SCOTCH MISTS
NEXT day it rained--a dismal, drizzling sort of rain that
acted as if it never meant to stop.
“I suppose this is a Scotch mist,” said Babe dolefully at breakfast.
“Of course we ought to enjoy it, as an experience of real Scotch
weather, but for my part I prefer a good rattling American rain-storm.”
“We shouldn’t want to take another long walk to-day, even if it were
pleasant,” said Betty consolingly. “I shouldn’t at least. Sprinting
home after the strawberry tarts made me horribly lame.”
“Me too,” sighed Babbie. “Also it made a hole in my shoe--the only pair
I have that are right for rough walking.”
“Let’s put on rain-coats and go hunting a cobbler,” proposed Madeline.
“And a history of Dunstaffnage,” added Babbie. “I asked Miss MacNish
if there was a library in Oban and she said no; so we shall have to
find a book-store.”
“We can buy post-cards too,” put in Betty. “This is just the right kind
of day for writing letters.”
So they tramped blithely down the hill and wandered in more leisurely
fashion along Oban’s one business street.
“There’s a shoe-shop,” announced Babe presently. “And it says in the
window ‘Repairing done while you wait.’”
“Goodie!” exclaimed Madeline. “Then I shall have my sole patched, too.
It’s worn terribly thin on these stony Scotch roads.”
The smiling saleswoman showed the girls into a tiny back room, where
Madeline could sit while she waited “with one shoe off and one shoe
on.” Babbie stayed to keep her company, and Babe and Betty went off to
buy post-cards, promising to come back before long with sweet chocolate
for the captives.
“This looks like a book-store,” said Babe, stopping before a little
shop with magazines in the window. “We might inquire about the history
of Babbie’s castle.”
A severe-looking, heavily bearded old gentleman came out from a back
room to meet them. No, this was not a book-shop, he explained gruffly;
it was a stationer’s; there were two book-shops at the other end of the
esplanade.
Just then Betty caught sight of some post-cards. “Oh, what lovely
cards!” she cried. “Here’s one of Dunollie, and one of Dunstaffnage,
and oh--here’s that lovely gray beach that we came down to from the
black cow’s pasture. Caernavan Sands is its name. Doesn’t that sound
romantic?”
“My cairds are hand-teented,” said the old stationer in broad Scotch.
“They are tuppence ha’ penny each. Not that it mak’s ony deeference to
you, maybe.”
“Tuppence ha’ penny,” repeated Babe meditatively. “That’s five
cents--cheap enough for hand-colored ones, I’m sure.”
Betty picked out the cards she wanted from the rack, and then noticed
more piles behind the counter.
“Oh, are there some others back there?” she asked. “May I see them,
please?”
The old gentleman said something which Betty mistook for permission to
go behind the counter and look; but as she started to do so he barred
her way.
“No, no, madam,” he said sternly. “You can go wherever you like in your
own country, but in my shop you stay where you belong.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Betty meekly. “I thought you said I might
see them. I’m very, very sorry.”
“I said I wad bring ye the ones that were deeferent from those in the
rack,” said the old man, glaring at poor Betty from under his beetling
eyebrows.
“Let’s not buy his old cards,” muttered Babe indignantly in Betty’s ear.
But Betty smiled and shook her head. “They’re too pretty to lose,” she
whispered. “We should be just spiting ourselves.”
By this time the old Scotchman seemed to be a little mollified, and
condescended to ask the girls what trips they had taken from Oban and
to show them some views of Glencoe, a beautiful mountain pass, and of
Iona, the island where Saint Columba’s church is, both of which he
recommended them to visit. Babe listened in sulky silence, leaving
Betty to answer his questions and thank him for his advice.
“Come again, leedies,” he said, as they went out, and Betty thanked him
politely for that, too.
“Hateful old thing!” cried Babe, when they were once more outside. “The
idea of talking that way to us, just because we’re Americans. What has
he got against America, I should like to know?”
“Never mind him,” said Betty soothingly. “His post-cards are perfectly
lovely. Now let’s get the sweet chocolate for those poor hungry girls.”
“Oh, what fascinating little cakes,” cried Babe rapturously, stopping
before a pastry-cook’s window. “Don’t you suppose they’d rather have
those than just ordinary sweet chocolate? It would be such fun buying
them.”
“It’s fun buying anything over here with this queer English money,”
laughed Betty. “Doesn’t it seem to you just like toy money, Babe?”
Babe nodded. “And when I spend it I don’t feel as if I were spending
real money at all. It’s the loveliest feeling that whatever you buy
doesn’t matter a bit, as long as toy money will pay for it.”
