Paul Macleod sate in the business-room, where so many lairds of
Gleneira had received rents and signed cheques, playing his part with
great propriety, much to Will Cameron's delight and astonishment.
Captain Macleod was, undoubtedly, the laird, and as such bound to a
semi-parental interest in every living thing, to say nothing of every
stick and stone about the old place. On the other hand, he had been
away in a perfectly different environment for nearly ten years, and it
seemed nothing short of marvellous to the factor that he should
remember every farmer and cottier, nay, more, their wives, and sons,
and daughters, by name. And so, perhaps it was; though, to tell truth,
the mental qualities it represented were small, being no more nor less
than a quick responsiveness to the renewal of past sensation; that
very responsiveness which ten years before had made Paul shrink from
giving an unpleasant memory a place in his life. Moralists are apt to
sneer at the popularity which the possessor of this faculty enjoys;
and, of course, it is easy to cheapen the sympathy of the man, who
when he sees you, is instantly reminded of all the past connected with
you in detail, and proceeds to inquire eagerly about your ox and ass,
your manservant and your maidservant, and everything that is within
your gate. Yet, when all is said and done, and though he certainly
gives the false impression that these things have never been out of
his mind, the gift is not only an enviable one, but in itself argues a
quicker sensibility than that possessed by his more stolid, if more
honest, neighbours.
So there was no effort to Paul Macleod in taking up the thread of his
past life at Gleneira; at the same time, he felt no more regret at
hearing, as he did through Will's answers to his inquiries, of Jeanie
Duncan's death, somewhere in the vague South country, than he did for
many another item of news. Partly because that old life had really
passed out of existence for him altogether, and partly because Will,
being a good-natured kindly soul, said nothing about the child which
poor old Peggy had brought with her. There are many men of this
sort--more men for the matter of that than there are women--who hate
to face the sad aspect of life, and slur over a painful story whenever
they can.
Thus Captain Macleod was able to quit the past and plunge into the
future without even the slight regret which the news must have brought
him; for in his way he had really loved Jeanie, and the thought that
his admirable self-sacrifice had not availed to keep her memory
pleasant, would have been a distinct annoyance. As it was, he began at
once on plans and arrangements, which convinced Will Cameron that the
laird must be going, unconsciously, to follow his advice, and marry a
rich wife. Nothing else could explain the fact that Gleneira House had
to be generally smartened up for the present, pending more solid
repairs during winter, that carriages and horses had to be bought at
once, and preparations of all sorts made for the houseful of guests
which would come with the shooting season. In the matter of slates,
glass, stables, and garden, Will Cameron felt himself equal to the
occasion, but when chintzes and furniture came under discussion he
meekly suggested a reference to Maples', or Morris, or his mother.
"I should prefer Mrs. Cameron," replied the laird, with a laugh. "If I
wanted the other sort of thing my sister Blanche would do it for me
fast enough. Take a brougham by the day--to save her own horse, you
know--and re-create poor old Gleneira. First day, paper, painting,
draping; second day, furnishing; third day, creeping things
innumerable--you know them. Chenille things climbing up the lamp, a
Japanese toad on the writing-table, and a spider on the edge of a
teacup." He rose and went to the window. "But that sort of thing is
desecration of this," he went on, looking out on the opalescent
shimmer of sea and sky and hills; "though it does well enough in South
Kensington. I never could fit myself out, even in clothes, with a view
to both hemispheres, and though some folk profess to prepare for
heaven and enjoy earth at the same time, I'm not made that way."
He pulled himself up with an airy smile, and turned round again.
"So let us be off to Mrs. Cameron, and perhaps that young lady who is
staying with you--I met her by the river this morning----"
"Marjory," put in Will, eagerly; "why, yes, of course, she is the very
person we want--has awfully good taste."
