CHAPTER IX

DEPARTURE

"But none shall more regretful leave

These waters and these hills than I,

Or distant fonder dream how eve

Or dawn is painting wave and sky."

Whittier.

NOTHING would deter General Macdonald from placing Mysie at school.

He came over to Rowena with a most cheerful face, and introduced his

friend, a Colonel Cavanagh, to her. He was an Irishman, and Rowena

could see at once that his cheery personality had already done the

laird good.

"Cavanagh knows of a first-rate school in Edinburgh, where his own

daughters are, and I have written to the lady, and she says she can

take Mysie at once. The term will be just beginning."

"Then it is all arranged?" queried Rowena. "I hope you have asked her

to be lenient to the poor little wild bird when first she is caged?"

"Oh," said Colonel Cavanagh, with a hearty laugh; "Miss Gordon has had

experience with wild birds. My girls were as wild as hawks when first

she took them; but she has a way with her, and they're quite devoted to

her now."

"That sounds nice! Mysie can be led easier than driven."

"Miss Arbuthnot has seen me do the heavy father so often that she

speaks from experience," said the General.

"No," said Rowena, "you have got Mysie's affection. Nothing matters

when that is won."

Then General Macdonald told her he was going over to Ireland with his

friend for a visit.

"And we'll send him back ten years younger," said the cheery Colonel.

"He wants to laugh more and think less. We're not given to deep

thinking in Ireland."

They did not stay long. As they walked away from the house, Colonel

Cavanagh said:

"I'd soon lose my heart to that woman. Why, hasn't she bucked you up,

old chap? The very look of her does one good. It's amazing how a woman

on her back can get so much fun out of life."

"I'm very fond of Miss Arbuthnot," said General Macdonald, in his

simple way. "We have been good chums since I came back, and my small

daughter adores her."

Colonel Cavanagh looked at his friend with a spark of amusement in his

eye.

"Ah, well, she's not dangerous, down on her back. If she were up and

about, it would be a different matter."

General Macdonald said nothing. He would not be drawn. Mysie came over

to wish Rowena good-bye; and there were some tears shed.

"Of course, I'm not a baby," she said valiantly; "and Dad says I shall

be home for Christmas, and he'll be here too, but I feel as if I'm

going to be a prisoner now. And if it gets beyond bearing, I shall run

away. I know I shall, and then what will happen?"

"You will be caught and sent back again. I wouldn't do that if I were

you. Only cowards run away from disagreeables. A Flora Macdonald never

would!"

Mysie tossed her curls back and snorted like a thoroughbred horse.

"Of course I couldn't be a coward. Didn't you say Flora Macdonald went

to school in Edinburgh?"

"Yes, I believe so, but I don't know where."

"How wonderful if it was my school she went to!" Rowena laughed.

"I imagine it was," she said.

And Mysie's wonderful eyes grew dreamy and soft, as she thought of her

heroine.

She went off fairly happy; but Rowena felt, when both father and child

had gone, as if she were bereft of all her friends. If it had not been

for Mrs. Macintosh and her son, these autumn months would have been

very lonely. The lodges and shooting boxes were soon vacated, and the

country round became deserted; wet and storms set in. But Rowena's

spirits were never down for long. She was deep in her Highland book,

and her bright wood fire and cosy comfort all round her prevented her

from feeling the inclemency of the weather. She wrote continually to

her brother, and her Indian letters were the delight of her heart.

Occasionally the young doctor arrived over to see her. Shags was her

constant companion, and Granny was always ready to come in for a

"crack."

Snow fell towards the end of November, and Rowena lay looking out at

the fairy-like scene with keen enjoyment.

Mrs. Macintosh paid her a visit before it went. She arrived over in a

sledge.

"You brave intrepid woman," said Rowena, when she saw her. "How can you

venture out in such weather?"

"I am very hardy. It is a real treat to have a talk with you, so don't

pity me. I only wish we were nearer you. It is an unnatural life for

you to live. You are so young to be so much alone."

"But I feel very matured and old," said Rowena, "especially since my

dear Mysie has left me. A child keeps one young."

"Do you have good accounts of her?"

"We write to each other once a fortnight; I believe she is getting on,

but a child never expresses her feelings as we should."

"Her father has shut up his house for the winter?"

"I fancy he will come back for Mysie's holidays."

"I was so thankful that my match did not come off! I heard several

things afterwards about Miss Falconer that surprised me very much. But

I am sure she was in love with him."

Rowena laughed; and Mrs. Macintosh said hurriedly:

"I know you think me an old gossip! But in the wilds here we can't help

taking an interest in our neighbours. And I would like to see the laird

married again; he is not an old man, and he wants some one to brighten

him up, and make him younger!"

"I think he's having a good time over in Ireland," said Rowena.

"Perhaps he'll bring back an Irish bride. He is in a house full of

young people. Colonel Cavanagh has an old-fashioned family, five

daughters and three boys, and three of his daughters have finished

schooling and are at home."

