ALONE
"When from our better selves we have too long
Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop
Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired—
How gracious, how benign is solitude!"
Wordsworth.
"MY DEAREST GERALDINE,—"
"My thoughts have been with you, of course. At first I felt that my
better half had gone with you, and only my feeble carcass left here,
but you know my adaptability! In a coster's cart or Rolls-Royce car, a
slum garret, or Park Lane mansion, I should be bound to get some fun
out of it! And I'm not only getting fun but really steeping myself
neck-deep with thrills of delight in my delicious atmosphere and
surroundings! And you'll be glad to hear that I am growing into my bed,
spreading my roots there, and almost getting to like an invalid's life!
Well, what can I tell you? I begin my day with hearing pretty Janet's
view of life. She's almost as talkative as her Granny, but has got very
modern cravings! I end the day by a crack with Granny, who is anything
but modern; and my interim is spent with many pleasant companions.
A robin and a gull visit me daily—they bring others of their
acquaintance who regard me somewhat indifferently and don't come again.
But my robin never misses a day; and my gull walks boldly
inside my room and up to my couch, where he expects, of course, some
special tit-bits in reward for his friendliness."
"Duncan brings me fish, and talks over the prospects of the
shooting. He does not like the man who has taken it."
"'He be ane o' these Englanders who fancies a kilt and a bonnet
will turn him into a highlander—an' he be in an awfu' funk lest he
miss his shot; an' spends muckle bawbees in endeavourin' to win
approval!'"
"It appears he was one of the house-party at the Frasers' last
year, and Duncan heard 'accounts' of him!"
"Granny's nephew, Colin, cuts our wood, runs errands, and is a
first-rate gardener. The lawn is beautiful: the birds make it their
playground. And now I must tell you that yesterday Duncan presented me
with the sweetest Highland pup that you have ever seen! His name is
Shags, a dog of good pedigree and one that will be a real companion.
The collies live out-of-doors—they cannot be enticed into my room.
Shags has established himself at once at the foot of my couch, and
he understands my talk, and appreciates it. He has a very rough
little head, and cocky ears, and bright brown eyes that wink in an
understanding manner. His tail is always wagging, and life to him at
present is one huge joke. He knows the power of his sharp little teeth,
and uses them on everything in his way; but he is learning self-control
and discretion, and I make him a fresh ball of rags every day, which he
tears to pieces with relish and scatters to the winds. Tell the boys
about him. He is quite a personality!"
"Tell Ted I'm steadily getting through the box of books; but I am
doing a 'power of meditation' as Duncan says. And when I've nothing
to do but dream, I dream with a vengeance. I am fed well, I sleep well,
and barring the first two days, I have not had much grinding in my
old back."
"Enough of me and my doings! Tell me all about yourselves—how the
chicks like India—what they do and say. Have you a nice ayah? What
is your house like? Who are your neighbours? Does Ted like his
fellow-officers? I expect sheets and sheets from you. Don't you dare
to forget the poor isolated prisoner of Loch Tarlie!"
"Oh, Geraldine, why aren't you all here with me! Then we should
be happy indeed. Best love and hugs to the darlings."
"Your loving"
"ROWENA."
Rowena had settled down, as she wrote, into a quiet invalid's life. She
had severe internal conflicts at first. She wanted so much to be up
half the day at least. But a letter from her old fatherly doctor sent
her to her couch, and kept her chained there. She was assured it was
the only chance for her cure.
The first fortnight was fine. A sense of rest and peace stole into her
heart as she gazed over the beautiful landscape out of her window.
No two days were alike. The softness of the colouring of the distant
hills, the shadows which ceaselessly flitted across them and the loch,
and the fresh opening of the spring flowers in the garden, were a
continual surprise and interest to her. She got Janet to bring her
bowls of pale primroses and daffodils, and her room soon became a bower
of sweet-smelling flowers.
Then, suddenly, the weather changed. There was a spell of wet and wind.
Windows had to be shut; the wind howled down the chimneys, and
soughed through the trees, and tore some delicate young plants in the
flower-beds to pieces, scattering the fragments over the lawn. The loch
churned itself into a grey muddy froth, the singing birds fled to their
nests and stayed there.
Rowena looked out of her windows, and for three days watched the career
of the storm with the greatest concern. It really seemed at times as if
everything young and fresh would be swept away.
After a time the wind fell, but the rain continued, and then it began
to pall upon her. Would it ever be fine again? Would the hills ever
appear out of their thick well of mist? She read till her eyes ached.
She worked at her rug till her fingers ached. She meditated till her
head ached. She yawned, she fidgeted, and finally she came to the
conclusion that she was becoming unutterably bored.
