of

gold. Yet she knew that her fears were likely to advance the day she

dreaded, and tried to shut them out of her mind.

"Why do you laugh?" she inquired almost irritably, for she was secretly

afraid always of missing something that was seen by others to be

amusing. She talked constantly of a sense of humour, pitying those not

blessed with it, but there were moments when she wondered bleakly if she

had it herself. "Have I said anything funny?"

"Only you seem so sure that the dedication will be a panacea for every

wound."

"So it will be for Mrs. Keeling."

"I thought you had the idea of dedicating it to Somerled, as he'll be

taking us through Scotland in his car."

"I had. But I feel now it would be a mistake. He couldn't refuse, and

one wouldn't be sure he was pleased. He's so horribly important, you

know. I don't mean in his own eyes, but in the eyes of the world; so

nothing we could do for him would really confer an honour. And the

reason he's cynical and bored is because people have fussed over him so

sickeningly, more and more every year, since he began to rise to what he

is."

"Yet I don't think he's conceited."

"Not in the ordinary way. But he can't help knowing that he's some one

in particular. He began to like us because we didn't fuss over him, or

seem to go out of our way to please him. That's where I've been clever;

for oh, Basil, I'd do anything short of disfiguring myself to win him."

"My poor girl!" Norman exclaimed.

She caught him up hastily. "Why do you call me 'poor?' Do you think I

shan't succeed? Do you think he'll never care?"

"You're a far better judge than I am," her brother answered evasively.

"Women feel such things. We----"

"You feel things, too. You know you do, Basil."

"In an abstract way--not when they're just in front of my eyes."

"He has told me a lot about himself, anyhow." Aline took up a new line

of argument, out of her own thoughts. "That's a good sign. He is so

reserved with almost everybody--and he was even with me till our last

evening on shipboard. I was telling him about Jim dying in India and

leaving me alone there, almost a girl; and how there was no money; and

how I took up writing and made a success. Then from that we drifted into

talk about success in general; and he told me his whole story--much more

than I'd ever heard from gossip, and a good deal of it quite different.

I took it as the greatest compliment that he should open his heart to

me--and a splendid sign."

"Yes, I suppose it was both," Norman agreed; and Aline had retired too

far within the rose-bower of happy memories to catch a suggestion of

doubt in his voice.

"I read once in a newspaper that he'd been a bootblack in Glasgow before

he emigrated," Mrs. West said, as they turned away from the house again

in their walk, and set their faces toward the distant gate. "It wasn't

true. His father was a crofter on a little island somewhere near Skye. I

think it's called Dhrum. I never heard of it before; and he had to

excuse my ignorance, because I'm Canadian! It seems that a branch of the

MacDonald family own the whole place and are great people there--lords

of the isle. His name was MacDonald too, though his family were only

peasants--clan connections, or whatever they call that sort of thing. I

don't understand a bit, and I didn't like asking him to explain. It was

too delicate a subject, though he appeared to be rather proud of his

origin. Scotch peasants are apparently quite different from other

peasants. You'll have to study up the differences and make lots of notes

for the book. I'm no good at anything with dialect, or character sort of

parts. You wouldn't think now, though, that Ian Somerled had ever been a

peasant would you? He talked a lot about his father and

mother--evidently he adored them. He said they'd be miracles anywhere

out of Scotland, but there were many like them there. According to him

there was nothing they hadn't read or couldn't quote by the yard, from

Burns and Scott back to Shakespeare. That was the way he was brought up,

and instead of wanting him to go on crofting like themselves, they were

enchanted because he drew pictures on their unpainted doors and their

whitewashed walls. They saved all their pennies to have him educated as

an artist, and encouraged him--quite different from peasant parents in

books. One day the 'meenister' called, and saw the boy's pictures. He

thought them something out of the ordinary--pictures of castles and

cathedrals they were, with people going in and coming out, and portraits

of friends, and historical characters. After that he took a great

interest in Ian, and taught him Latin and the few other things his

wonderful parents didn't happen to know. When Ian was about thirteen or

fourteen, the 'meenister' tried to get help for the little MacDonald

from the great MacDonald, a disagreeable, cranky old man with one

daughter. They thought they owned the whole world instead of one tiny

island, and the man wouldn't do anything for the child. He simply poured

contempt on 'clan ties.'"

"That doesn't sound like the great folk of Scotland," said Basil, who

for weeks had been reading little else but Scottish history, Scottish

fiction, and Scottish poetry, in order to get himself in the right frame

of mind for writing "the book." "I haven't come across a single instance

of their being purse-proud or snobbish."

"These weren't purse-proud, because their purses had nothing in them to

be proud of," Aline explained. "Their branch of the MacDonalds had lost

its money and its love of Scotland. Old Duncan MacDonald was the uncle

of the last lord of Dhrum, who had to go away from his island for good

and let his castle to 'aliens'--English people. When the nephew died

later, Duncan inherited, but never lived at Dhrum. He only came there

once in a while to visit the tenants who'd hired the castle from him, if

they happened to be people he knew, and would 'do' him well. He and his

daughter were mostly in London, where they had a flat, and prided

themselves on knowing no Gaelic. They took pains to show that they

considered the crofter's son a common brat, and resented the

meenister's' expecting them to do anything for his future, just because

his name happened to be MacDonald, and he lived in a hut on a remote

point of their island. Ian didn't lose courage, though; and soon after

the great snub he contrived to work his way somehow to Edinburgh. He

wouldn't take the money his father and mother had saved up for him,

because they were old and had been ill, and needed it themselves. But he

did all kinds of queer jobs, and at last walked into the studio of a

celebrated artist, saying he wanted to pay for some lessons. At first

the man only laughed, but when he saw Ian's drawings, he was interested

at once. He gave him lessons for nothing, and boasted of his protégé to

other artists. It seems that a talent for both portraiture and

architecture is very rare. When Ian was sixteen he won a big prize for

the design of an important building which a lot of prominent architects

had been trying for. Presently it came out that he was only a boy, a boy

who could do wonderful portraits, too, and everybody began taking notice

of him and writing enthusiastic praise in the papers. Some interviewer

falsely reported that he'd called himself a cousin of the MacDonald of

Dhrum, and disagreeable Duncan denied the relationship indignantly. He

spoke to some one of Ian's father, who had just then died, as 'an

ignorant old hay-cutter,' and the speech was repeated far and wide. You

can imagine Ian Somerled forgetting an insult to his adored father! He

dropped the name of MacDonald from that day, calling himself Somerled;

and as he was all alone in the world--his mother was dead, too, and had

never seen his success--he resolved to make a reputation in another

country. Of course that was very _young_ of him. He sees that now. He

crossed to New York in the steerage, and vowed he'd never set foot in

Scotland again, or take back his name of MacDonald, until old Duncan not

only openly claimed him as a cousin, but begged him as a personal favour

to return to Scotland."

"That must have seemed like sentencing himself to perpetual banishment,"

said Basil.

"I don't know. He appears to have had a kind of prophetic faith in his

own powers of success. And he was right in every way. Duncan began to

_grovel_ years ago."

In talking of Somerled, Aline had forgotten to listen for sounds of his

approach. She was interested in the story she was telling--more

interested than she was usually in the development of her own plots. But

luckily Basil saw to the plot-making nowadays, and she hadn't to worry.

"It's funny," she went on, "that a man who laughs at romance should be

one of the most romantic figures in the world. If you and I wrote up his

story, and took him for the hero, all the critics would say 'how

impossible!' But critics will never believe that anything highly

romantic or sensational can happen really. I don't know _what_ their own

lives must be like--or what they can think of the incidents they must

see every day in the newspapers! Somerled says the only romantic thing

he ever did was to annex the name of Somerled: but almost every phase of

his life would make a story. Take his success in America, for instance.

He wasn't eighteen when he landed as an immigrant, with nothing in his

pocket except what was left of the architectural prize. Most of that

money had gone in giving his father a few last comforts, and putting up

some wonderful, extravagant sort of monuments for both his parents,

which Ian designed himself. But he hadn't been two months in New York

when he won a still bigger prize, which came just as he was on the point

of starving! A handful of oatmeal and an apple a day _I_ should call

starvation, but he says it was grand for his health. In six years, at

twenty-four, he was not only the greatest portrait-painter in America,

but one of the most successful architects, an extraordinary combination

which has made him _unique_ in modern times. And before he was

twenty-eight came that big 'coup' of his, which he calls a 'mere

accident that might have happened to any fool'--the buying of a site for

a new town in Nevada, where he meant to build up a little city of

beautiful houses, and finding a silver mine. Of course, it _wasn't_ an

'accident.' It was the spirit of prophecy in him which has always

carried him on to success--that, and his grit and daring and enterprise

and general cleverness. Oh, Basil, if you could have heard him telling

me these things that last night on the _Olympic_--leaning back in his

deck-chair, smoking cigarette after cigarette (I was smoking too. I hate

it; but I think he likes a woman to smoke and be a man's pal), the

moonlight shining on his face, showing his eyes half shut, and talking

in his quietest way, as if he were dreaming it all over again, or

speaking to himself! I hardly breathed, till he broke off suddenly and

laughed in quite a shy sort of way, ashamed of being 'egotistical,'

though he hadn't praised himself at all. The flowery things I've said

are mine. He even apologized! I felt I'd never had so great a compliment

in my life. It seemed too good to be true that such a man should have

opened his heart to me. But when his invitation for Scotland came,

it--it set the seal of reality on the rest. Do you know, I can't help

believing he made more than he need of his business in London; that the

real truth was he wanted to stay there without us, and see how much he

missed me. Now he's coming to accept _our_ invitation, a day sooner than

he meant to at first. Something tells me the reason why. I shall know

for sure to-night, when I see him. He didn't want us to meet him at the

station. But that was perhaps because--I couldn't have gone very well

without you, and maybe----"

"I see! I'm to make myself scarce and leave you alone in the garden!"