"I wish I had a daughter," said Mrs. Macintosh somewhat wistfully.

"Robert is a good son to me, but his heart and soul are with his

parishioners and his books; and I'm human enough to want a little,

idle, frivolous talk sometimes. I have not the 'stability' of the

Scotch nature."

"Don't try to get it," said Rowena. "You and I must leaven these Scotch

folk with a little seasonable froth."

"Don't think I don't admire goodness," said Mrs. Macintosh hastily. "I

do from the bottom of my heart. But a good person need not be dull."

"No," said Rowena, in a more thoughtful tone; then she said abruptly:

"I am having fresh aspirations this winter. I wonder if you will see

any difference in me by the time the spring is here. I am very slowly

going through a transformation. My outlook on life is altering, I am

seeing everything from a different standpoint. Pardon my egotism, but

tell me, what is your experience? Is life here an enigma to you, or

have you the key to it?"

Mrs. Macintosh's whole face softened at once.

"I think I found the key long ago," she said. "Nothing is a puzzle,

nothing is a mystery, if you have enough love and trust."

"Ah," said Rowena, with a long-drawn breath, "and that is what I am

slowly discovering."

Mrs. Macintosh laid her hand very gently on the little red leather book

that was never very far-away from Rowena's couch.

"You are learning out of this," she said.

Rowena nodded brightly.

"It is a new book to me. I have never really studied it in my life

before, and it's simply wonderful. It does what the other religious

writings never do—it leads you straight to a Person Who becomes more

real than anyone else in the world!"

Then there was silence between them which Rowena broke.

"So you see," she said gaily, "I can't be lonely or desolate; it is

quite impossible. I have so much lost time to make up, so much to learn

and discover."

She did not often open her heart to anyone, and Mrs. Macintosh was

touched by it.

After this little talk, she and Rowena drew closer together. And Mrs.

Macintosh tried to come over and see her as often as she could.

Rowena had one or two letters from General Macdonald. Then, as December

was drawing towards a close, she had one which much distressed her.

"I have just been wired for. Mysie is dangerously ill of

pneumonia. I leave to-morrow. Pray for her. Yours.

HUGH MACDONALD."

Rowena found it hard to lie patiently under this blow. Mysie, with her

laughing eyes and active spirits to be stretched on a bed of suffering!

It brought an ache to her heart as she thought of her. She longed to

rise up from her bed and go off to her. Granny was loud in denunciation

of Edinburgh schools.

"The wee lassie hasna the constitootion for that freezin' toon. I aye

was once awa' there, an' niver shall I forget et. I cudna keep body and

sperrit together. 'Tis the Highlands for soft sweet air, an' winds that

blaw aisy, not wi' knives piercin' into your bones!"

Rowena could only write her sympathy and possess her soul in patience.

She got a wire one day, when Mysie's life was in danger, and then

another to say she was pulling through. Christmas found Mysie still

very ill, and her father in an Edinburgh hotel, learning day by day how

much he loved his child.

And then when Mysie was quite convalescent, her father wrote that he

was bringing her home.

Rowena wrote promptly:

"Will you let Granny and me have her here, to pet her and nurse her

back to health again? She is not too fond of that worthy housekeeper

of yours, and I should love to have her."

By return of post she heard from the General:

"I can't say how good I think it of you! There is no one I would

have her with more willingly. I have business in town, and did not

want to return just yet. I will bring her down myself the first day

the doctor says she can travel."

And so one day, a very frail white little Mysie arrived, but her eyes

were blazing with delight and rapture.

When Rowena's arms were round her, she looked up into her face with

passionate devotion.

"I've never had anyone to talk to like you! And I've been just sick

with wanting you and the glen and the loch!"

"Keep a bit of your heart for your old father," said General Macdonald.

His face looked worn and weary, but Rowena saw that he had improved in

health and spirits. His step was brisker, he held himself more alertly.

Mysie looked up at him affectionately.

"Dad has been so kind," she informed Rowena; "he used to play halma

with me in bed, and told me stories, almost as good as yours."

When she had been packed off to bed, her father began to talk about her.

"She has not the constitution for a town life, and the doctors advised

me to let her go easily for the next year. The schoolmistress said

she was, if anything, too eager and quick over her lessons; but her

appetite failed, and she had constant headaches; and then, in this

last spell of extreme cold, she did not seem to have the strength to

withstand it. I don't want to lose her. Do advise me. What shall I do?

Not try another governess?"

Rowena laughed.

"Let me have her. We shall be company for each other, and then you roam

the world as you will. I don't believe you will settle down here."

"I want to do something with my life," said the General earnestly. "I'm

not keen about politics, I'm afraid; but I've been offered a post by a

friend of Cavanagh's. It has to do with the welfare of the deserving

unemployed, and they want me to be secretary. It will entail a few

months in town, and a good deal of travelling round, but I shall feel

I am working again. At the same time, I am not going to live entirely

apart from my child, and I have my duties as a landlord here. So the

spring will see me opening the house again. I will gladly leave Mysie

with you till then."