"Indeed," said the other, smiling again. He was thinking that in that
case he could not claim distinction since she had not favoured him
with much of her approval. Not that it mattered, since he had quite
made up his mind that during the next few weeks, before his married
sister came to do hostess, Marjory would be a decided acquisition to
the limited society at his command; for Paul was distinctly gregarious
in his tastes. It did not take much to amuse him; but he needed some
gentle interest to start the wheels of his pleasure, and that interest
was, preferably, a woman. So, being able thus to combine duty and
amusement by a visit to the Lodge, he calmly suggested an adjournment
on the spot, to which Will agreed, blissfully oblivious of the fact
that not half-an-hour before he had left his mother in the agonies of
redding up the best parlour, with a view to the laird's expected visit
in the afternoon.
No doubt when the women of the future have won large interests for
themselves, such a spectacle as Mrs. Cameron presented when she saw
two tweed-clad figures lounging up the path together will be
impossible. Even nowadays the attempt to describe her feelings must
fall far short of the reality, since few of this generation can grasp
the mental position of the last, and Mrs. Cameron belonged to the
generation before that. Of far better birth than many a farmer's wife
who would be ashamed at being discovered engaged in household work,
Mrs. Cameron would as a rule have gloried in what was to her the sole
aim and object of woman's creation; but this was no ordinary occasion;
how could that be one which necessitated clean muslin curtains at a
time when clean muslin curtains should not be, a cake made after her
mother's original recipe baking in the oven, and a bottle of her dead
husband's very best Madeira waiting to be decanted on the sideboard?
She stood transfixed on the steps, in the very act of running a tape
through the stiffened hem of the curtain, an operation which in itself
had reduced her patience to the lowest ebb; and then, after an
instant's pause, her resentment found an outlet in one expressive
epithet.
"The Gowk!" For it was Will's fault, of course; had not the lad been a
perfect dispensation ever since he was born? (this being her favourite
word for describing all the inevitable trials of her life). Besides,
after the manner of most housewifely women, she always visited any
failure in domestic arrangements on the head of the nearest male
belonging to the family. No one but a man, no one but a man, sent to
make _her_ life a burden, could have been guilty of such a disgraceful
blunder, when a word, a hint, could have kept the laird from coming
until the afternoon. The conviction brought a sort of martyred
resignation with it, as she continued in a lower key, "and the parlour
as bare as the loof o' my hand, save for the tea leaves on the
drugget."
A more forlorn picture of discomfort could not have been suggested,
and Marjory, standing by with needle and thread, promptly suggested
that the laird should be shown into her study, since she was on the
point of going out; an assertion which mollified the old lady by its
suggestion that the visit must be to her alone. And wherefore not,
since she had seen three generations of Macleods come and go? So, with
vague remarks about sparing the rod and spoiling the child, which it
is to be supposed bore reference to poor Will's education, she hurried
off to meet her guest in the old-fashioned style, and take it out of
the offender--who in the meantime had, for hospitality's sake, to go
scot free--by a display of almost subservient humility to their
employer.
"Come ben! Come ben, Gleneira, to your ain house. And tho' it is no so
tidy as I might have wished" (here a savage glance at her son
emphasised the stab) "it is not for me to say you nay, for even if we
have been here father and son, a' these years, it is no for us to be
forgettin' oor position and dependence."
"Don't keep the laird standing on the steps all day," put in Will,
hurriedly; "he wants to have a crack with you, mother; let us go into
the parlour."
"The parlour, William, as you should ken fine, is being redd up, so I
must fain ask the laird's pardon for takin' him to our boarder's wee
sitting-room."
As a rule Mrs. Cameron would sooner have died than call Marjory a
boarder, and so level herself to the bit farmer-bodies who let
lodgings in the summer time; but at present any weapon against her
son's dignity was welcome, and she rejoiced to see him growing more
and more impatient. Letting lodgings, indeed! Aye, that was what the
poor shiftless creature would come to if he hadn't her to make both
ends meet!
"My dear Mrs. Cameron," replied Paul, still holding her old hand and
looking sentimentally into her old face, "the pleasure of seeing you
is all I care for now. To begin with, it makes me feel years younger.