"Not yet, dear. Only when we hear the car actually stopping at the gate.

There'll be plenty of time then. And if you don't mind----"

"Of course, I don't mind," said Basil. He felt that he was blushing

under the cover of darkness, and was thankful Aline could not see. Why

the blush, he could not have explained. Was it for his sister, because

she was managing her love affairs with a famous man in this energetic,

businesslike way, and jumping eagerly at conclusions? Or was it for

himself, because he was selfish and jealous of the new interest in

Aline's life, which would--if it ended as she hoped--take her away from

him and break their partnership?

He almost wished to accept the latter explanation. He would rather be

disappointed in himself than think meanly--oh, ever so little meanly--of

Aline.

Their partnership, begun when he was in the depths, regarding his life

as practically finished, had given him the greatest happiness he had

ever known. Memory flashed away at lightning speed over their travels

together, their adventures. Somerled's wife would not write novels. And

deep in his heart Basil knew that Aline's soul was not in the books, as

his was. He would not acknowledge this difference between them, but he

knew it was there. In old days, when Aline had written alone, she had

always chosen some subject that loomed large in public interest at the

moment, whether she herself cared about it or not, hoping to "come in on

the wave." Just because she had not really cared her scheme of work had

not given her success. So it had been with the idea of their first book

written together. Aline had wanted to plan out something to do with

motoring, about which every one was keen just then. She had proposed to

combine business with a cure for her brother; and when she had failed to

think of a "good plot on the right lines," he had made a suggestion

which flashed into his head. The joy of motoring, the wonder of travel,

both new to Basil, had intoxicated him. He wrote as one inspired, for

the sheer love of writing and telling what he had seen and felt. And the

world, catching the thrill of his joy, had shared it.

He did not say this to himself now, did not realize the truth of it, and

did not even believe that he could go on writing stories and succeeding

without Aline. Only, he knew that he loved his work for itself, and she

did not. That the light of his life would be gone without it, whereas

she would be glad to stop working and be idle as the admired wife of a

celebrity and a millionaire. In this he felt a vague injustice of fate

which depressed him--a rare state of mind for Basil Norman, to whom for

four years the world had been a happy and magically beautiful

dwelling-place.

"I hear a car now!" he exclaimed.

"It's his!" she answered. "I heard the siren when his chauffeur sounded

it going out of the garage. It's different from any others that pass

along this road. Good-bye for a little while, dear. You're so kind to

me! Wish me luck."

"I wish Somerled luck," he said, trying to laugh, as he turned and

marched quickly off toward the house.

Aline quite understood. He meant that Somerled would be lucky to get

her. That was nice of him, and like him, too, for Basil was as gallant

and chivalrous to his sister as a lover. Yet--she was sorry that he

hadn't wished her luck in so many words.

She walked toward the gate. The car had stopped.

V

Mrs. Keeling's place, lent to her much-admired authors, had a very

pretty gate. It was approached from the garden way, through an arbour

thickly hung with roses and honeysuckle. It seemed to Aline West, as she

went alone to meet Somerled, that night distilled a special perfume in

the dew-filled cups of the flowers, sweet as unspoken love. She felt

that she was on the threshold of happiness. It was the first step that

counted. If she met Somerled in the right spirit, with the right word

and the right look ... in this perfumed star-dusk and stillness, when

they had not seen each other for days ... and he knew she had been

waiting here for him, thinking of him ... and he saw that she had put on

the dress he liked so much on shipboard, the one she had worn the last

night, when he told her his life-story ... might not the thing that she

desired happen? She encouraged herself by saying, "Why not?" and

reminding herself that she was an attractive woman. Lots of men had been

in love with her--not the right ones, but that was a detail. Why not Ian

Somerled? He was a man, after all, like others.

He was at the gate already ... she almost ran.

"Hail, the conquering hero!" she cried to him, laughing.

He opened the gate. But it was not he who came in. He was opening it for

some one else--a woman, a girl, something tall and feminine, anyhow. It

was wrapped in a cloak. It had a flat pancake on its head for a hat.

What could it be, and mean? The idea darted into Aline's mind that there

had been an accident on the way here from the station; that perhaps

Somerled had nearly or quite run over this creature--or her dog--or

something.

"Hello, Mrs. West!" he answered her cheerfully. "I've got to you at

last, and I've brought a visitor for the night. I've given my guarantee

that you'll make her welcome."

The light of Aline's joy went out like a ray of moonlight swallowed up

by a marauding cloud. She did not in the least understand what had

happened, or what were the obligations to which he had committed her;

but in any case the lute she had tuned had a rift in it, a big, bad

rift, and it could make no music to-night. She felt suddenly at her

worst instead of her best, as if she had tumbled off a bank of flowers

in her prettiest frock into a bog. She longed to be cold and snappy and

disagreeable, as a wife may safely be to a husband when he has

blundered, and as she had often been to Jim in his brief day; but

Somerled was not her husband, and certainly never would be unless she

minded her "p's and q's" like a good and very clever little angel with

unmeltable butter in its smiling mouth. So she shrieked, "Hang it!" and

even worse, with her whole heart, and said with her lips, in a charming

voice, "Why, of _course_! I shall be delighted to welcome any friend of

yours, and so will Basil. I _love_ surprises."

It was a short arbour, and as they all three came out of it, Mrs. West

and Somerled and the wrapped-up thing with the pancake hat--the

chauffeur following with a suit-case--Aline's eyes made the most of the

starlight, that she might read the mystery and know the worst. The worst

was very bad. Under the stars the girl looked a radiant beauty, and so

young, so young! How was the man going to account for her? Was there

still hope?

"I told you what Mrs. West would say!" exclaimed Somerled. "This is Miss

MacDonald, a daughter of Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald."

"Oh!" said Aline. "How interesting! I'm delighted to meet her." She held

out her hand, and the girl, who had not yet spoken a word, put hers into

it.

There was no real reason why "I'm delighted to meet her" wasn't

precisely the nicest thing to say in the circumstances, but somehow as a

greeting it hadn't quite the right ring, Aline herself felt. And she was

sorry, because she wanted to be entirely satisfactory to Somerled in

every way, in all situations, no matter how trying, and thus perhaps

save the ship. Why not? Many men of thirty-four were bored with girls,

and Somerled must have been bored by them already in their thousands.

Still, something that lay deep down within herself was sad and anxious.

A daughter of the beautiful and almost notorious Mrs. Ballantree

MacDonald! If he weren't in love with the girl, perhaps he had had a

desperate love affair with the mother.

"I'd no idea that Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald had any children," Aline

went on, as she shook a supple, satiny hand which wore no glove.

"She's only got me," said the girl, "and she doesn't know she's got me

yet. At least, she may have forgotten."

Somerled broke out laughing. "You'll puzzle Mrs. West," he said, with a

good-natured, amused, and proprietary air which stabbed Aline's feelings

as with little sharp pins. No, whatever else he might be, he was not

bored. "We'll have to do a lot of explaining by and by, indoors."

"Oh, yes," Barrie agreed. And then, plunging into her task, "He found me

in the railway station. I've run away from home, and he wouldn't let me

go to a hotel. Don't you really mind? Because----"

"Of course I don't mind." Aline rose bravely to the occasion. "It sounds

wildly romantic, like most things that contrive to happen to Mr.

Somerled, although he says he's ceased to believe in romance. Have you

known each other long?"

"Only to-night," replied Barrie. And Somerled began to see that, as he

had said, there certainly would have to be a lot of explaining. It

almost seemed complicated. Nevertheless, he felt that he had done the

only thing possible, and so far from having regrets, he had a curious

sense of elation that was boyish. He wanted to see what was going to

happen next. He felt as if by some rather nice accident he had been

inveigled into playing a new game.