The matter was settled, and he departed.

Rowena and Mysie were supremely content. The child's rapture at being

in the Highlands again was extremely touching.

"I hate towns and houses and people—they make me giddy. When I smelt

the air coming in the train from the hills, I nearly cried. I told Dad

I couldn't never live away from the Highlands, and he said he didn't

think I could, and he wouldn't ask me to. Isn't he a darling! And the

girls thought a kilt shocking! But you'll let me wear mine again, won't

you? Oh, dearest prisoner, how happy you and me will be! Will Shags be

jealous, do you think? He's looking at me out of the corners of his

eyes, something like Miss Falconer did. And oh I do just look at the

darling loch. Isn't it perfectly sweet with the sun on it? There's

nothing for the sun to shine on in Edinburgh. When it did come out, it

must have been rather disgusted only to have the streets and houses to

shine on, instead of the loch and hills and moor. I kissed the earth

when we got out at the station. The only thing I really enjoyed at

school was learning poetry. I learnt a lovely piece, but when I had to

say it, I cried instead, and Miss Gordon wasn't cross, she said she

understood, but I wouldn't not have learnt it for anything. It began:

"'The Highlands, the Highlands, oh, gin I were there,

Though the mountains and moorlands be rugged and bare;

Tho' cold be the climate and scanty the fare,

Oh, my dearly loved Highlands, oh, gin I were there.'"

"And it ends:

"'The Highlands, the Highlands, my once happy home

Through thy glens and thy straths my delight was to roam;

Though on a bright shore, where all nature is fair,

My heart's in the Highlands, oh, gin I were there!'"

"I think it was rather cruel to make you learn that," said Rowena;

"but we won't think of the time you were away, little Flora; we'll

only think of the good time we're going to have now. Do you know,

I'm counting the months to my freedom? Only three more months and then

I'll be staggering to my feet. I shall have to learn to walk again,

shan't I?"

"And you'll lean on my arm," said Mysie with shining eyes; "and then in

a few days you'll be riding and rowing and fishing with me. Oh, it will

be glorious!"

Time slipped away very pleasantly. Mysie fast regained her health and

strength; and then Rowena suggested a couple of hours at lessons every

morning. She was delighted with Mysie's quick intelligence, and Mysie

was very naïve in her comments upon Rowena's knowledge.

"Why, you know heaps and heaps more than I do! You're as clever as Miss

Falconer, and yet you never show off like she did!"

And then spring came, a late spring in the Highlands, but a

marvellously beautiful one.

Rowena had her couch moved out-of-doors for an hour in the sunshine

sometimes, and she lay and gazed at the soft shadows chasing each other

across the distant hills and loch, and watched the green buds bursting

into blossom, and the pale primroses in the banks.

"I may never see another spring here," she said rather sadly once to

Mysie. "I feel I'm a bit of the soil, but I shall have to depart when

my legs are given back to me."

Mysie was loud in her laments.

"Don't try to get well! We can't spare you. Nobody wants you in India

half so bad as Dad and I want you here."

But Rowena shook her head, and very soon her brother Ted received a

letter from her which rejoiced his heart.

"DEAR OLD TED,—"

"My year is over! I can hardly believe it, and actually old

Niddy-Noddy took it into his wise old head to take his holiday

in Scotland this spring. Of course he came on to see me, and much

against my will he brought some other old wiseacre from Edinburgh—a chum

of his—and they examined me and poked me about, and were highly pleased

with the result of my year's rest. I am at present like a baby trying

to walk! I am to go slowly, but they say my unused muscles will harden

in time, and my back is really cured. What a wonderful thing it is

to have a body which will go! I never valued mine properly before,

and I assure you I'm going to be very careful and cautious with such

a precious possession now. My first walk was taken two days ago.

Mysie and Granny nearly cried with the excitement of it. And I staggered

and rolled like a drunken tar. But I'm walking more respectably now—only

the fatigue of it! I ask myself am I a Rip Van Winkle, and have I spent

a hundred years instead of one upon my bed?"

"Well, this is enough about my body."

"Now about plans. You and Geraldine are very impatient to have me.

It is rather pleasant to feel I am wanted so much, and of course the

thought of being with you so soon makes me want to dance a jig! This is

May. Shall I come out the end of August? Will it be in the middle of

the monsoon? But that will be a matter of indifference to me. I must

tell you frankly that I shall say good-bye to the Highlands with real

concern. My heart has been stolen by its soft air and elusive colours,

and the dear simple Gaelic people, not to speak of the charming

personality of Mysie Macdonald. And Granny and I have grown into each

other's ways, so that it will be hard to snap ourselves asunder."

"I have written to the laird. He's in a predicament about his child,

feeling that school has been a failure, and yet governesses are worse.