Shags was restless and was unaccustomed to the closed windows. Hitherto
he had wandered in and out of his own free will, and he basely deserted
Rowena for the kitchen. Depression settled down upon her on the fifth
day of storm and rain. After she had had her lunch, she began to wonder
how she could get through the winter, if a wet week in June affected
her so sorely. Shags' appearance for a time distracted her, but after
a little he left her, and lay against the window, his nose close to
the glass, showing in every hair on his head how much he disliked the
indoor life. Rowena took up a fresh book and tried to forget herself in
it; but the rain and wind began to get upon her nerves. Her book did
not interest her—she tossed it aside.
"And in India they are revelling in sunshine! Perhaps Ted will be
playing polo, or he and Geraldine riding out together. Oh, it's hard
lines I shouldn't be with them! I shall forget how to talk, if I
am shut up here much longer. I might as well be doing my time in a
Dartmoor prison, or at Broadmoor."
Then she started—sounds came to her of a car of some sort coming up the
drive. Could it possibly be a visitor? Hardly—on a day like this. She
was not long left in doubt. Granny appeared at the door, with signs of
agitation.
"If ye please, mem, may we shelter two bodies who be fair drowned in
this awfu' rain? I cam' right awa to ask ye—for wi' one o' the family
here it is no' to be expected I should do otherwise! 'Tis a mon an' a
woman, but they be fair shrouded in their waterproofs and oilskins, an'
I've not had a peep at them yet. Ye'll no' need to see them, for the
kitchen is good enow for the like o' any traveller be they who they
may! An' they do but want a dry an' maybe a cup o' tea! They be quite
respectable folk I reckon. I may bid them welcome in your name?"
"Certainly, Granny, and if the lady would like to come in and see me,
I shall be delighted, whoever she may be—a Glasgow shop-girl or a
duchess! I would welcome anybody on an afternoon like this!"
"Aye, mem, we get mony sich days in our year-r!"
"Of course we do, but I'm not accustomed to them yet; and I've read
till my eyes ache."
A few minutes later Granny ushered in a little old lady in a close
dove-coloured motor bonnet. Her face was round and soft as a child's.
"How very kind of you to give us such shelter," she began; "and, oh!—if
I may say it—what a charming room!"
"Now you've won my heart," said Rowena, holding out her hand. "Come and
sit down, won't you, and talk to me. I am a prisoner, but I do agree
with you that I have nothing to complain of in my prison. How does it
happen that you are out on such an awful day?"
"It's my son, Robert; he has only just taken possession of his manse,
and I've come to look after him. He had to see a sick man on this side
of the loch, and so I wanted to see the country and he has motored me
round."
"Is he the minister of Abertarlie? Granny Mactavish told me a new one
was coming there."
"Yes, and from our snug little nest we look across at you; but we had
no idea that any of the family were here."
"You are not Scotch yourself?"
"I am very Scotch by name—we are one of the Macintoshes, but you are
right, I am an Englishwoman by birth."
"And so am I," said Rowena, smiling; "I have Scotch blood in my veins,
and when I am in Scotland, I am Scotch. The English are a poor lot, you
know! My brother only rents this lodge from General Macdonald. Do you
know him?"
"My son has met him, but his house lies empty; he is hardly ever here."
"Won't your son come in and see me? I am one of his parishioners, you
know. And we will have tea together presently. It will be my first
party. Are your feet dry? Won't you change your shoes?"
Mrs. Macintosh held out two very pretty slender feet.
"I have been in the car the whole time. But as we got nearer your
house, the rain came down like a waterspout. I will go and fetch my
son. It is very kind of you to offer us such hospitality."
Robert Macintosh very soon appeared, a tall fine-looking young man with
rather a stern face; but it softened as Rowena welcomed him with her
happy smiling eyes.
It was a very successful little tea-party. Rowena had not seen many
Scotch ministers, and those she had met were of a different stamp to
Robert Macintosh. He was a gentleman, and his mother was a charming
old lady with plenty to say for herself. Rowena explained herself very
briefly.
"I am doing a kind of rest cure here—hurt my back out hunting and am
obliged to lie on it for a time. My brother is abroad, so we shall have
no shooting parties this year. I think he has sub-let the shooting to
some fellow-officer of his; but not the house."
"You have books," said the young man, glancing at the low bookcase by
the side of the couch.
"Yes, they are delightful company, are they not? Are you a reader? But
of course you are? It is your avocation."
"Is it?" smiled Robert. "My mother would say it makes me a very
unsociable creature to live with."