"I've known Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald ever since her first famous tour

through America some ten or twelve years ago," he said. "You'll be

amused, Mrs. West, to hear in what a queer way I ran across her daughter

to-night."

"Yes, indeed, no doubt," answered Aline, as they walked toward the

house. She was forcing herself to cheer up a little. His tone in

speaking of the actress didn't sound like the tone of a man in love. And

men of his type, who had been run after and spoilt, surely didn't fall

in love at sight. It was going to prove no more than an annoying

incident, this bringing home of a strange girl, who mightn't be so

desperately pretty, anyhow, in a bright light. To-morrow the creature

would be packed off to her mother or some one; and in a day or two more

Somerled and Basil and she--Aline--would start off on their heavenly

trip as if nothing had happened.

But Barrie was even prettier in the lamplight of the hall and

drawing-room than she had been in the silver vagueness of starlight.

Aline tried to think that she was the weirdest frump in the world, and

absolutely impossible as a fascinator; but she knew that the weirdness

would be superficial to the eye of Man. The thing was to hurry her away

in all her frumpiness.

Aline brought them into the low-ceiled drawing-room which, with her own

hands, she had made beautiful with many flowers in honour of Somerled's

coming. She and Basil had been here for several days, while Somerled

attended to business in London, and she had been looking forward to her

friend's comments upon this drawing-room. She had imagined his

exclaiming: "You've made it look like yourself!" But the girl had

spoiled her effects. Somerled merely said, "What a pretty, old-fashioned

room! The green wall is a becoming background." And when he uttered this

comment it was at his vagabond he looked, not at his hostess.

Barrie was rather remarkable against that green. She glanced around,

evidently in rapt admiration of everything she saw. Her eyes were very

bright and big, her young, red lips a little apart. "Silly thing, gaping

with her mouth open!" Aline relieved her feelings by saying to herself.

"Oh, it's so beautiful here, and Mrs. West's dress is so lovely," the

girl said; "it makes me feel I must take off this horrid cloak and tam,

not to be a blot. May I take them off?" she asked Aline, turning frank

admiration on her, as one turns on a searchlight.

Aline would have liked to think of some reason for saying "no," such as

a draught, or an immediate departure for upstairs; but even if the

excuse had been valid enough, it would have been of no use, for without

awaiting permission, which she took as a matter of course, the weird

creature had whipped off her green pancake and was throwing back her

cloak. "Not that my dress isn't nearly as bad," she apologized, sighing.

"I have never seen such a pretty room as this."

It was really nothing wonderful by way of a room: a little oak

panelling; faded green brocade walls; some nice old pastels; furniture

of the Stuart period; pretty bright chintz; a few old Chelsea figures on

the mantel and in a cabinet; quantities of red and white roses in

Chinese bowls. Aline ached to snap, "If you've never seen anything as

pretty as _this_, where have you lived?" But that was not the way of

Somerled's ideal woman. It would have been better if the stupid thing

had praised Mrs. West's looks, thus riveting Somerled's eyes and

appreciation; but all her silly admiration seemed to be for the dress

and the room. Little brute! Incapable of calling another female pretty,

when a man was present. Just what one would expect of an actress's

daughter, especially _that_ actress, if half one heard of "Mrs. Bal"

were true.

Aline was inclined to believe that Barrie MacDonald had purposely posed

herself under a hanging lamp, so as to show off her hair when suddenly

uncovered. The daughter of an actress, with the dramatic instinct in her

blood! But the idea did not seem to occur to Somerled, experienced as he

was, disillusioned as he thought himself. At least there was nothing

cynical in the expression of his face.

"Do let me help you with your cloak," she said to Barrie, dimly hoping

that the man would contrast her exquisitely corseted figure in its dress

by Lucille with the crude, untrained outlines clothed in blue serge. She

was not so tall as Barrie as they stood together, she discovered, and

she wanted the girl to sit down. "You must both have something to eat,"

she went on, pulling the old-fashioned bead embroidered bell rope; and

tears were close and hot behind her eyes, remembering how she had

planned the little supper for herself and Somerled--and Basil, who

hardly counted. "Or would you like to see your rooms first? One shall be

made ready directly for Miss MacDonald. I suppose her luggage has come

in with yours?"

"I have only a--a parcel," Barrie meekly confessed, feeling three times

a worm, even a Laidly Worm. It was odd how this sweet-faced blond woman,

with blue eyes and a halo of fair hair and a gentle smile, contrived--of

course without meaning it--to make one feel the meanest, shabbiest thing

cumbering a beautiful world! "I wonder if I'm going to like men better

than women?" she thought.

"Ah, a parcel," repeated Aline daintily, as an incredibly neat maid

answered the call of the beaded bell. "Moore," Mrs. West went on, "this

young lady, Miss MacDonald, will spend the night. I think she might have

the room of the red Chinese chintz at the end of my corridor. Please

have it made ready as soon as possible, and----"

"Oh, is your name Muir?" exclaimed Barrie delightedly. "That's the name

of our housekeeper at Hillard House. Perhaps you're related, though I

never _heard_ of Mrs. Muir having any daughters or nieces."

The maid, deftly taking the cue from her mistress _pro tem._, put into

her impersonal gaze the coldness of a whole glacier as her eyes moved

from defect to defect of Barrie's costume. The tone of that "Ah, a

_parcel_," was unmistakable, and she knew exactly what Mrs. West thought

of Miss MacDonald. "I am sorry, miss, but I do not think, I am related

to your housekeeper," she replied; and Aline determined to give her a

blouse or half a dozen handkerchiefs. She really was a most intelligent

person. So intelligent was she that she knew by the feeling in her bones

exactly how much Mrs. West wanted to get Miss MacDonald out of the

drawing-room and into the Chinese room, which would be the most

unbecoming in the house to a red-haired person. "I can take the young

lady up now, if you wish, madam," she continued, "for the room is in

order--only to bring towels and hot water."

Barrie looked pleadingly at Somerled. "I am quite clean," she said. "I

washed at home before I started. And I'm _so_ hungry."

Her appeal to him as a tried and trusted friend waked up something in

Somerled which he had not known existed. Whatever it was stirred and was

soft and warm in the region of his heart.

"I'm sure Mrs. West doesn't want to send you away," he said. And he

could have said nothing more tactless. "I, too, am comparatively

spotless," he went on, protecting his protégée by putting himself on her

level, "and superlatively hungry. We shall both be delighted to accept

your invitation to supper." He laughed, and Barrie gave him a grateful,

understanding glance. He felt as if she were a wonderfully pretty doll

which had somehow come alive after he had bought and rescued it from an

upper shelf in an unworthy toy-shop--a dear, delightful, untamed doll

which now belonged to him; and he was not sure that he wanted to let

anybody else play with it until he had begun to tire a little of its

tricks himself. Of course he'd tire in time; but there would not be time

for tiring, because the doll must soon be packed off and sent to its

mother.

"Tell Mr. Norman that Mr. Somerled has come, and that we're ready for

supper," said Aline to Moore. The eyes of mistress and maid met, and for

an instant they were social equals.

Basil Norman was a man who had odd thoughts and enjoyed them. For this

reason he did not weary of his own society, for he never quite knew what

he would think next. When he came to the door and pushed it open, he

half believed that he was dreaming the tall, beautiful, badly dressed

girl with torrents of red hair. People in real life did not wear their

hair in torrents. Perhaps she was a ghost who went with the house, and

he had never happened to see her before. He wondered if the others had

noticed her yet.

"How are you, Somerled?" he inquired, not taking his eyes off the

apparition. It was looking at him, too, almost anxiously, as if it were

wondering whether he would be friend or foe; but, of course, it did not

speak.

"All right. Very glad to see you both again--and to be here," Somerled

answered.

"Miss MacDonald," announced Aline, thin-lipped.

"So you have a name?" said Basil to Barrie. "Was it given to you in

dreamland or the spirit-world?" Then she knew at once that he was not a

foe, but a friend.

"Fairyland," she replied, beaming on him. "I was in fairyland to-day. If

I hadn't been there, I shouldn't be here." She could answer her own late

question now, with practical certainty. She _was_ going to like men

better than women! Her mother, of course, would be an exception.

VI

It was a delicious little supper that Mrs. West had ordered in

Somerled's honour, yet for some mysterious reason, thoroughly understood

only by Aline, nobody did justice to it or enjoyed it much. Perhaps

there was thunder in the air, which upset the nerves of every one, even

the nerves of Moore, who spilt _bouillon_ on Miss MacDonald's sleeve.

This was the explanation which occurred to Basil; and certain it was

that the sky had suddenly clouded over, hiding all the stars.

"I do hope we're not going to have rain for our trip," he remarked, more

for the sake of something to say than because, even if rain came, it

were likely to last. "It's just the ticklish time of the month for

weather, you know: to-morrow we shall have the new moon."