And how young I was when you caught me stealing your jam! I have
never forgotten the lecture you gave me, never! And then, do you
remember----?" He was fairly afloat on the sea of reminiscence now,
much to the old lady's gratification. But since this was distinctly an
irregular method of getting through a state visit, she led the way
defiantly to Marjory's little snuggery upstairs, with another sniff at
poor Will, which sent him off muttering something about letting its
owner know; a remark which increased his mother's wrath, and made her
more than ever set on a strict observance of the ceremony due to the
occasion. So she sat exactly opposite Paul on a high chair, and began
_seriatim_ on all domestic events in the Gleneira family during the
past nine years, until his head whirled, and the life which had seemed
to him so varied and gay, reduced itself to a mere excerpt from the
first column of the Times. Yet his deferential courtesy never failed,
and, as usual, brought him its own reward; for after a time, the old
lady, finding it impossible to resist his charm, thawed completely,
and finally getting quite jolly, frankly confessed her annoyance, and
hurried off to see if the cake were not sufficiently baked to admit of
Gleneira's breaking bread in the house, just for luck's sake.
Paul, left alone, began to frown. This was Miss Carmichael's room;
but, apparently, she meant to steer clear of it while he was there.
Girls did that sort of thing; it made them feel independent.
Meanwhile, what sort of a girl was she, judged by her room; that sort
of knowledge often came in very useful when the dear creatures were
shy. Fond of flowers, certainly, and in a rational way; these were not
arranged in bouquets, but set one or two in a vase wherever a vase
could stand, so that you could see them. Books? A closed bookcase full
of the dreariest backs; they must have belonged to her uncle, or
perhaps to old Cameron, who had been a bit of a student; but scarcely
to a girl who could throw a salmon line like Miss Carmichael. Yes! She
had certainly looked as well as she was ever likely to look, when
swaying her lithe body to the sway of the rod. Pictures? A good
photograph that, over the mantelpiece, of Andrea del Sarto's
Maddelena; from the original, of course, and full size. That was the
best of photographs, you could have them exact, and sometimes half an
inch made such a difference. How well he remembered his first sight of
the picture in that dark corner of the Borghese gallery, and the
effect its dreamy eyes had had on him; the wonder, too, whether the
casket really held a very precious ointment, or a still more precious
_acquatofana_. Either was possible with that dim, mysterious smile;
and the woman herself--for it was Del Sarto's wife, of course--had
been a lying devil who made her husband's life a perfect hell. Now,
had Miss Carmichael chosen that photograph for herself; and, if so,
why? Since it did not fit the salmon fishing any better than the
books. Ah! there in the bow window, cut off from the rest of the room
by muslin drapery, was a low wicker chair, placed close to a revolving
bookstand.
"Now for the last new novel," he said to himself cynically. "What is
the odds on anything in these latter times. I have seen nice girls
since I came home reading things in public which I would not leave
about in the smoking-room for fear the housemaid might be shocked.
Eheu!"
It was a sort of prolonged low whistle of surprise and disappointment,
mingled with a distinct personal aversion to the treatise on Conic
Sections, which he took up inadvertently. The fact being that Paul
Macleod had at one period of his life thought of Woolwich, and that
particular book had, as it were, stood in the way of his ambition.
Perhaps it was that which made him fling it down contemptuously,
with a sort of vague indictment against the owner. She had not looked
like it certainly, yet for all he knew she might be one of those
clear-headed, hard-hearted nondescripts--the opposite extreme from
that angel-faced, sensual-minded demon over the mantelpiece--who
despised the emotions they were born to create, and would scorn to
have a foolish, illogical, unreasoning, lovable sentimentality. There
he paused abruptly, and whistled again; for on the stand among the
books was a little vase holding some white heather and stag-horn moss.