“Let’s buy four of the buns and three of the chocolaty ones and an odd
one for you, because you don’t like chocolate,” said Betty, returning
to the cakes.
They got back to the shoe-shop, with their bag of cakes, just in time
to find Madeline tying on her mended shoe.
“Let’s save the cakes till we get home,” she proposed. “We can eat
them while we’re reading about Flora Macdonald. Oh, let me see your
post-cards. What beauties! Show us where they came from, this minute.”
“All right, only prepare to be insulted if you go inside,” said Babe,
and she told the story of their experience.
“Crusty old party, isn’t he?” said Madeline. “Oh, I know what! I can do
a beautiful English accent. I’ll go in and make him think I’m English.
Then he’ll talk to me confidentially about America.”
“But then I shan’t have any cards,” objected Babbie forlornly.
“Oh, I’ll bring you some,” Madeline promised her. “Wait for me----”
“In that Scotch plaid store over there,” supplied Babe, who never let
an interesting shop escape her notice.
There were golf capes in the store, tweed ulsters--“Just the thing
for a Scotch mist,” said Babbie, shivering in her natty silk
rain-coat--beautiful little kilted suits for small boys to wear, and
best of all, a proprietor resplendent in full Scotch regalia--kilted
skirt, “golf” stockings, green coat, and the insignia of his clan
dangling from a belt around his waist.
“Did you ever see anything so gorgeous,” murmured Babbie under her
breath. “These plaid silk squares will make lovely bags, girls. I’m
going to buy a Macdonald one, in memory of Flora. I do hope she will
turn out to be the ghost of my castle.”
So Babbie timidly approached the majestic figure in plaids, who bowed
affably and did up the silk square as neatly as any ordinary salesman,
talking pleasantly meanwhile about the rain and the war-ship that had
appeared that morning in the harbor.
The transaction was barely completed when Madeline came back, laden
with post-cards and bursting with merriment.
“I took him in completely,” she said. “He told me all about you two
and how you acted as if you owned Oban and his shop, and how the
Americans are all millionaires and are spoiling the town, running about
everywhere, asking senseless questions and not respecting any one’s
privacy.”
“Wouldn’t he have enjoyed seeing us get over that chicken-wire fence?”
said Babe viciously.
“And wouldn’t he be wild if he heard Babbie refer to Dunstaffnage as
her castle?” added Betty.
“Well, as an impartial person who hasn’t seen him,” put in Babbie, “I
think there’s a good deal in his ideas. Lots of American tourists are
frights. Wouldn’t you be mad, if you lived in Ayr, to see them swarming
around the Burns relics and turning the town into pandemonium every
pleasant day all summer?”
“I certainly should,” admitted Babe, “but all the same I wouldn’t be
rude about it. I’d move away.”
“Oh, but perhaps you couldn’t,” began Betty seriously. “If you were
old, you know, and your business was there----”
Whereupon the other three burst into peals of laughter at her
earnestness, and couldn’t sober down even at the prospect of
scandalizing the bookseller as much as they had the crabbed old
stationer. But the bookseller proved to be a brisk young fellow
with an eye for trade, and no national prejudices. He sold them two
paper-covered guides to the region around Oban, which, he assured them,
would tell them all about Flora Macdonald, and all about Dunstaffnage
castle as well. He too had post-cards, and Babe bought some, “on
principle,” she explained, because he was so very agreeable to
Americans.
After dinner it rained harder than ever, so the girls gathered in Miss
MacNish’s parlor, the use of which, they had discovered, went with
“lodgings.” They had exhausted the guide-books, written on most of
their post-cards, decided to go to Iona on the first pleasant day, if
there ever was one, and were beginning to feel very dull indeed, when
Miss MacNish’s funny little maid appeared to say that there were two
gentlemen down-stairs; and should she bring them right up?
“It’s John and Mr. Dwight, of course,” said Babbie gleefully. “Isn’t
it jolly of them to come all this way through the rain to see us?”
“We got drowned out,” John explained. “It’s the first rain since we
began to camp, and we found it most horribly wetting. So we folded our
tent like the Arabs, silently stole with it to the farmer’s barn, and
took up our quarters at the hotel nearest Daisybank Villa. And here we
are.”
“Wad ye like an early tea for your friends?” inquired Miss MacNish,
smilingly appearing in the doorway; and Babbie said yes, if it was
perfectly convenient.
“We were hoping you’d ask us to tea,” confessed Mr. Dwight laughingly.