I wish I knew a dear old motherly body who would teach and love the

little darling with the same breath. How are your chicks? Grown out of

knowledge, I expect. I can't believe that I shall be with you before

very long now. Good-bye. My love and kisses to the batch of you. And

tell Geraldine that I will stop in town and be fitted up with frocks

before I sail, so as not to disgrace her. Your last cheque was far too

generous."

"Ever your"

"ROWENA."

General Macdonald arrived over one afternoon. He had returned from town

unexpectedly, and had told no one of his coming. Mysie was out when he

came. Rowena received him in her green room. The couch was absent. At

first he looked quite dazed when he saw a radiant vision crossing the

room to meet him. Rowena looked so very much alive, as if every pulse

in her body were beating with intense vitality.

"Don't you recognize me?" she said with her mellow laugh.

"Hardly. I did not realize you would be so tall. It is a resurrection.

May I say how glad I am!"

His eyes met hers with smiling admiration, then when they were seated

his brows contracted.

"Is it true that you're leaving this part for good?"

"I am going to join my brother and family in India."

"But do they want you?"

"How can you be so uncomplimentary! Of course they do!"

He drew a breath.

"I was hoping, for the child's sake—for our sakes—that you would be

here a little longer. What am I to do with her? Can you advise me?"

"What do you think about the Macintoshes? Mrs. Macintosh is such a nice

woman. She might be inclined to take her, and later on perhaps she

would be strong enough to go back to school."

"I can't afford to lose her, but I like Mrs. Macintosh, and if her son

would give her an hour or two of lessons every day, it would be the

very thing. What a wonderful woman you are for lightening my burdens! I

will go to them on my way home and see if they would be willing to do

it. I think I shall be away on and off all the summer. There will be no

inducement to come down here with you gone."

He stopped and looked at her as Rowena had never seen him look before.

She was conscious of the quickened beating of her heart.

Then he compressed his lips.

Rowena said lightly:

"You must be more sociable this coming summer. For your little

daughter's sake, you must be; and you will find it better for yourself

to mix more with your fellow-creatures. I have come to the conclusion

that my enforced seclusion has had its purposes, but it would not be

good for me to continue it. A solitary life tends to selfishness; don't

you think so?"

"Not in your case," he said warmly; "I have never met with such

sympathy and understanding in my life before!" Then abruptly he rose to

his feet. "I will go to the Macintoshes now. You will hear from me, if

I do not come over to-morrow."

He took his departure. Rowena shook her head when he had gone.

"My dear," she soliloquized to herself, "you're not a young romantic

girl! Remember your age and experience. You have had many men friends.

Don't expect this particular man to mean anything more than mere

platonic friendship. A very good and useful thing in its way!"

The next day came, and the next, but no letter from the laird.

Then at the end of the week Mrs. Macintosh came over and told Rowena

that she had promised to give Mysie a home for the summer. And Rowena

heard that the laird had gone off suddenly to town. She still waited

for his letter, but it did not come, and the next thing was a wire

from her brother, asking her to sail at once in the Lesbia, a P. & O.

steamer going in a fortnight's time. Mysie went off to Mrs. Macintosh.

She felt the parting from Rowena keenly, but, child-like, intended to

enjoy her life at the manse. Rowena hastily packed up her things and

went up to town. She knew General Macdonald's address there, and one

day had talk with him through the telephone.

It was strangely unsatisfactory.

Rowena told him she was going sooner than she had thought, and had

left Mysie comfortably settled in the manse. His replies were cold and

grave. He wished her a safe journey, and thanked her for all she had

done for his little girl.

At the end of the interview, he said:

"I understood your silence, so have not troubled you with any more

correspondence."

Rowena was about to inquire what he meant, but they were cut off, and

she did not see or hear from him again.

Later she puzzled over his words, then strove to put them from her.

"My Highland life and Highland friends will be only a memory now," she

assured herself. "That chapter is closed. I am in another atmosphere

altogether."

And she sailed for India with a smiling face and an aching heart.

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

AT THE GREEN COTTAGE

"All are not taken! There are left behind

Living Beloved's tender looks to bring,

And make the daylight still a happy thing,

And tender voices to make soft the wind."

E. Browning.

"ROWENA, I hope you mean to be kind to him. Remember he has taken all

the trouble to travel down from Yorkshire to see us."

"But we did not invite him."

"Well, on board ship I gave him a kind of general invitation, seeing

how smitten he was with you."

Rowena's brows contracted. She was silent.

Mrs. Arbuthnot looked at her a little anxiously.

"You know how desolate I and the chicks would be without you. Don't

think for a moment that I want to lose you, but I do want you not to

miss the happiness of married life, and dear Ted often used to say to

me how he hoped you would marry. We thought when your letters were so

full of Hugh Macdonald's child, that you would marry him; personally I

never found him attractive. He had no sense of humour. And Ted said he

couldn't see you tied up with him somehow." A heavy sigh followed, then

impulsively Mrs. Arbuthnot turned to her sister-in-law.