"The heather moon!" Barrie said softly, looking out of the open window

at the purple night, purple as heather.

"What do you mean by a heather moon?" asked Basil, interested. "It

sounds sweeter than honeymoon."

"It's the sweetest moon of the year," the girl answered. "The moon when

all the most beautiful things ought to happen to the people who are

worthy of them--and the honeymoon can't come till afterward. I've always

wanted something romantic to happen to me in the heather moon; yet

nothing ever has, so far. It couldn't, at Grandma's!"

"But you haven't explained the heather moon," Basil reminded her.

"Don't you _really_ know?" She opened her eyes very wide as she smiled

at him in a friendly, childlike way; and Basil and Somerled forgot that

there was a Mrs. West in the room. It was a momentary lapse of memory,

but Aline felt it electrically. She was enraged at Basil, and disgusted

with Barrie, though merely grieved with Somerled.

"_There's_ a minx for you!" thought Moore, who was plain, and had been

chosen by Mrs. Keeling because her teeth stuck out more than the lady's

own.

"Wait! I believe, as a good Scotsman, I can guess," said Somerled. "The

heather moon's the moon of August, the moon when the heather's in its

prime of bloom."

"Yes!" cried Barrie, joyous that it should be he, her first friend, the

friend of her mother, who had solved the puzzle. "That's it: and it's

the moon for falling in love. That's why the honeymoon has to come

afterward." Then, seeing that Mrs. West was looking at her with a look

that might mean astonishment or disapproval, she blushed. It was queer,

but for a minute that pretty, quite young woman--if widows could be

called _quite_ young--had an expression almost like Grandma's.

"Oh, I do hope I haven't said anything horrid?" Barrie appealed from one

to another. "You see, I never dared say anything at all about love

before Grandma or Heppie, but it is talked about so _much_ in books, I

thought I might mention it in company. I'm sorry if I've not been

maidenly, which Miss Hepburn is always telling me I'm not."

"I suspect most maidens think a good deal about love whether or no they

talk of it, don't they, Norman?" said Somerled.

"How should I know?" Basil asked.

Both men were different from their everyday selves to-night. They seemed

self-conscious.

"Why, it's your business to know. You write novels. Or do you leave all

the love parts to your sister?"

"I suppose widows may talk as much as they like about love," said Barrie

reflectively, "having had it and passed it by."

The creature was pretending to take for granted that widows were poor,

_passée_ things who had lived their lives and could have no more

personal interest in heather moons or honeymoons! Mrs. West grew pale,

and was angry with herself for caring. Barrie made her feel faded--a

"back number." She told herself that if she could not get rid of this

girl the first thing to-morrow, she should be ill.

"You must ask your mother these questions, and she'll answer them better

than I can," Aline said in her pretty voice, with her gentle smile.

Already she had heard from Barrie and from Somerled something of the

girl's story, and knew that through family misunderstandings mother and

daughter had been separated for years. "You must be _so_ impatient to

see her!" she went on.

"I am," said Barrie.

"I know Sir George Alexander a little," Aline answered. "He may take a

curtain-raiser of ours; and it's occurred to me to telegraph him in the

morning, as soon as the post-office opens. He'll be able to let us know

where Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald's acting. We won't trust to the stage

papers alone. It would be a pity to keep this child in suspense a minute

longer than necessary. Don't you think it's a good plan, Mr. Somerled?"

"Very," he agreed. It was a good plan. And it _would_ be a pity to keep

the child in suspense. The pretty doll must be packed up and sent away

where it belonged, whereupon everything would go on as before. And the

heather moon would begin to shine gold on purple, for the trip through

bonny Scotland, which he had planned. He had been looking forward to the

tour, not with keen enthusiasm indeed, but with interest. He had been

satisfied with the companions he had chosen, and the fact that they

wanted to see Scotland had given him an incentive for taking the rest

cure he had been imperatively ordered, in his native land rather than

elsewhere. Once, long ago, self-exiled at the age of Barrie MacDonald,

he had passionately yearned for his "ain countree," and often regretted

the boyish vow he was too proud and obstinate to break. But years had

passed now since Duncan MacDonald and his daughter Margaret visited

America to find themselves worth knowing only as kinsfolk of the

despised peasant. Accepting the situation because of its advantages and

his necessities, the old man had ignored the past and "made up" to the

young millionaire artist. Ian's sense of humour had been so tickled

that, to his own surprise, he had laughed and forgotten his youthful

rancour. It struck him as distinctly funny that he had ever taken old

Duncan's waspishness seriously enough to make vows of any sort because

of it. And he saw that indirectly he owed fortune to the haughty lord of

Dhrum. It had amused Somerled a good deal and pleased him a little that

"his highness" (as he called the great one) should implore the "peasant

brat" to become tenant of Dunelin Castle for an unlimited term of years;

that Duncan should chat to newspaper men of his "distinguished relative

Ian MacDonald, who had won fame under the very suitable _nom de guerre_

of Somerled"; and that "Cousin Ian" should be pressed to meet "Cousin

Margaret." It was a queer world, and nobody in it was queerer than one's

self. So Somerled had felt when, just because the miracle had happened

to free him of his vow, he no longer pined to gaze upon his native

Highlands. He felt at home and happy enough in America; and if being

"happy enough" wasn't quite the beautiful state he had pictured as a

boy, it was full of interest. He had taken Dunelin Castle off its

owner's hands at a high yearly rent, in order that no rich and vulgar

Cockney should become the tenant, but he had never stayed there, though

once, even to have the right of entrance would have seemed a fairy

dream. There were no such things as fairy dreams for him since he had

thoroughly grown up, because in the process of becoming a millionaire he

had ceased to believe in any kind of dreams. Friendships and sympathies

he had vainly longed for in his poverty could be his for the asking or

even without the asking now; and that was the reason he did not feel

they were worth having. He had no use in his heart for little brothers

and sisters of the rich, and in his experienced hardness he was

sometimes unjust to kindly people. But he had liked the novels of Aline

West and Basil Norman before he met the two popular Canadian authors on

shipboard; and learning that they planned to write a "Scotch book," it

had occurred to him that they might all three go about sight-seeing

together. His rest cure had ceased to bore him in prospect; he had

thought with some pleasure of showing Aline Dunelin Castle and the

island of Dhrum. Suddenly, however, Aline's own words damped the

prospect as with a douche of cold water.

She was perfectly right, too. It would be a very good plan to place the

waif he had picked up as soon as possible in the care of a mother, even

such an extraordinary, incredible mother as Mrs. "Bal" MacDonald: a good

plan for the girl's sake, and for everybody's sake, because it was

arranged to start for Scotland the day after to-morrow. Still, Barrie's

impromptu ode to the heather moon had for a moment irradiated his mind

with a light such as had not shone for Somerled on land or sea since he

had become rich enough to afford the most expensive lighting. Then as

quickly it had died down. He saw himself spinning agreeably through

Scottish scenes with Mrs. West and her brother, and suddenly,

treacherously, he felt that to spin agreeably was not enough to satisfy

him, that it was unworthy of wondrous golden light on purple hills of

high romance. He wanted something more, something altogether different,

and the plans which had contented him looked dull as ditchwater in the

fading glamour. He himself looked dull. Aline looked dull, and for a

moment he almost disliked her sweet blue eyes, her pretty, ever gentle

smile, behind which must lurk some true feeling, or she could not write

those delicately charming books.

"And don't you think, too," Aline urged kindly, "that we ought to put

Miss MacDonald's poor grandmother out of her misery? I might write a

note to--Hillard House, I think she said?--explaining--er--what has

happened, as well--as well as I could? Let me see, what _would_ be best?

Oh, I could say that by accident her granddaughter had met a guest of

mine, a friend of Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald's; that she wasn't to worry,

because, though her granddaughter refused to return, we would see that

the child reached her mother safely, by to-morrow night if possible. I

can mention Basil, and say we are the writers. If she has heard of us,

that may relieve the poor lady's mind."

"Grandma hasn't heard of you, I'm sure," said Barrie, "unless you write

religious books; but she won't _need_ her mind relieved. While I was

with her, I think she considered it her duty to take strict care of me;

but now I've gone my own way, she'll see it was predestined. It was just

the same with a Dresden china teapot she inherited. She didn't approve

of it because it was too gay, but she always washed it herself because

it was her father's. When it broke in spite of her, she wouldn't have it

mended, and told Heppie to throw the pieces away."

"Nevertheless, I must write, and send the letter to Hillard House by

hand," Aline insisted. "If I didn't do that I should not be able to

sleep." She spoke with fervour, for she felt that she must have two

strings to her bow. If "Mother" failed, she must be able to fall back on

"Grandma."

VII

Barrie meant to be up and dressed before any one else in the house, but

she lay awake until long after midnight, an unprecedented thing for her,

and in consequence slept late, making up her accustomed nine hours.