"It is irritating when one wants a cheerful gossip with him, to see his
shoulders hunched up and his nose glued to a book," said Mrs. Macintosh
quickly. "He is one of those readers who get so absorbed, that nothing
but a shake and a scream will bring him back to me."
"Ah," said Rowena, "I plead guilty there. It is all right for oneself
to be oblivious to all around, but a great bore to one's friends."
Then she and the young minister began talking of some new books; and
the old lady sat and listened to them with great content. Janet soon
appeared with the tea, and before it was over the rain had stopped, and
the loch was shining like silver with the far-away rays of the sun.
When eventually the visitors left, Rowena was her bright cheery self
again. But she took herself to task for her changes of mood, when she
and Shags were alone together.
"Shags, you show your mistress an example of cheerful equanimity of
soul! You are just as ready to wag your tail when the day is sodden
and dreary as when the sun shines out; and as it will be my fate to be
here through the very darkest, wettest months in the year, I am a poor
wisp of a creature to be beaten down by one rainy week in June. It must
not and shall not happen again, Shags! My universe does not begin and
end with succulent luxury. Oh, Shags, you villain! I know what you're
asking me! We'll have the window open, and then you will be free to
gambol outside."
She rang the bell. Shags was waiting by the window expectantly, and
when Janet opened the glass doors out he bounded. The air was sweet
and fresh; the scent of a sweetbrier bush outside made Rowena's pulses
beat with joy. She gazed out upon her green lawn. Shags went round
it, sniffing at an old-fashioned flower-border. He unearthed a snail,
turned it over with his nose in disgust, then made for a pert tom-tit
strutting up and down the gravel path. The tom-tit flew away derisively,
and Shags next examined with great interest a long tuft of grass. A
frog leaped out. It was the first one he had seen, and he backed away
from it in fright. Rowena watched him. Then the light on the opposite
hills brought a gleam of delight to her eyes. It was so alluring, so
exquisite, so varied in its movement and colour!
Granny came in later to inquire how she was getting on.
"Feeding my soul, Granny."
"Your soul wants bonnier feedin' than a' that." Granny was deeply
religious. Rowena was not.
"Now you are not to make me discontented! I have a soul that wants
beauty, and that will not be satisfied without it."
"I reckon there be mair beauty in the Creator than in His works."
"Granny, how do you like the new minister? Have you heard him preach?"
"Oh, aye—I went to kirk this Sabbath back."
"And does he preach well?"
"He does that, mem. His heart leapeth into his e'en wi' earnestness o'
purpose an' persuasion. Eh, if ye cud get across in the wee boatie!"
"I can't, Granny. He will have to come and preach to me. He's a
remarkably good-looking boy. I should like to see his heart leaping.
Didn't you know he was the minister when you first asked me to give him
shelter?"
"Deed an' no, mem, for 'twas in oilskins he were an' his mither was so
spry in rinnin' ower to the hoos, that I fair speired she were just a
lassie."
"I like them both. I told them to come over again soon."
"'Twill be mair company ye'll be gettin' nex' month," said Grannie
comfortingly. "The lodges will be fillin' oop, an' Sir Robert Fraser be
openin' his hoos nex' Tuesday!"
"It isn't company I want," said Rowena, smiling; "only the sun. I
suppose the Highlands can't have all the good things in this world.
There are few parts like it for beauty and romance, but I'm ashamed
of my discontent, Granny! And just as I have learnt to be happy on my
back, so I shall learn to be happy through the worst of weather. One
can adapt oneself to anything! Habit is the main thing. The habit of
content shall be mine."
The weather cleared the next day, but it was not settled. One
afternoon, about two days later, after a couple of hours lovely
sunshine, a sudden squall came on. The clouds were broken and the play
of light and shadow on the opposite hills so fascinated Rowena that she
took up a telescope which Duncan had brought her, and began studying
the horizon.
Suddenly she made an exclamation and rang a bell by her side.
When Granny appeared she said sharply:
"Is Colin near at hand?"
"He has bin killin' a fowl, mem."
"Tell him to get the boat quickly. Do you see some one on the loch in
distress? It looks like a small boy. Oh, don't stop to look, Granny!
Colin will have younger eyes than yours—call him quickly. It is
half-way across here, from the island."
Granny disappeared. Rowena listened impatiently to the voices outside
her window. The loch was lashing itself into a fury. The small boat she
had discovered with her telescope was now plainly discernible. But it
was making no progress, only tossing up and down, a sport of the rough
element around it.
It seemed a long time before Colin had started the boat, but Rowena saw
it leave the small landing-stage at last and, to her great relief, two
men were in it. Duncan had evidently appeared on the scene and offered
his services.