“We’ve become horribly bored with each other’s society, haven’t we, J.?”
“And we were getting bored with ours,” retorted Madeline. “A rainy day
is a dreadful strain on the tourist’s temper, isn’t it?”
“Well, don’t you think it’s going to clear up to-morrow?” demanded John
anxiously. “Because if it does, and if Mrs. Hildreth doesn’t object, we
were hoping you’d go on some sort of excursion with us.”
“How jolly!” cried Babbie, and suggested Iona. But the men had been
there, and John objected to going anywhere in a crowd.
“What I meant was to go off somewhere just as we did that summer in the
woods, not looking for scenery or for storied castles, but just for a
jolly good time and a good tramp--or a drive if you girls prefer that.”
Babbie twisted her face into an expression of puzzled amusement. “Oh,
John Morton, you are so funny,” she gasped. “You mean you want to
forget you’re in Scotland and pretend you’re in America, so you can go
on a plain American picnic.”
“I object to plain,” said John promptly. “I insist on having
extra-super eats on any picnic that I honor with my presence. Stop
laughing, Babbie. I don’t see anything so funny in wanting to go on a
picnic.”
“Well, probably there isn’t,” admitted Babbie, “only I never went on
one before in Europe, and I never heard of any one else who did. But I
think it will be great fun.”
“And that’s what we’re here for,” added Madeline promptly. “We’re not
the kind of tourists who bore themselves with solid days of ruins and
museums and galleries that they’d never think of visiting if they
were in New York. We hope to improve our minds when it’s perfectly
agreeable, but we’re all against cramming.”
“Why, Madeline Ayres,” cried Betty eagerly, “you know you were the
worst crammer in 19--.”
“The best, you mean, my child,” Madeline corrected her. “Well, now that
I’m a full-fledged B. A., I see the error of my ways, and I am resolved
not to cram on the British museum when we get to it.”
“Everybody stop disputing,” commanded Babe, “and decide about the eats.”
“Let’s cook something,” suggested Madeline. “I hate cold luncheons.”
“It’s just the weather for a bacon-bat,” said Betty.
“Then let’s have one by all means,” Mr. Dwight seconded her. “I don’t
know what it is, but it certainly sounds appetizing.”
“It’s great,” Babe assured him. “You roast the bacon on sticks, and
have rolls and pickles and things to go with it, and coffee, of course.
We used to have them all winter in Harding when it wasn’t too snowy.”
“All right,” said John, “a bacon-bat it shall be. We’ll get the things
in the morning when we start off. Now the next question is, shall we
walk or ride?”
“Let’s walk,” said Babe. “We’re all crazy over walking. Unless--would
your mother go if we rode, Babbie?”
But Mrs. Hildreth, who appeared just then, having heard from Miss
MacNish about the early tea, said she was sure that even if it cleared
off in the morning it would be too damp for her idea of a picnic, so it
was finally decided to walk.
As soon as tea was over, John declared that he must go. “Got to bone
this evening to make up for taking part of to-morrow morning off,” he
explained, blushing and looking sheepishly at Mr. Dwight.
“I’m glad to see that you pay in advance for your fun, John,” said Mrs.
Hildreth. “It’s the best way.”
“I guess you’re right, Mrs. Hildreth,” said John. “Anyhow I’m
experimenting on it just at present. We’ll be here at eleven sharp,
Babbie.”
Next morning every one of the girls got up long before Daisybank’s
breakfast hour to have a look at the weather. At least it wasn’t
raining, and the sun might come out by eleven.
“Besides, who cares for the weather?” inquired Babe calmly, lacing up
her heaviest shoes. “We can’t waste another day moping around indoors.”
“We’d better take the ‘last resorts’ though,” said Betty. “The wood
will all be wet.”
“Lucky mother insisted on bringing two of them,” said Babbie. “Now we
can have one for the bacon and one for the coffee.”
The sun wasn’t shining at eleven; indeed the sky was very gray, and
John and Mr. Dwight looked dubious as they turned in at Daisybank
Villa. But they were pleasantly disappointed at finding the four girls
arrayed in sweaters and tam-o’-shanters, all ready to start.
“We’ve bought the lunch, too,” explained Babe, thrusting a bulky parcel
into John’s arms. “We thought we shouldn’t have any too much time to
get well out into the country before it was time to eat.”
When they had gone about two miles across the moors, John, who was
ahead with Betty, stopped short. “Did you make it a bacon-bat?” he
demanded anxiously.
“Yes,” answered Betty.