Usually she fell asleep at ten or soon after, and jumped briskly out of

bed at seven, waked only by her eager desire for renewed life, in a

perfectly new day which no one else had ever seen yet. This morning it

was a repeated knocking at the door which mingled with her dreams and

shook her out of them. What door could it be? Where was she? the girl

wondered for a dazed instant. Then Moore appeared with a breakfast-tray.

"Mrs. West said not to wake you for early tea," she explained with a

glacial coldness worthy of Hillard House. "Madam and the two gentlemen

are having breakfast out of doors in the summer-house; and when you get

up, miss, I advise you to draw your curtains well across the windows or

you may be seen."

Barrie wished that she too were having breakfast in the summer-house,

and thought it mistaken kindness on the part of Mrs. West not to have

her called. But, from Aline's point of view, there was no mistake. "I

have let the child sleep," she explained to Somerled and Basil. "It _is_

such a child, isn't it? And when she wakes up there may be a wire in

answer to mine, which went before eight."

When ten o'clock struck and still the telegram had not arrived, Aline

asked herself if she oughtn't to go and call on old Mrs. MacDonald, who

had deigned to take no notice of her tactfully expressed letter. Just

then, however, Somerled's chauffeur was seen hovering in the flowery

distance. He had brought two stage papers which his master had sent him

out to buy. Aline was not pleased that Somerled had thought it necessary

to get information on his own account. She would have preferred that he

should trust to her; but she tried to think that perhaps he too was

secretly tired of the girl and wanted to be rid of her. While he was

glancing through the first paper, Moore glided into the summer-house

with a brick-coloured envelope on a silver tray. It was addressed to

Aline, and she opened it quickly, glad to be ahead of Ian with news.

Then she found herself confronting an unexpected difficulty. "Mrs. B. M.

trying new play small towns; will open Edinburgh in five or six days."

With something like a gasp, Aline stopped on the brink of reading the

telegram aloud. Who would have thought of this?

Her brain worked quickly. She didn't want Somerled to know that "Mrs.

Bal" was so near. He might--make some ridiculous proposal about the

girl--Heaven alone knew what! Men were capable of anything. The

troublesome creature must really go back to her grandmother at once.

Mrs. Bal could easily come to Carlisle and collect her--like lost

luggage--if she cared to be burdened with such luggage. If only Aline

could find some excuse to make Somerled put down that paper and

forthwith go into the house!

"Is your telegram from Sir George?" he inquired calmly, looking up from

the paper which she longed to snatch.

For half a second she hesitated, and then said, "No. It's not what I

expected." This was almost true.

Basil was gazing at her with solicitude. He thought that she had turned

pale. "No bad news from any one, I hope, dear?" he asked.

"It is annoying," she replied with reserve, and crumpled up the

telegram. "I was stupid to let Moore go--I must send an answer. Mr.

Somerled, it would be too good of you to look for a form on the desk in

the drawing-room."

"Shan't I----" began Basil.

"I must ask your advice, meanwhile, about what I'm to say," she cut him

short. Somerled put down the paper on the rustic seat, got up with

alacrity, and started for the house. He would be back in three or four

minutes, and not one of those minutes ought to be wasted. "Don't bother

with questions," she said to Basil, "but if you love me, make those

theatrical papers disappear before Mr. Somerled can read them. I'm going

to change my mind and follow him into the house to write my telegram.

I'll keep him a while talking. If he comes looking for his papers, I

want them to be gone. I depend on you!"

Without waiting for Basil's promise, she darted away in order to

intercept Somerled before he could finish his errand in the

drawing-room. Of course, it would be easy for him to buy more papers,

but before he could get them, Aline was hoping to have maneuvered the

embarrassing Miss MacDonald out of the house. She counted that Ian would

be long in finding the forms, because men never could find the simplest

things when told to look for them; but Somerled was an exception, and

she only just caught him on the threshold. "After all, I want your

advice instead of Basil's," she said. "Do sit here where we shall be

quiet, and let me consult you." She patted the arm of a big

chintz-covered sofa invitingly, and as she sat down Ian followed suit.

Still she did not know what on earth to say to him. She hoped for an

inspiration at the last instant, as Basil had taught her to do in

arranging a difficult situation between hero and heroine. She wanted to

play heroine now with Somerled as hero. Oh, how much she wanted it!

She took a long breath which _must_ bring that inspiration at the end of

it, if inspiration were to be of use. And it came at command, as things

good or bad do come if intensely desired. But it was such a thoroughly

objectionable inspiration that she hardly dared snap at it as she

wished, for Aline was not malicious, and disliked malice and all

uncharitableness as she disliked smearing her pink and white fingers

with ink. Still, no alternative idea occurred to her, and Somerled was

waiting. In desperation she had to take what offered, excusing herself

to herself with every word she spoke. Yet through all she could not help

thinking that she was clever, that she had marvellous presence of mind,

and that she was displaying an inventive faculty which would have

surprised Basil, though, of course, he must never know, because men were

often as idiotically conscientious about little things as they were

unscrupulous about big ones.

"The telegram that came was from Mrs. MacDonald, the child's

grandmother," she heard herself explaining, not forgetting, in her

mental confusion, to rub in the impression of Barrie's unfledged youth.

"I was surprised at not hearing, but this wire is an answer to my

letter. The old lady goes into no particulars, but she says: 'Gravest

reasons why my granddaughter should not join her mother. Hope you in

person will bring her back to me.' Now, dear Mr. Somerled, the little

girl is your protégée. It's for you to say what's to be done with her."

Somerled did not reply at once. He sat thinking, his hands thrust deep

in his pockets, making a jingling noise with keys or silver, which in

her present mood got upon Aline's nerves extraordinarily. She felt that

if he did not stop jingling and begin to speak she should scream. If he

asked to see the telegram, she was prepared to say that she had torn it

up, as an excuse not to show it to Basil, on second thoughts the affair

appearing to be Somerled's business. Somerled did not, however, make the

request, and Aline was spared an extra fib, at which she was

unreasonably pleased.

"Well?" she controlled herself to murmur, instead of screaming.

"I should feel a traitor to give the girl up," he said. "In fact, I

can't do it unless she agrees. I promised not even to advise her that

she ought to go back. She trusted me when I brought her here."

"Shall _I_ have a little talk with her?" Aline suggested, and never had

her voice been so kind and sweet. Indeed, in her trembling hope, she was

willing to be sweet and kind--with limitations.

Somerled thought again for a minute, jingling more horribly than ever.

Then, just at screaming-point once more for Aline, he said decidedly,

"No, thank you. From what Miss MacDonald's told us, it's natural her

grandmother should think there are grave objections to Mrs. Bal as a

guardian; but the old lady's two generations at least behind the age.

Youth's at the prow nowadays, and--a mother's a mother, anyhow. We'll

have to give Mrs. Bal a chance to do the maternal act----"

"She may be far, far away, even in America--or Australia," Aline

objected. "And even if----"

"Oh, Mr. Somerled, mother's coming to Edinburgh!" cried a voice at the

long window, and Barrie appeared, waving a newspaper.

The one unforeseen thing had happened. The vagabond had strayed into the

summer-house and beguiled Basil. Aline knew too well what excuse he

would make if accused: "Why, you didn't tell me _she_ wasn't to look at

the papers!"

"I've seen the name, 'Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald,'" the detestable girl

went on, pushing into the room without asking permission. "She's going

to 'open,' as the paper expresses it, in a new play called 'The Nelly

Affair,' on Monday night at the Lyceum Theatre. Next Monday! Nearly a

week from now! How can I wait--what shall I do till then?"

It was to Somerled that she appealed. She made him feel that the

responsibility was his. And it was a bad moment to feel this, because of

Mrs. West's telegram from Grandma. He got up from the sofa, still

jingling the money in his pockets. Looking down at Aline he saw only her

profile and an ear as deeply pink as coral under a loop of blond hair.

Evidently she too was feeling the situation. Good of her to take an

interest! She really was good. She had asked his advice. Now he would

ask hers.

"Mrs. West and I will talk over a plan I have for you," he said to the

girl.

"Is it your plan--or hers?" asked Barrie anxiously.

"It will be both by the time you hear it," he answered, with a

reassuring smile.

Aline humoured him. "Run away and play, little girl, till the plan is

cooked," she gayly cried. "Play with my brother."

Barrie backed out, feeling as if she had been half smothered with a

perfumed pillow.

"Do you guess my plan?" asked Ian.

"I wonder?" Aline murmured. She could not have spoken aloud just then.

"It's this. Why shouldn't we take her with us in the car to Edinburgh?

We've lots of room."

She had known that this would come. All she had done had only hastened

the catastrophe. "That poor old lady," she stammered. "I can't help

sympathizing--being a little sorry for her. Isn't she, then, to be

considered--after bringing up the girl?"

"You think," he said reflectively, "that she ought to be consulted?"