A curious coincidence truly, even if it were nothing more. He stood
looking at it for a minute or two, and then quite coolly exchanged it
for a similar bouquet which he was wearing in his buttonhole; a
bouquet which he had found in a vase on his dressing-table.
Just then the door opened, at first gently, then hurriedly, while
Marjory's voice exclaimed in joyous relief, "Gone at last! What a
relief!"
Paul emerged from his concealment with outstretched hand.
"Good-morning, Miss Carmichael," he said in that charming voice of
his, "delighted to find you at home." She looked at him with level,
puzzled eyes.
"I think you must have heard what I said just now, didn't you?" Her
directness went straight through the veneer of conventional
politeness, and startled him into corresponding frankness.
"Yes; every word," he said, turning to take up his cap.
"Oh, please don't," she broke in eagerly. "It will make me feel so
ashamed. And it was only because I wanted to finish some papers and
send them off. You see to-morrow is my birthday, and I promised Tom to
take a holiday. But I forgot," she added with a quick apologetic
smile, "you don't know who Tom is, and it can't interest you----"
"I beg your pardon," he interrupted, returning somewhat to his more
elaborate manner; "it interests me exceedingly to know who Tom is."
Again her perfect unconsciousness drove him back to simplicity.
"Tom is my guardian--Dr. Thomas Kennedy. I don't suppose _you_ have
heard of him, but most people have; I mean of that sort. He is in
Paris now busy over a bacillus."
"Indeed!" said Paul, beginning to weary; "and so to-morrow is your
birthday, and you are to have a holiday; a whole holiday. That sounds
very virtuous, Miss Carmichael, to a man who has perpetual holidays."
"But I am going to have six weeks! A real vacation. The first I've
ever had; because you see I've never been to school or college, and
work has always been more or less of an amusement to me. One must have
something to do, you know."
"Pardon me, but I seldom find the necessity. Life in itself occupies
all my spare time; I mean all the time I can spare from things that
are necessary to keep in life."
She looked at him again with frankly puzzled, half-amused eyes. "How
funny that sounds. I don't understand it a bit, but I daresay I shall
when I have really been idle for two or three weeks. Tom says it will
do me good before I start regular work. I am going to teach in a Board
school in November."
"That seems a pity."
"Why? I have to earn my own living, remember!"
"Pardon me for saying that that seems to me a greater pity still."
The puzzled, amused look grew more pronounced. "And that sounds still
funnier. Can't you see that some of us must work; there are so many of
us nowadays. Besides, I like work; uncle used to say that was lucky,
because I had to. You see I am absolutely alone in the world."
"And that is the greatest pity of all." His voice, soft, kind,
courteous, carried them beyond the lightness of ordinary conversation
in a moment, and Marjory, recognising the fact, felt none of her
usually quick resentment at the intrusion of a stranger into her inner
life; for she was not of those who parade their possession of a soul,
perhaps because she took it as a matter of course.
"I suppose it is, in a way," she assented; "but I have been accustomed
to the position all my life, and somehow I never regret it."
"That seems to me rather unnatural in a girl."
"It is very lucky," she retorted. "What would become of me if I were
afraid?"
"You would probably lead a far happier life."
"Why?"
They were standing opposite each other, looking into each other's
faces, and the beauty of his, the unconsciousness of hers, held them
both captive.
"Because in all probability you would marry."
There was a silence for a moment, but Paul Macleod, no mean judge of
character, partly because of the complexity of his own, had rightly
gauged the measure of what he had to deal with. What many girls might
have deemed an impertinence Marjory passed by as a mere truism.
"I have often thought of that myself," she replied quietly; "but I
think you are mistaken."
It was his turn now to put that terse, unconditional "Why?"
"I am not likely to marry; as uncle used to say, I have not purchasing
power equal to my requirements."