Rowena took up her telescope again. She saw a little figure in bonnet
and kilt sitting in the boat struggling very ineffectually with the
oars.
"How like a boy," she thought, "to venture out on a day like this!"
And then she saw from the efforts of the two rescuers what a strong
wind and current was against them. Once a wave seemed to dash over
the distant boat. Rowena held her breath, and then a call from
Duncan—evidently an attempt to hearten up the little rower by telling
him help was at hand. Slowly but surely the boats came nearer. At last
they touched. Through the telescope Rowena watched the child clambering
in from one boat to the other, then saw the men row back to the shore
towing the other boat after them. Before they landed, Granny appeared
in some excitement.
"It's that weeld bairn o' the laird's, an' near anow was she to her
death, to be sure! Shame on Angus for lettin' the bairn tak' a boat
this day!"
"What child do you mean? Boys will be boys."
"But she's a girl!"
Rowena looked up surprised.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"'Tis Mysie Macdonald, an' I'll be changin' her things surely! It's
just a maircy o' the A'mighty's that the wee bairn is not drooned."
In a few minutes Rowena heard the sound of the men's voices and a
clear treble between them. Then suddenly her window, which was half
shut, swung open, and a child with sunny brown curls falling over her
shoulders, dashed in.
"Granny Mactavish, I've come to tea with you!"
She stopped short at the sight of Rowena on her couch.
She was in a kilt which was wringing wet and dripped on the ground as
she moved. But she held herself squarely and proudly, then doffed her
bonnet like a boy.
"I didn't know there was anybody here."
"Come and speak to me," said Rowena, with her sunshiny smile. "I am not
an old lady, only a prisoner."
The child looked up at her with bright interested eyes. "Who put you in
prison?"
"An old man I call Niddy-Noddy."
"Oh, what a lovely name! Tell me about him. What's he like?"
"He speaks like this—"
Rowena drew in her lips till her mouth looked as if she had no
teeth—she lowered her brows fiercely, and then nodded her head up and
down very wisely.
"This child is wet. Take her clothes off, put her to bed, and a hot
basin of bread-and-milk and a good sleep will prevent a chill."
The child's peal of delighted laughter rang through the room.
"Is that what he would say to me? Why, rain and water is nothing
important to me! I get drowned nearly, over and over again."
"All the same you are making pools over my carpet. I must suggest that
you have your kilt dried and then come and have tea with me. You can
tell me then what possessed you to take a boat out on a day like this."
"I'll go to Granny in the kitchen."
She darted out as quickly and lightly as a bird. Rowena was always fond
of children, and she felt strangely drawn to this little person. There
was something in her small finely-cut face and blazing brown eyes which
was very attractive.
"Why," said Rowena to herself, "she must be General Macdonald's
neglected child! She speaks very good English. I had no idea she was so
big."
It was some little time before Mysie returned, and when she did so she
was wrapped round in one of Granny's red flannel petticoats. She seemed
quite proud of her attire.
"My kilt is steaming like a kettle! It's filling the kitchen with its
smoke! Granny has put it before the fire."
She was dancing round the room as she spoke; then caught sight of
Shags, and sitting down on the floor, she took him on her lap and
cuddled him.
"He is a bonny thing!" she cried.
"Do you know you might have been drowned this afternoon?" Rowena said
gravely. "If I hadn't seen you through my glass and sent the boat out,
what would you have done?"
Mysie looked up rather carelessly.
"Nan tells me I have nine lives like a cat. I am thinking Angus would
have come after me. He's a Macdonald, you know, and loves Dad. It was
really the oars' fault, they weren't able to beat through the waves
prop'ly—and then they hurt my hands awful!"
She held up two little blistered palms.
"I took the boat when nobody was looking. I've never rowed all the way
across by myself before, but I thought I could, only the wind came down
and spoilt it all. Do you know what my name is?"
"Mysie."
"No—Flora Macdonald."
She put much importance into her tone.
"Do you know about the great Flora Macdonald? We belong to her
family—and I was called Mysie Flora, but I like my friends to call me
Flora. I mean to do something like she did when I grow up. If a prince
doesn't come along, I must find somebody else. I'm hoping a prince—a
real prince—may be hiding for his life one day, and then I shall go and
help him."
Rowena did not laugh. Voice and face of the little speaker were so
solemn.
"I hope you will succeed in your efforts," she said.
The little girl will chattered on.
"I live at the farm over there," she said, pointing out of the window.