"Oh, I do!"

"Very well. Then I'll go and have it out with her myself."

"The telegram!" thought Mrs. West, her ears more coraline than ever.

"After all," she faltered, "perhaps it would bring about complications.

She might resort to--to something legal. Fancy if she sent the police to

get back her granddaughter."

Somerled laughed and said nothing. He was not in a mood for argument.

"He won't go," Aline thought. "Thank Heaven, he hates bother."

This was true of Somerled as a rule; but his rules had exceptions.

VIII

So this was the garden where that strange flower of girlhood had budded

and blossomed. All at once Barrie, in her quaintness, became a readable

riddle to Somerled.

The two gates in the high wall were kept bolted, but there was a

jangling bell for each, the gate for visitors (it was almost

supererogatory), and the gate for tradesmen and servants. An elderly and

sullenly astonished woman opened the visitors' gate for Somerled, and

made of her lean form a barrier lest he should try to pass. But she

being narrowly built, on somewhat Gothic lines, and the gateway being

broad, Somerled saw past the flying buttresses of her skirts into the

background. And it was this background that explained in a flash why the

girl knew less of life than a bird which has learned to use its wings;

also the reason why she could never return to waste her young years

behind the garden wall of Hillard House. The thought came into

Somerled's mind that it would be interesting to show her the world she

had never seen, not only between Carlisle and Edinburgh, but over the

hills and far away, as far as the purple island of Dhrum, set in its

sunset frame of ocean gold--or even farther. That could not be, of

course, but the picture was pleasant.

He had prepared himself to be ingratiating; but he realized that

ingratiation was not a successful line to pursue with dragons. Instead

of inquiring politely if Mrs. MacDonald were at home, he said bluntly,

"I wish to see Mrs. MacDonald; I have business with her--not my

business, but hers. And you may tell her I am not The MacDonald of

Dhrum, but _a_ MacDonald from Dhrum, a very different thing."

He knew well that the name of Somerled would be no "Open Sesame" to this

door, and he rather enjoyed the knowledge. It was clear at once that he

had used the right key. Perhaps no other would have served a stranger.

Anna Case was not a Scotswoman, but the name of MacDonald was respected

within these gates, no matter who bore it, and this dark man, with the

blue eyes that went through you like bright steel blades, didn't look

like one who would claim what he had no right to claim. She bade him

follow her into the house, which he did; into the hall; and so to a

drearier drawing-room than he had ever entered. There had perhaps been

some as gray and grim on his island of Dhrum; but in those days he had

known nothing of drawing-rooms.

This was not even early Victorian. It was mid-Victorian, and rubbing and

brushing had given the ugly furniture no time to mellow. He sat down on

a horsehair-covered sofa which had two worked worsted cushions, each

stiffly upright in its corner. One represented a dog's head, the other a

bunch of white and yellow flowers with a cold background of steel beads.

On the walls hung a few steel engravings; a meeting of Covenanters;

portraits of unco' guid worthies with sidewhiskers or beards; and some

tortured stags pursued or caught by hounds.

"Terrible!" he groaned in spirit. "Who'd suppose that such things

existed nowadays?"

He might appropriately have made much the same criticism of the old

woman who at that instant opened the door and came in, sturdily, in

spite of her limp and the stout stick grasped in a knuckly hand. But as

their eyes met--hers like thick glass panes behind which a burning fire

could be dimly seen--something in her grim spirit spoke to something as

grim and uncompromising far down his nature. To his own surprise he felt

awaking in himself a queer impulse of sympathy for the redoubtable

Grandma. Perhaps, reluctantly, she felt the same for him. But she looked

him in the face, keenly and unblinkingly. "Well, sir," she said, in a

deep voice almost like a man's, and amazingly young and vital, "well,

sir, I do not recognize you, though you have gained entrance to my house

by claiming the name of MacDonald."

"That is true," replied Ian, who had risen at her coming. "It's the

first time I've claimed the name for many years, though it is mine and

was my father's before me."

"Who was your father?" the old woman catechized him. "What kin to

Duncan, my dead husband's half-brother?"

"No kin except by clan ties. You wouldn't have heard of us. My father

was a crofter. His name was David."

"I well remember that man," said Mrs. MacDonald, "and his wife too when

I lived with my husband on the island in my youth. Let me see--Mary her

name was. They were God-fearing folk, and didn't wear any such grand

clothes as you do, not even for their Sunday best."

"I paint people's portraits, you see, and have to live in cities,"

explained Ian calmly, though he had grown lazy as he grew rich and had

not painted. "My clothes suit my trade and way of life better than my

father's would, I think; though, as for my brains, my father's hat would

have been too big for them."

"I dare say you are right about the brains. You are that youth who went

off to America under the name of Somerled," Mrs. MacDonald severely

remarked. "I have read of you in the newspapers; but I never approved of

you, sir. It's not man's work, to my mind, smearing canvas with paint,

and encouraging silly women to be vain of their faces."

"My portraits aren't considered to have that effect," returned Somerled;

"rather the contrary, in some cases. And I'm sorry you don't approve of

me, because that makes a bad opening for what I've come to say. However,

it can't be helped. I know Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald slightly; met her

in America----"

"If you think an acquaintance with that woman will recommend you to me,

sir, you are mightily mistaken," was the answer he got.

"I mention it to make you understand why, when I met her daughter last

night, I felt it my duty to do what I could, being of the same name and

not quite a stranger to the family."

"Oh, you felt it your duty! Then you're the person mentioned in a letter

I received from a certain Mrs. West, according to herself a writer of

books. I do not read her sort of books, and never heard of her. 'Motor

novels' indeed! What worse than nonsense! Little enough sense fools must

have to buy them! If you have come from this Mrs. West, you can tell her

from me, as she has made her bed she may lie in it. She has not taken

under her roof my granddaughter, but the daughter of Mrs. Ballantree

MacDonald, the play actress. I did my best for the girl, striving to

bring her up to be a good and modest woman, despite the bad blood of the

mother who broke my son's heart and killed him, who did what she could,

and has been doing what she could in the years since, to disgrace our

house. I might have known I should strive in vain, and I did know at

heart. Vanity and extravagance and fondness of pleasure were Barbara

Ballantree's undoing. I preserved her daughter from those dangers, and

gave her a religious education. Levity was sternly rebuked in her. She

had no young acquaintances to teach her foolishness, or tell her of her

mother's sin. She was allowed no money to fritter away on vanities, no

silly novels to read, such as those your friends write, no frivolous

pursuits which could distract her mind from duty--yet she is her mother

over again, and, like her mother, runs away from my house by stealth, in

the dead of night."

"It wasn't ten o'clock when I met her in the railway station," Somerled

defended the absent. "She was then not very stealthily seeking a train

for London, where she expected to find her mother. Mrs. West has written

you, I know, and told you everything that happened. For my part, I've

called to speak of a plan I have in mind for your granddaughter. The

telegram you sent Mrs. West seemed----"

"The telegram I sent Mrs. West? I've sent no telegram to her nor any

one. I don't send telegrams."

"Indeed?" stammered Somerled, taken aback. "I understood--Mrs. West

believed the telegram to be from you----"

"Nothing of the kind. She couldn't have believed it," Mrs. MacDonald

shut him up mercilessly. "She must have been 'romancing,' as I suppose

she would call it. I should call it lying."

Remembering Aline's words, Somerled also was frankly inclined to call it

lying--on the part of the young woman or the old. He would gladly have

blamed the elder, but reason rebelled. Whatever Mrs. MacDonald's faults

might be, she did not seem to be one who would deliberately tell a lie.

"But why should Mrs. West?" Somerled asked himself, calling up the

pretty smile, the soft blue eyes of his friend. He had been inclined to

believe her true. He had liked her very much, more than he liked most

women, and had wondered if he might not learn to like her still better

in time. The women he saw oftenest were mostly nervous, exacting,

self-centred creatures, craving constant flattery. Aline was none of

these things. She had many charms, and he had seen few defects; but a

motive for falseness in the matter of the telegram would suggest itself

to his intelligence. He tried to shut the door in its insinuating,

conceited grin.

"There must be a mistake--somewhere," he mumbled.

"Not here, anyhow," retorted the old lady.

"After all, it's apart from the question in hand. But perhaps my plans

for your granddaughter don't interest you?"

"Not particularly. Still, you may as well tell them. I see you want to."

"And I see"--Somerled squandered a smile, but only because it came

spontaneously--"I see that you want to hear them, because," he dared to

go on with a flash of his keen eyes into hers, "you _do_ care what

becomes of Miss MacDonald. If you had not got Mrs. West's letter, you

would have had no sleep last night. As it is, knowing your granddaughter

has fallen into safe hands, you can comfortably disclaim anxiety."

"You seem to fancy yourself a mind-reader, my good sir," returned Mrs.