"Meaning, of course, that your ideal is too high. I should have
fancied so. You are very young, Miss Carmichael. And I am old;
besides, ten years knocking about in Indian cantonments disposes
effectually of the theory of twin souls. It is very beautiful, no
doubt; but I fancy mine must have died in the measles, or some other
infantile ailment. It did not survive to riper years, at any rate. But
here comes Mrs. Cameron, so I shall escape scathing this time. I
generally do."
Marjory felt she could well believe it, palpably unjust though such
immunity might be, as she watched the laird give back the fervid
greeting of the Reverend James Gillespie, who followed close on the
tray of cake and wine.
"My dear sir; welcome to the Glen," cried the young clergyman. "I have
been up at the Big House, and, hearing you were at the Lodge, ventured
to follow you. As parish clergyman----"
"'Deed no! Gillespie," put in Mrs. Cameron, sharply.
"I did not say minister, my dear Madam," retorted the Reverend James
with uncommon spirit; "I said clergyman; and considering that the
lairds of Gleneira have ever clung loyally to the Church." Here
something in the old lady's face made him, as it were, climb down
again. "Well, let us say parish priest."
"'Deed no, again," interrupted the good lady, with a grim smile. "What
would Father Macdonald be saying?"
The Reverend Mr. Gillespie climbed down still further for the sake of
peace, though the vexed question of effectual orders was a favourite
hunting-ground of the Bishop's. "As a native of Gleneira, deeply
interested in the spiritual and moral welfare of its inhabitants,
allow me to express my sincere pleasure in your return. Believe me,
Gleneira, the people welcome you to their midst."
"It is really awfully kind of you all, when I have been such a
shocking ne'er-do-weel absentee. I assure you, Miss Carmichael, that
the number of times I've had to drink my own health in raw whiskey
this morning is incredible; enough to ruin it for the next year."
The Reverend James put on his most professional air. "Too true. As the
Bishop says, whiskey is indeed the bane----"
"Hoot, no!" interrupted Mrs. Cameron from the cake and wine; "good
whiskey ne'er harmed a good man. It is just the idle, feckless bodies
getting drunken that gives it a bad name."
"But that is just the point, my dear lady," expostulated the young
man, feeling sure of his ground. "It is for the sake of the weaker
brother."
"Havers!" began Mrs. Cameron; but the Reverend James was firm, and
quoted the text.
"Aye, aye!" continued the old lady, "I ken where it comes from fine,
more's the pity, for I don't hold wi' it. It's just a premium on being
a poor body, and is the clear ruination o' this world whatever it may
be of the next. Gie me a useless, through--other man or woman, and
hey! it's a weaker brother an' maun' be cockered up."
She showed so much animation that her opponent retired from the
contest discreetly by turning to the laird and beginning on a stock
subject.
"I am sorry to say, Gleneira, that despite my own efforts, and the
Bishop's earnest desire for the erection of a church, matters remain
much as they were, when you were here last. That is to say, service
has still to be conducted in the school-house, which, er--in addition
to other illegitimate uses"--he glanced casually at his old enemy at
this point--"also serves as a post-office; a plan which has great and
undeniable inconvenience."
"And convenience, too," put in Mrs. Cameron, remorselessly. "You see,
laird, the post is no delivered on the Sabbath-day, this bein' a
Christian land, and so when folk go to kirk they can kill twa birds
wi' one stane."
This was too much. "In my opinion," retorted the Reverend James,
pompously, "it would be far less objectionable if Donald _did_ deliver
the letters than that the last words of the blessing should be the
signal for handing them round the congregation. But as is so often the
case in Scotland, the veneration for the day--which, by the way, is
not the Sabbath----"
"No, no!" interrupted the old lady, "I'm no going that gate. I've told
ye oft, Mr. Gillespie, it is naught to me if it's the Sabbath or
Sunday, or Lord's-day or the first day o' the week we are keeping. But
I ken fine that in my learnin' days I was taught to keep it holy, so
if there is ony mistake it was none o' my makin'. It's the fault of
the minister."