“Weren’t we elected to make it that?” asked Madeline.
“Then we shall starve,” declared John tragically. “Look at your skirts.
How are we going to make a fire with everything dripping wet like this?”
“Oh, is that your trouble!” Babe gave a sigh of relief, which the
others echoed. “Why, we’ve brought the ‘last resorts’ along. You don’t
know what they are, do you? It’s private Harding slang. Let’s camp on
the top of that lovely steep cliff, with the purple heather on top of
it, and then we’ll show you about ‘last resorts.’”
So they settled themselves on the rocks, Babe produced the two
chafing-dish lamps, and a flask of alcohol from somewhere inside her
sweater,--she and Bob always tucked things away in mysterious places to
leave their hands free,--and Mr. Dwight obligingly held the coffee-pot
over one lamp, while Babbie arranged the table on a flat rock, and the
rest threaded thin slices of bacon on to pointed sticks and squabbled
merrily for a chance to hold them near the flame of the other lamp.
Miss MacNish had given them scones instead of rolls, and raspberry
tartlets for dessert, so it wasn’t quite an American picnic after all.
But it was a perfectly satisfactory one, John declared.
“Are all Harding girls like your crowd?” he asked Babe on the way home.
Babe considered laughingly. “How do you mean?”
“Oh, jolly, and up to things, not minding if you get your skirts wet
going ’cross country, and knowing about ‘last resorts,’ and all that.”
“Well, of course we always thought we were a little jollier than any
other crowd,” Babe explained modestly. “We called ourselves ‘The
Merry Hearts,’ you know, and we had all the fun there was going, I
guess--especially Bob Parker and Babbie and I.”
John’s face darkened suddenly. “I thought from something Babbie
said--did you go in hard for honors and all that?”
“I didn’t,” said Babe sturdily. “I just managed to keep along. I’m not
a bit clever, you see, but the others are--except Betty, perhaps, and
she was always right up in her work. Helen Adams and Madeline were
prods. in lit. and themes, and Eleanor Watson was fine in everything
after she settled down to work. Babbie was the brightest kind of a star
in the languages, and Bob and K. Kittredge were in all the scientific
societies. Oh, and Roberta Lewis was a wonderful actress and Rachel
Morrison was considered the best all-around student in 19--. Everybody
but me was in Clio or Dramatic Club.”
“I think you were wise to stay out,” said John carelessly. “I don’t
believe in killing yourself with work, just for a few empty honors.”
“Empty honors!” Babe’s brown eyes flashed. “Do you think honors are
empty in a girl’s college? I should like to have been a star too, I
can tell you. I never got a condition, but once I was warned and I had
several low-grades. I was just awfully ashamed of them. I hate messing
things.” Babe paused, suddenly remembering that Babbie had said vaguely
that Mr. Dwight was coaching John Morton for some examinations, and
that John had spoken of having work to do. “I hope I haven’t hurt
your feelings,” she murmured. “Babbie said you were studying--you
said--well, anyhow I never thought that maybe you’d flunked some
courses. I’m sorry. Call it quits for what you said about my walk,
won’t you?”
“I thought you were even for that already. How about having thought I
was a Dutchman?”
“I never,” said Babe laughingly. “That was Madeline. I’ve never seen a
Dutchman that I know of, so I couldn’t think either way.”
“All right then. Anyhow I don’t mind your saying what you think. Yes,
I did flunk--got to do senior year over again. You see I went with
a crowd of fellows who were just there for the fun of it, and I got
careless and began coaching too late. I believe you’re right about
messing things.”
“John, Miss Hildreth wants to see her castle by moonlight,” called Mr.
Dwight. “Do you think we could arrange it?”
“Why, there’s nothing to hinder if the moon’s willing--she is, isn’t
she? Unless Mrs. Hildreth objects, at least. We could drive out right
after tea, or we could drive out in the afternoon and have tea there.
What do you say, Babbie?”
Babbie refused to be interested in tea. “I’m hoping my ghost will
walk,” she explained. “I don’t think you gave her a fair trial. Ghosts
prefer to walk by moonlight; it’s so much more becoming.”
“We’ll go day after to-morrow,” said Mr. Dwight. “That’s the night for
a full moon.”
“And we’ll give the ghost the fairest kind of a fair trial,” added
Madeline, and immediately engaged in a low-toned conversation with Mr.
Dwight, who was convulsed with merriment at something she told him. The
two kept quite by themselves all the rest of the way home, and when
Babe demanded to know the joke, they only smiled mysteriously and said
it would take too long to explain.