"It's half-way up the mountain. You can't see us, but we see you. Dad's
house is nearly always shut up, but it's to be opened soon. He's coming
home. The war made him very ill, and now he's coming for a long rest,
Nan says. I'm going to try to manage to live with him, if I can. I
think I should like to know him."
"You little old-fashioned piece of goods!" ejaculated Rowena. "Would
you like to know me, I wonder?" Mysie nodded.
"I mean to. You'll let me come over and talk to you sometimes."
"Not if it means your rowing yourself across the loch."
"Oh, I ride round on Dibbie. He's the pony Angus uses for odd jobs. Do
you know Sir Robert Fraser? He had some ponies on the hills and he said
if I could catch one I could have it. But I was too frightened to do
it. I always thought I might get hold of the water kelpie by mistake.
Do you know about him?"
"I'm not sure that I do."
"Loch Tarlie used to be one of his haunts. Long ago when a Baron lived
here, his only little boy and some others were playing about the loch,
and they suddenly saw a beautiful little pony jumping about with saddle
and bridle, and they tried to catch him and get on him; and they
caught hold of his bridle and their fingers were glued to it, and they
screamed, and the pony dashed for the loch and dragged them in. But the
Baron's little boy knew about the water kelpie and he drew out his dirk
and cut off his own hand, and the other boys were drowned and his hand
with them, but he was saved."
Rowena made her eyes as big as Mysie's were whilst she narrated this
horror.
"And is the water kelpie alive now to this day?" she asked.
"Well, I expect he is. When he's very well-known in one loch he goes to
another—but I'm not going to let him catch me."
"Tell me some more stories," begged Rowena.
But Janet appeared with the tea, and the little girl turned her
attention to the good things spread out before her.
"I like to know a prisoner," she said, munching a piece of cake
thoughtfully; "there was a prisoner on a lake in Switzerland. We've
got a picture of him. I think his name was Byron. Mr. Ferguson told me
about him."
"You mean the prisoner of Chillon. Byron wrote about him. Who is Mr.
Ferguson?"
"He's the schoolmaster over at Abertarlie. He teaches me lessons
after school hours. Nan won't let me go to school with the other
bairns—I'd like to. How long are you going to be in this prison, and is
Niddy-Noddy a policeman?"
"I rather wish he was. Then I could run away from him. He's a wise
old doctor who has tied me down to my bed, and told me to stay in it
for a year! How would you like that? Never to be able to run about
out-of-doors, or even change your room."
"It's horrible!" exclaimed Mysie. "Are you really tied to it?"
"By my honour," said Rowena.
"What's that?"
"Well, it's another word for duty. If you make a promise, you must keep
it, or you lose your honour. And it's a mark of a true gentleman and
lady to keep their honour unsoiled."
"I don't want to be either," said Mysie promptly. "I want to be a boy."
When tea was over Granny came in.
"I've been thinking, mem, it will be Anne Macdonald that will be
anxious—an' Colin be drivin' for some corn—the t'other side o' the
loch—and Mysie can just ride off wi' him."
Mysie made a grimace in the old woman's face.
"I'm all right here for a wee bit," she said.
But Granny was quite firm, she took her off to get into her kilt, which
was dry by this time; and then brought her in to say good-bye to Rowena.
"You must come again soon and see me," Rowena said; "you've brightened
up an hour for the poor captive."
Mysie laughed.
"And will you call me Flora?"
"Good-bye, Flora. Take care of yourself. We are going to be friends."
The little girl departed. Granny came in to talk about her when she had
gone.
"Who teaches her such good English?" asked Rowena. "I pictured her a
little heathen savage, brought up in a crofter's hut."
"Ah, indeed and indeed no! Anne Macdonald was a schoolmistress before
she took service with the laird and his lady, a most superior young
woman, and she took charge of the bairn from her birth. Ye see Angus
have been the laird's gillie all his life for he was his father's
gillie before him, an' Angus an' Anne made a match of it, an' then
Angus got the sma' farm ower to Barncrassie, an' when the laird's leddy
were in toon the bairn mad' her home wi' 'em. An' then Mrs. Macdonald
died, an' the bairn have stayed wi' Anne ever since. She've paid a
mighty lot o' attention to Mysie's manners and talk, an' in mony ways
the little lassie has been bred more carefully than even wi' her own
people—for the laird be a dour silent mon, an' when he's doon for a wee
bit time has just shut himsel' awa' from all folk, an' come an' gone
like a shadow on the wall!"
"And has he never troubled to see his child? What an unnatural father!"
Granny only shook her head hopelessly, and the conversation ended.
Rowena began to look forward to seeing her small visitor again.