MacDonald at her haughtiest, or what Barrie would have called her

"snortiest." "Think what you like. It is nothing to me, and thinking

costs naught. As for the hands she has fallen into, what do I know of

them? They may be black with sin for all I can tell. No doubt Barbara

Ballantree's daughter would be just as ready to accept help from such

hands."

"As a painter, I try to keep mine clean," said Somerled. "I tell you

that in earnest, not in joke, because for the present I've constituted

myself your granddaughter's guardian. My plan is to take her in my

motor-car to Edinburgh, where I shall deliver her safely to Mrs.

Bal--Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald. In the car will be Mrs. West and her

brother, Basil Norman. Have you anything to say against the plan? If you

have, kindly speak now."

"If I did speak, would it prevent your doing what you've made up your

mind to do?"

"Perhaps not, unless your reasons appealed to my judgment," Somerled

admitted.

"You're no prevaricator, anyhow."

"I don't come of prevaricating stock."

"You don't, if you're David MacDonald's son. He was a humble,

God-respecting man. But you have no humble air. You hold your crest

high."

Somerled was minded to be impudent and say that in that case he must get

his hair cut; but he refrained. "The atmosphere of this house does not

conduce to humility, madam," he answered instead--and always as they

talked the two looked one another straight and full in the face.

"H'm!" the old woman grunted. Yet there was something vaguely resembling

a twinkle in the glass-gray eyes, a gleam which Barrie and few others

now living had ever seen; for not more than one or two of her

fellow-beings had ever had the slightest idea how to manage Mrs.

MacDonald, _née_ Ann (scorning an "e") Hillard.

"Go on your motor trip, then, so far as I care," said she, a permission

which from her was well-nigh a blessing. "It will probably end in a

smash-up before Edinburgh."

"I think not," said Somerled. "I drive myself, and I know how to drive

rather well."

"I was not referring to physical results."

"So I presumed. Nor was I," he retorted.

If she found the reply enigmatical she did not say so.

They had not sat down during the conversation. Now, Somerled took a step

toward the door. "I'm obliged to you for receiving me, madam," he said

as a prelude to departure.

"I received you on the strength of your name," she reminded him.

"Which I don't intend to disgrace in your eyes."

"Why in my eyes? They will not long be looking your way."

"I think they will, as long as I'm in charge of your granddaughter.

That's what I mean."

"I do not thank you for the assurance. Except that when she's twenty-one

I shall make over certain money of my son's to her, I have washed my

hands of the girl."

"I haven't. That's not the kind of washing to make them clean."

"You reproach me, sir!" She glared at him.

"Not at all, madam. Even if I would venture, there's no need, for I

think your bark is worse than your bite."

Again she almost twinkled at the wretch's daring. There was excitement

in it, which she had not experienced since early married days. Then she

had had to do with another MacDonald, and even a Hillard could without

disgrace afford to be mastered by a MacDonald of Dhrum.

"When I've put your granddaughter into more suitable guardianship than

mine," Somerled went on quickly, "I'll write and tell you."

"Suitable guardianship! It will be some time before I get that letter."

"I thank you for the compliment."

"It was not one."

"You're not to blame if I choose to take it as such."

"I am not to blame in any way in this matter."

"There I'm no judge. It's my own actions I must look after." And again

he smiled.

"I advise you to be careful, sir, between Barbara Ballantree and

Barribel MacDonald. I wish you joy of them both."

"And what of Aline West?" The question whispered itself in Somerled's

ears.

But Mrs. MacDonald knew nothing of Aline West. And Somerled was

beginning to think that, for all the boasted sagacity of experience, he

knew not much more.

"Thank you for your kind wishes," he said non-committally. "And now I

will wish you a good day."

He put out his hand, and, to her own intense surprise when she thought

of it afterward, Mrs. MacDonald gave hers. Over the prominent knuckles

the old skin lay soft and loose. The grim woman was vaguely pathetic to

Somerled in his youth and strength and full tide of success. The touch

of the would-be iron hand in the velvet glove of faded age made him

conscious of his vast advantage over her. He went away filled with hope,

and a curious new joy of life, which was partly the excitement of

battle.

"The _heather moon_!" he found himself saying, as he passed out of the

ill-kept, once lovely garden where Barrie had often dreamed. Perhaps the

thought came then because here and there a patch of heather glorified

the weeds, or perhaps because Barrie's dreams still empurpled their

birthplace.

IX

When luncheon-time drew near and Somerled was absent, Aline's heart

misgave her. It was useless to argue that he must have lingered in talk

with his chauffeur, with whom he had early gone to confer. Reason

offered this explanation, which was plausible, and altogether more

likely than any other; but instinct was deaf to it. Aline wandered

nervously about the house and garden, unable to settle anywhere, and it

was an added vexation to her disturbed spirit that Basil should be

giving himself heart and soul to the entertainment of that dreadful girl

in the summer-house. It was well enough that he should entertain her,

and keep her passive, but Aline would have liked him to be a martyr,

sacrificing his own inclination for his sister's good. She did not wish

to think that there was something about this young, crude creature which

attracted men to her, and caused them to find pleasure in her society.

Aline's head ached, and she could not think consecutively. Again and

again she asked herself, "What shall I do if he has been to see that old

woman and found out about the telegram?" but no clear answer would come.

She could only repeat the would-be consoling words, "But he _hasn't_

been there. It's silly to think of such a thing. He's not that sort of

man."

She was in the summer-house with her brother and Barrie MacDonald when

at last Somerled did come. She called to him gayly as he appeared round

the corner of an immense architectural rose-bush, and he answered

pleasantly. He even met her smile with a smile as friendly to the eye,

and there was no definable change in his look or manner, yet--Aline was

filled with a cold fear which chilled the perfumed August noon. Her

perception of the invisible was as sensitive as the needle of a compass

to the thrill of the magnetic north. Her brain suddenly buzzed as if a

hive of bees had been let loose in her head. A voice seemed to be

yelling in her ears accusations: "What a fool you have been--what a fool

you have been. It's all your fault if he has found out. You needn't have

done the thing. It wasn't necessary."

She feared to meet Somerled's eyes and read condemnation, yet her very

dread forced her to seek them, and learn at once the best or worst,

since suspense was unbearable. It seemed to her that he avoided her

look; that he too was nervous and uncomfortable, while trying to appear

at ease.

For a moment or two he talked of the car, which he had been to see, and

of a sight-seeing expedition round Carlisle which Basil had proposed for

the afternoon. Then he turned suddenly to Barrie: "I've been thinking

over what we can do for you, Miss MacDonald," he said. "We don't know

where your mother is now, but we do know that she'll be in Edinburgh the

first of next week. Perhaps we might be able to find out her whereabouts

meanwhile, but there'd be delay before we could expect answers to

inquiries, if she's playing small towns in order to knock her new play

into shape. You don't want to go back to your grandmother's. We're

starting off in my car to-morrow. I've undertaken the responsibility of

you, so I'm your guardian _pro tem_. I couldn't allow you to hang about

alone anywhere. The alternative is, taking you with us in the car. What

do you say?"

"Me in a motor-car!" exclaimed Barrie, rapturous. "It can't be true."

"It will be true if you say 'yes.'" Somerled spoke coolly, but it seemed

to Aline that his eyes were alight. They were fixed on the girl, noting

how she paled and flushed. Her face, seen in the golden lights and green

shadows of the summer-house, had the texture of flowers. Aline had not

known it was in her to hate any one so bleakly as she hated Barrie

MacDonald at this moment; and she hated Somerled too, more than she had

hated him last night. She ached to make him suffer as he was making her

suffer. If only she could--if she but had the power!

This was the blow she had known would fall: the invitation to Barrie.

Now the worst had happened despite the risk she had run for its

prevention. And Somerled would not meet her eyes. Did this mean that he

not only made light of her arguments, but had found out the falsehood on

which they were based?

"Of course I say 'yes!'" Barrie was gayly answering. "It seems more than

ever as if I were in a fairy story. Travelling for five days, in a real,

live motor-car, to see my real live mother! Oh, if _Grandma_ knew!"

"She does know," said Somerled. The words spoke themselves. For once

unable to decide quickly and definitely, he had come back from Hillard

House to Moorhill Farm without making up his mind whether or no to tell

how he had spent most of his morning. He had left chance to settle the

question; and now it was settled. Still he did not look at Mrs. West. He

spoke in a commonplace tone, as if Mrs. MacDonald's knowledge of his

plan included no secret knowledge on his part.

"How do you know she knows?" asked Barrie eagerly, leaning toward him

with elbows on knees, chin in hand, long red plait failing over

shoulder. "You--you haven't _seen_ her?"

"I have."

"You met her looking for me!"

"No, not that."

"Then you must have been to Hillard House."

"Yes. I went there to talk with Mrs. MacDonald about you."

To save her life, Aline could not have kept down her agonizing blush.