"Oh, Rowena, I can't get accustomed to being without Ted! I can't

believe he is silent for ever! I think it is cruel taking men so

suddenly away; one day in full enjoyment of health and mental powers,

the next struck down, and buried before one realizes they are dead! I

wish—I wish we had never gone to India, I wish he had never taken that

trip into the cholera-infected region! Nothing will ever comfort me!

Men and women ought not to die till they lose their individuality. It

is cruel, unreasonable. I never shall understand the reason for it."

"Poor Geraldine! It is difficult for you, but let me pass on a sentence

a very nice woman gave me long ago. I have never forgotten it: 'Nothing

is a puzzle, nothing is a mystery, if you have enough love and trust.'"

"Love and trust in whom?"

"In the One Who holds our lives in His keeping. Ted is not going to

be silent for ever. I never felt so certain as I do now that he has

stepped into the Kingdom of Heaven. Just before he went on that trip I

had such a nice talk with him."

"Oh, I know, I know! He used to tell me that he believed in what you

believed, because of your life. And you aren't a long-faced mute, I

will say that for you. You comfort me when you talk so, but I'm a

worldling. Don't let us talk of our sorrow, let us return to Major

Cunliffe. Don't you like him? Oh, I wish you would, for your own sake!

He is an old friend of Ted's, and has such a lovely old house in

Yorkshire! We stayed there once when his mother was alive."

"He's a nice man," said Rowena slowly; "but I don't think he will ever

be anything more than that to me."

"Don't you ever mean to marry?"

Rowena laughed.

"Nobody axed me, sir," she said.

"Now that's a fib. You had three out in India who were your devoted

admirers."

"I feel like a kitchen-maid when you talk so," said Rowena.

She was sitting over the fire with her sister-in-law in a small house

in a Surrey village. They had not long returned from India. Colonel

Arbuthnot had been carried off by an epidemic of cholera about five

months after Rowena had joined them out there. As soon as she was able,

his widow returned to England, and Rowena accompanied her. An old

friend of Colonel Arbuthnot's, Sir Henry Hazelwood, had offered her a

pretty cottage in the village of which he was squire; for young Mrs.

Arbuthnot had found it necessary to economize as much as possible. Her

husband before his death was finding himself in difficulties, and had

arranged to give up his Scotch lodge, much to his sister's regret. They

had now just settled in the cottage, and the young widow was striving

to take up life again for the sake of her little ones.

Rowena, of course, was the mainstay in the house. Her cheery

personality kept them all going, and she was ready to turn her hand

to anything, from painting a gate to repairing a lock; she had just

started poultry, and they were thinking of having a little rough pony

and trap, for the market town was a good three miles away.

It was a cold afternoon in March. Outside it was cheerless and grey.

Inside, though simplicity reigned throughout the cottage, the little

drawing-room was a picture of cheery comfort. Mrs. Arbuthnot was seated

on a comfortable Chesterfield couch by the fire, her sewing in her hand.

Rowena was in a lounge chair opposite her, knitting away at a boy's

sock.

"I suppose I must feel snubbed," said Mrs. Arbuthnot with rather a

sad little smile. "I will drop the subject. And I am sure, as I said

before, it would be my own loss if you left me. Aren't you afraid we

shall find this place most painfully dull?"

"No," said Rowena brightly; "why should we? It's a lovely part of the

world. Think of the woods and meadows for your pale-faced children. How

many picnics we shall have this summer! And Sir Henry and his wife are

always wanting us to join their social gatherings. Of course, you don't

feel inclined to do so yet, but you will by and by. Ted would not like

you to shut yourself up. And I think we're very lucky in our parson. I

like him extremely. I have a great admiration for his eldest daughter,

mothering the parish as she does, in addition to mothering her small

brothers."

"Oh, Mr. Waring is all right enough! He's a gentleman and a scholar,

and you and he have a good deal in common. I suppose India spoils one,

and nothing will ever be the same to me without Ted—I hate a house

without a man! It is like a cart without the horse, a train without an

engine."

"Well, now turn your attention upon Major Cunliffe. I see him walking

up the path."

A moment after, a tall handsome man was shaking hands with them both.

But it was easy to see which of the women was the object of his visit.

Rowena leant back in her chair with easy friendliness. Not a blush on

her cheek, or quiver of her eyelash, told that she was in the least

impressed by his personality.

"We heard you were coming to the Hall," she said, looking at him with

the usual twinkle in her eyes; "but we did not expect to see you quite

so soon. You only arrived yesterday evening, did you not? Sir Henry

called here just before he drove to the station to meet you."

"My inclination was to come round immediately after breakfast," Major

Cunliffe replied promptly; "but Lady Hazelwood insisted upon inspecting

her pet rock-garden, and she kept me there the greater part of the

morning. I do not like people with hobbies. They ride them so hard."

"I think if a woman has no children it's a good thing to have a hobby,"

said Mrs. Arbuthnot, "especially in the country. The Hazelwoods are

hardly ever in town. He's a born farmer. Don't you remember how he used

to yarn in India about his shorthorns and pigs?"