Mr. Gillespie coughed. "The hours of service are eleven o'clock for
matins, and four o'clock for evensong. Miss Marjory kindly helps us
with the harmonium. Indeed, one of my reasons for coming on here was
to ask her to settle the hymns for Sunday first, unless, indeed, you
yourself would select one suitable--er--to the occasion."
Paul took the proffered hymn-book with visible embarrassment, and
looked appealingly towards Marjory, but it was impossible to laugh,
for the Reverend James's proposition was saved from absurdity by its
absolute simplicity.
"Really! my dear sir," he began, when Mrs. Cameron came to his rescue.
"Gie the laird a harvest hymn, Mr. Gillespie. I'll warrant he has sown
his wild oats, though maybe after all, you would no care to be reapin'
them, Gleneira."
He laughed very boyishly. "My dear old friend, if they were fifty
shillings a quarter, I should be the richest man in Lorneshire,
instead of the poorest."
"Poor," she echoed grimly; "you couldna' be poor if you tried. It is
no in some men. And now, Gleneira, there's some o' the farm folk
waiting to drink your health outside, so come awa'. And you, too,
Marjory, my dear, for you're a Gleneira lass when all's said and done.
And the parson can tak' a glass for his oft infirmities if he'll no do
it for anything less important."
They followed her out into the sunshine, where, in a solemn
semi-circle, they found half-a-dozen or more of men and halflings,
headed, of course, by old John Macpherson as spokesman. He held a wine
glass in one hand, a black bottle in the other, and the liltiness of
his attitude, joined to a watery benevolence in his eye, told a tale
of previous exertions towards the laird's good health. It was evident
that, for the time being, he was an optimist, viewing the world as the
best of all possible worlds. A glass more, and he would be ready to
defend the proposition with his fists; another, and he would have wept
over its denial, for Aladdin's genii of the bottle was not more
powerful in metamorphosis than Scotch whiskey was on John Macpherson.
"An' here's to you, Gleneira," he said, when Paul returned the glass.
"An' it's wissing you as rich as the Duke o' Wellington--Pech!
Mistress Cameron, but yon's gude whiskey--water never touched it."
Even the refilled glass, as it passed from hand to hand, seemed to
have a vicarious effect on old John, who waxed more and more lilty,
and finally, when the others moved off, lingered for an audible
whisper, accompanied by an admiring glance at the laird.
"Gorsh! Miss Marjory, wass I no tellin' you he was bonnie, and iss he
not bonnie, whatever?"
"A leading question, John," said Paul, readily; "witness can't be
expected to answer it."
But the argumentative mood was beginning. "An' what for no. Miss
Marjory will be a Highland lass, an' a Highland lass will no be so
shamefast, but they will be knowing a bonnie lad when they see one."
"I quite agree with you, John," said the girl, quickly, with a
suspicion of both a frown and a smile on her face.
Paul Macleod, as he walked home, found himself fully occupied in
trying, as it were, to piece the girl's character together to his
satisfaction. She was a novel experience, a pleasant one into the
bargain.
So when she came to breakfast next morning, a bouquet of hot-house
flowers lay on her plate with Captain Macleod's best wishes for her
birthday.
"I think it is very kind of him," she said judicially, in reply to
Mrs. Cameron's rapture over the laird's condescension; "but Peter
Morrison will be furious at having his show spoilt. And he has
amputated the poor things at the knee. Men ought never to pick
flowers, they don't understand them, except gardeners, and they never
want to pick them at all."
When she went up that afternoon to the Big House in order to aid Mrs.
Cameron's taste in the matter of new curtains, there was a little
bunch of white heather and stag-horn moss tucked into her belt. In
finding room amongst the vases for the newcomers this had seemed too
pretty to throw away, that was all. But Paul Macleod's keen eyes fell
on it at once with a certain satisfaction; nevertheless, he made no
allusion to the subject, a reticence which he would not have observed
towards most women of his acquaintance. It was sufficient for him to
be aware of its complicated history. That sort of thing gave an
infinite zest to life.