Tears started to her eyes. Though she had been half prepared for this

blow, it fell upon her with an almost mortal shock. Ostentatiously,

Somerled was keeping his eyes off her face; and that was worse than if

he had stared straight into her eyes. Her terrible blush must have

touched the consciousness of a blind man. It called Basil's fascinated

attention from the girl; and so stricken did his sister look that he

would have cried out to ask what was the matter had she not sealed his

lips with a glance of desperate command.

There was no longer a gram of doubt. Somerled knew that Mrs. West had

lied about the telegram, and everything was changed between them

forever. For a moment Aline told herself that there was no hope, there

could not possibly be any; and yet, if he cared for her, would he not

forgive? Was there no way of saving the situation, and turning the

inevitable change into gain instead of loss? She took a quick and

courageous resolution, as a timid woman may when told that her life

depends upon a dangerous operation, to be performed instantly or not at

all.

"Mr. Somerled," she said, "can I speak to you--just you and me alone for

a few minutes?" As she made her plea, she rose from the rustic seat

where she had been sitting by her brother's side and opposite Barrie.

"Of course, with pleasure." Somerled rose too, stiff and alert as a

soldier on duty. She hated this stiffness, this alertness. It showed her

that he was sensitively dreading the scene to come, and hiding

reluctance behind a hard, bright shield.

"Mrs. West," Barrie spoke out impulsively, "if you don't want me to go

in the car, I won't."

"Of course I want you to go, silly child." Aline tried to withdraw

sharpness from her voice, but it was there, like the sting of a wasp in

a wound. "Even if I didn't think it wise for some reasons, it isn't my

car, you know, but Mr. Somerled's, and he has a perfect right to invite

any guests he likes. Don't imagine that I'm going to talk to him about

_you_. It's something quite different I have to say."

Barrie was snubbed into instant silence; but as Aline and Somerled

walked away together they heard her appeal confidentially to Basil, in a

tone of passionate interest: "What _shall I_ do about clothes? I can't

go off in a motor-car with----" The rest was lost in distance.

The two walked without speaking as far as the big, spouting rose-bush

and the junction where two paths met. Then, choosing the path which

avoided the house, Aline took her life in her hands.

"You mentioned that telegram to Mrs. MacDonald?"

"Yes," confessed Somerled. "The subject came up--accidentally."

"What did she say? I want you to tell me. Afterward I'll explain--why."

"She said that she hadn't sent any telegram; and I saw at once that you

must have made a mistake."

"You needn't put it that way to save my feelings!" Aline caught him up,

panting a little, not trying to calm herself. "You knew that I had--told

you a fib. Be honest with me. You must. And I'll be honest with you."

"I'm glad you're talking to me like this," said Somerled simply,

"because I was puzzled, I admit. I couldn't bear to think----"

"I know exactly what you couldn't bear to think," she cut in, letting

herself break into a sob. "You thought: 'Mrs. West has told me a

deliberate lie because she's jealous of that child, and doesn't want me

to take her in the car.' Oh, don't deny it. I _know_. And it's true. I

_was_ jealous, I don't dislike the poor little thing. Why should I?

She's too insignificant, too much a child in intellect as well as years.

But--I wanted you to ourselves. It was horrid of me. Only you can't

imagine how I've looked forward to this trip, ever since the day you

asked us to take it with you. Before that I was bored with the idea of

writing the book we've promised our publishers. Our going with you made

all the difference to me. You see, we got to be such friends on

shipboard--that last night. I _am_ a jealous friend. I admit it. And it

was such a blow to have a stranger thrust upon us--to have _you_ thrust

her upon us--when you might have guessed how I felt, if we're friends.

The telegram this morning was from Sir George. It told me that Mrs. Bal

was coming to Edinburgh. Instantly I _knew_ you'd ask that girl to go

with us there in the car--oh, simply in your kindness of heart to a

waif. But I couldn't bear it. I saw everything spoiled--for us all, even

you. I was like a disappointed child. I had to do _something_--and on

the impulse I made up that fib. I'm not sorry even now--I think. Yet I

did mean to tell you, sooner or later, the truth. Honestly, I shouldn't

have kept silence long if you hadn't found out. I'm not a coward when

it's necessary to be brave."

"I see you're not," said Ian. "You--have paid me a great compliment, and

I thank you."

"You thank me for what--precisely? For telling a fib because I wanted to

keep my friend to myself--if I could?"

"For liking me well to enough tell it."

"For liking you well enough! Yet now I've shown my liking--and my

courage, you like me less."

"No."

"You do!"

"No."

"Prove that."

"How do you want me to prove it?"

Aline's voice was thick. She felt broken, but not beaten yet. "Prove

it," she almost whispered, "by sacrificing that girl to--_our_

friendship. When we go back to the summer-house, tell her you've changed

your mind; that you'll find out at what place her mother is playing now;

and that after all you think it best to send her there at once. You

_could_ find out easily, you know! And I'd take the child myself if you

liked. I'd do that for you, if you'd do what I ask for me."

"You're only trying me, Mrs. West," said Somerled. "You don't really

wish me to fail the girl."

"Fail her! What an exaggeration. She _wants_ to go to her mother."

"At present she wants to go to her mother by motor-car."

Anger at his obstinacy and her own failure lost Aline her self-control.

"You mean you want the girl in your motor-car!" Her manner made the

words an accusation. But he took the challenge in silence, walking at

her side, his head slightly bent, his hands in his pockets. Aline darted

a glance at his profile. His jaw looked set, and he had the expression

of a man who would give anything to be smoking a cigarette.

It was too late to grope her way back to the path of tactfulness, and

the hot blood in her temples made her indifferent to his opinion, to the

future, to everything except her own anger and the need to vent it.

"Silence gives consent," she said bitterly, seeing her hopes lie broken

at her feet, but not caring much yet. Only, she knew dully that she

would care by and by, care to the sharpest point of agony. "Well, so

much for our friendship! I'm sorry. I would have done a good deal for my

part of it, but there's a limit, isn't there? And friendship can't be

all on one side. I'm afraid, if you want Miss MacDonald in your car,

you'll have to get her another chaperon. I don't engage in that

capacity."

Now there was just one last loophole open for Somerled. He could protest

that Aline had misunderstood him; that he cared not a hang or anything

of that kind whether Miss Barrie MacDonald went to Edinburgh or Jericho;

that the only thing which mattered was Mrs. West's friendship. If he

said this quickly, she would hold out both hands to him and cry a

little, and beg his pardon for being cross. Then they would forgive each

other and everything would be as before, or better. But Aline waited

breathlessly for an instant, and several more instants: and Somerled

said nothing at all. He would have continued to walk slowly on if she

had not stopped suddenly in the middle of the path, and brought him up

short. Already she was beginning to feel the pain of loss and the

weighty irrevocability of everything. "What are we going to do?" she

panted, her breast rising and falling alluringly. Her cheeks were bright

pink, and her eyes brilliant. Never had she been so near to beauty; but

Somerled faced her with a calm very like sullenness.

"What are _you_ going to do?" he answered her with a question.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you and Norman to go motoring with me through Scotland, of

course."

"Thank you. But I've made my point, and I must stick to it. Basil and I

won't go with you if this girl goes."

"We've quarrelled, then, have we?" he asked. His eyes were blue as the

ice of glaciers in his brown face. His mouth and chin looked hard as

iron; and never had Aline liked him half as well.

"Yes, we've quarrelled--if you insist," she said.

"Then I must no longer intrude on you as your guest."

"You'll go----"

"Naturally I'll go. I can't stay in your house--it's the same as your

house--when you think I no longer deserve your friendship. On my side, I

think you're unreasonable; but I may be wrong. Perhaps it's I who am

unreasonable, and can't see it. Anyhow, I shall have to go."

"I won't have Miss MacDonald in the house a minute after you leave,"

Aline said, almost threateningly.

"Why should you? Her packing won't take long, poor child."

"You'll have to send her back to her grandmother now," Aline warned him,

in a brief flame of defiance.

"That's impossible. I wouldn't break my promise, even if Mrs. MacDonald

didn't forbid her the house."

"She can't very well go alone with you to Edinburgh in your car, I

suppose?"

"She is going to Edinburgh in my car, but not alone with me. Won't you

go too, Mrs. West, and let us forget all this nonsense?"

"You call it nonsense? That shows how little you understand me, how

willing you are to spoil everything for the sake of this wretched girl!

Basil and I will simply go back to our original plan, and travel through

Scotland together in a hired car."

"Luncheon is served, madam," Moore announced, at the turn of the path.

Luncheon--and the world in ruin!

"Mr. Somerled and Miss MacDonald will not be lunching," said Aline

icily.

Moore hid surprise by retiring in decorous haste.

"Good-bye, Mrs. West," said Somerled.

He held out his hand, looking at her steadily, but she turned and rushed

away from him, crying.