"By Jove, yes. And we called him 'Mangels' in the mess. What a ripping

little house you have here. How are the youngsters?"

"You remind me of my duties," said Mrs. Arbuthnot. "I promised to go up

to them to-day when nursery tea was on. I shan't be long."

She slipped quietly out of the room.

Instinctively Major Cunliffe drew his chair a little nearer Rowena.

She looked up at him with her frank smile.

"Geraldine's hobby is her children, and they have comforted her a lot."

"Poor Mrs. Arbuthnot, she must be feeling rotten. But she's awfully

sensible—she knew I wanted to see you alone, so she's bolted. Now,

please don't put on that careless bored expression. I mean to have it

out with you, and now is my chance. You kept me from speaking on board

ship—circumstances always seemed to favour you. I shan't forget that

ass of a Captain in a hurry, but you must listen now. I beseech you to

be kind. You know I just adore you, and can't live without you."

"I don't know anything of the sort," Rowena replied very calmly and

sweetly. "I know you were a most kind friend to us on board, and I

always had a liking for you, because you were so fond of—my poor

brother." Her voice faltered. He broke in quickly:

"Yes—I felt you had a liking for me—one can tell it—and now I want

something more. Don't say you can't give it to me."

She looked at him gravely, and shook her head.

"I'm afraid it is no use, Major Cunliffe. I hate to give pain. You can

never say I have encouraged you. I honestly think I shall never marry."

"It will be a sinful shame if you don't," said the Major hotly; "and

I'm positive you and I would pull together A 1. Do just think of

it—I'll wait a bit longer if you like. Why on earth should you be so

detached? I suppose I'm not up to your level."

"Oh, please, please don't make me out such a brute."

There was real feeling in Rowena's voice. She went on a little

unsteadily:

"I tried to make you see on board that I could never be anything but

a friend. I was afraid of this. You would make anyone a good husband,

Major Cunliffe; you are so unselfish, so tender as far as women and

children are concerned. But I will be frank with you. My heart is not

mine to give away. We women are foolish creatures; and I am the most

foolish of my sex—I can say no more."

"You love some one else."

He murmured the words, but blank dismay was in his eyes—Rowena was

absolutely, silent, then she put out her hand.

"Shake hands, and bear me no ill will. I shall live and die a single

woman. Of that I feel sure, but life is full of interest to single

women, and we do value friendship. May I think that I can still have

yours, even if our paths in life lie apart. I wish I could give you the

answer you want, but I cannot."

Major Cunliffe looked at her in a dazed sort of way. Then he wheeled

round towards the window, and stood looking out with his back to her

trying to bear his disappointment courageously.

Rowena sat with clasped hands and dejected mien. She was very

tender-hearted, and could not bear to give pain. In a few minutes he

turned to her.

"Well—you seem sure of your own mind. I will say no more. It's no good

prolonging our interview. Say good-bye to Mrs. Arbuthnot. I feel I

can't face her—and if ever you do happen to think differently, I hope

you'll let me know."

He wrung her hand, and stumbled out of the room. Rowena watched him

striding down the little path to the gate with tears in her eyes.

"I hope we shall not be meeting any more of them here," she murmured

to herself. "And now I shall have to smooth down Geraldine's ruffled

feathers." That was soon done. Mrs. Arbuthnot was too truly fond of her

sister-in-law to wish her to marry a man she did not care for; but she

was disappointed, and it needed all Rowena's brightness to bring smiles

to her face again.

Fortunately another visitor called that afternoon.

Mrs. Arbuthnot loved society, and for the time she forgot Major

Cunliffe's dismissal.

This visitor was a wealthy widow who lived alone in a big house about

three miles off.

Her husband belonged to the county, and had died many years previously.

Mrs. Burke was very popular with her neighbours, but the Hazelwoods had

told Rowena that she was a little too rapid and go ahead for them.

"She is never quiet; the life she leads would wear me out in a month,"

gentle Lady Hazelwood said. "She has a house in Park Lane, and is

hospitality itself, and very kindhearted. Young people adore her, for

she gives them such a good time. Even in this quiet place, she keeps

the ball of gaiety rolling. She has plenty of money, and spends it on

amusements for herself and her guests."

Mrs. Burke was a handsome woman about fifty. As Rowena watched her

talking to her sister-in-law, she felt a sudden liking for her.

"Oh, you mustn't be dull or unhappy," she was saying; "you will have

nice neighbours, and I always have house-parties during the summer.

There will be plenty going on soon. Come over and see me before my

visitors arrive, if you like. I am alone now, and it would be a charity

to take pity on me. The only time I get the blues is when I have nobody

to talk to."

"Have you a dog?" asked Rowena. "I had a winter of solitude up in the

Highlands and found my little 'Shags' a great comfort when I wanted to

deliver my soul!"

Mrs. Burke turned quickly to her.

"I never make friends with my dogs. I have no time. It takes me all my

time to live. I tried companions, but oh! how they bored me! They were

either a mild echo of myself, or tried to manage me. Will you waive

ceremony and come to lunch with me next Wednesday? Do—I have quite a

good cook, and she does hate wasting her dainties on me. I never know

or care what I eat when I'm alone."

Mrs. Arbuthnot accepted the invitation, but when the day came, her

little girl was not well, and she would not leave her. She insisted

upon Rowena going, and begged her to enjoy herself.

"There is so little going on here, that I am quite glad of a sociable

neighbour, and I shall look forward to your account of her when you

return. You always see the amusing side of everybody!"

Rowena walked off. She thought nothing of the three miles, and enjoyed

every step of her way. She found that Mrs. Burke was not alone; two

girls, by name Violet and Diana Dunstan, were lunching with her, and

the talk was chiefly on hunting, and the last meet which was taking

place the following week. The girls went off directly after lunch, but

Mrs. Burke pressed Rowena to stay, and took her into a very cosy little

morning-room.

"I'm very fond of Vi and Di, as they are called, but one soon gets to

the end of them, and I haven't got to the beginning of you yet."

"I shan't take much knowing," said Rowena easily. "I am pretty well

what I look. An ordinary sort of every-day person."

"You are neither one nor the other," replied Mrs. Burke promptly. "Now

I have powers of observation, and you're a reader; that I know from the

way you scanned my bookshelves when you came in here."

"Well, yes, I am. My truant eyes betrayed me."

"You'll find nothing but novels, and books of travel and adventure,"

said Mrs. Burke. "I cannot understand poetry, and history is most

unsatisfactory. Theology and all the other ologies are too stiff and

dry. I have no time for thinking. Like the Americans, I like to make

things hum. And people interest me more than anything else in the

world. Would you like to hear about your neighbours?"

"Very much," was Rowena's response.

"Well, to begin with, Vi and Di, they live with their brother, who only

came into his property two years ago. It came to him through an uncle.

They lived up in the north, and are thorough sportswomen—up to any

larks, and make the hair of old-fashioned folk about here stand on end

at their pranks. Their brother Bob is a good sort, but a little rough.

You know the Hazelwoods, they're a model squire and wife, and are

nothing if not correct. Eight miles distant are the Easterbrooks: he's

a new-made peer, and everything about them is new—their house, their

garments, their furniture, and their manners. There are two old Miss

Humbers of whom I'm rather fond, they pretend they are old-fashioned

and out of date, but they love to be shocked, and I and my friends

do it pretty often. They have one of the loveliest gardens in the

country, and of course their gardener is an autocratic tyrant. Then

there is a bachelor establishment about four miles off. Two brothers,

both been in the army and retired—one a general, the other a colonel.

They live together; one hunts and shoots, the other gardens, and has

a pet aviary. Their name is Sheringham. The parsons and doctors never

interest me in the least, nor do their families, and most of my friends

come down to me from town. I may as well tell you that I was a parson's

daughter myself and lived in the Cotswolds before I married. I know too

much about parsons and their kind to have much to do with them now."

She compressed her lips rather bitterly, then laughed. "My motto is

'keep the world rolling with smiles'; nobody can say I do otherwise.

But, oh dear, I have times when I long for a secretary or companion to

take some of my duties from me. Just look here!" She opened a bureau,

which seemed almost bursting with letters and papers. "That's a week's

correspondence, and I haven't touched it yet. I sometimes want to

burn the contents of my postbag before I look it through. I get such

thousands of begging letters, and my friends are always worrying me

with their wants!"

"That is one of the penalties of wealth," said Rowena. "You can't

escape its responsibilities."

"Don't you hate that word responsibility? I try to be as irresponsible

as I can. And if you're clever, you can always shift your burdens on to

other's shoulders. Now I've talked about myself enough. Tell me what

your line is. You're neither a prude, nor a rollicker."

"I don't think I have ever set to work to dissect myself," said Rowena,

amused. "I'm interested at present in my sister-in-law and her family,

and in making two shillings go as far as five. We have never been used

to economy before, at least she has not, and it takes a bit of doing.

And just now I'm on the look-out for a rough pony and trap in which we

can jog about the lanes, and enjoy the country."

"I know the very thing for you. A farmer wants to sell one: his wife

used to drive about in it, for she was lame, and now she is dead, poor

thing!"

In discussing a possible bargain, personal topics were dropped. Rowena

returned home well pleased with her neighbour, but she said to her

sister-in-law:

"She's a jolly easy-going soul, and kindness and good nature

personified, but she's hiding away from something in spite of all her

careless abandon of talk: I should like to know her better."

In a short time Mrs. Arbuthnot had contentedly settled down to their

quiet life. Rowena got her trap and pony, and trundled about the

sweet-smelling lanes with the children inside it.

Before long they were on pleasant terms of intimacy with their

neighbours, but to Rowena Mrs. Burke was the most interesting

personality of them all.

She was always entertaining; and as the summer drew on, private

theatricals, tennis parties, and picnics followed each other in quick

succession. Her friends from town were not always liked by the county.

She had a good many Bohemians, and stray geniuses, who contributed

towards the general gaiety with their freakish talent.

Once she arrived at the Green Cottage early in the morning, and

besought Rowena to return with her at once.

"I want you to take the place of a girl whose father has just died. So

tiresome of him to choose this week to do it in! She's simply unique

in running my musical programme for the village concert coming off;

she keeps every one in good temper, and plays all the accompaniments.

I know you'll do that all right, and I'm sure you'll help to keep the

peace. My dear Italian Countess is nearly tearing out the eyes of

my best tenor because he said she sang sharp in the duet they have

together. To sing sharp is a more deadly crime than to sing flat,

I find. Come along just as you are, we must have a rehearsal this

morning, for we're all going off to the sea in cars this afternoon, and

you know it is only fifteen miles away?"

Rowena went off obligingly. She returned about three in the afternoon,

tired, but very interested.

"Oh, Geraldine, she reminds me of those men with a happy family

in a cage! Her elements of humanity do not harmonize. Aristocrats

and violent radicals, oldish women who have been beauties, and

young intolerant girls who laugh at them. I admire her wonderful

adaptability, and good temper in dealing with them all. But I wouldn't

have such guests in a house of mine for all the wealth in the world!

And yet she hasn't a wrinkle on her face, and her energy in 'rolling

the ball,' as she expresses it, is superhuman!"

"She's a very tiring old woman," said Mrs. Arbuthnot; "she ought to be

content with a quiet life at her age."

Rowena laughed.

"She does not consider she is a day older than she feels, and that is

about twenty-three, I should say! But I hope she is not going to come

upon me to make up all her guests' deficiencies. I like the simple

life, and a little of hers goes a long way!"

"Sometimes," said Mrs. Arbuthnot slowly, "I think that year of solitude

in the Highlands was bad for you, Rowena. You ought to love gadding

round at your age."

"My age, madam, is past that of giddy youth!" And then Rowena quitted

the room, singing as she went:

"I have a smiling face, she said

I have a gist for all I meet,

I have a garland for my head,

And all its flowers are sweet—"

CHAPTER II

A NEW FRIEND

"Is not making others happy the best happiness?"

Amiel.

"MY dear Geraldine, what is the matter? Your face is a yard long. Have

you had bad news?"

Mrs. Arbuthnot looked up from her letters and sighed.

She and Rowena were at breakfast. It was a lovely morning in June. The

windows were open, a sweet brier bush outside was scenting the room

with its fragrance.

"Madge is going to be married almost immediately."

"Three cheers for Madge! If I had a sister, and a sister who has been

engaged for five years, I should be overjoyed at the event."

"Oh, I am glad for her sake, of course; but I have had four sheets

from her showing me how impossible it is for mother to live alone, and

imploring me to take the children and make Whitecroft my home."

"A most sensible arrangement. It is a roomy old house, and nearer town

than this is. You will be very happy there, my dear!"

"I like a house of my own. I have always had it."

"Yes, but your mother is a dear, gentle, old lady. Madge always ran the

house, and you can do the same."

Geraldine sighed again.

"I hate changes, and Madge is going to be married in a fortnight and

going straight out to the Cape with Frank, and she wants me to pack up

my things and go to mother the end of this month."

"Sir Arthur will let you off the rent of this, and nowadays he will

have no trouble in getting another tenant. I would take it on myself if

I had enough money."

"But you will be with us, of course."

Mrs. Arbuthnot raised a startled face to her sister-in-law.

Rowena swung herself up on the low window-ledge, and sat there with her

hands in her pockets, and her feet swinging to and fro. She whistled

softly to herself, but did not speak for a minute, and Mrs. Arbuthnot

repeated her words:

"You will come with us? I am not going to part with you."

"My dear Geraldine, leave me out of the question. Your first thought

is your mother, and being what she is, and having no other children to

look after her, I consider it is your bounden duty to go to her. Make

up your mind to it. Whitecroft is a sweet home, and it is your mother's

own, and too big for her to live in alone. That point is quite clear,

and now when is the wedding, and what are you going to wear?"

The question of clothes brought a smile to Mrs. Arbuthnot's lips. She

began to see sunshine again; and after she was thoroughly reconciled to

her duty which lay before her, Rowena left her to write her letters,

and went off out of the house and along the lanes with swift light

steps.

Once she knitted her brows, and murmured:

"It's a game of see-saw. Geraldine will go up, as far as comfort in her

surroundings go, and I shall go down. What a darling Ted was to leave

me enough to stave off starvation! But it won't give me a home. And I

must have a roof over my head. And to think that only a few weeks ago I

scoffed in my heart at Mrs. Burke's offer. The bread of dependence is

not palatable, but it must be munched and eaten by you, my dear Rowena,

and the sooner you settle it the better."

The three miles to Minley Court seemed of no account to Rowena. She

was a good walker, and was too deep in thought to notice any details

by the way. She found Mrs. Burke in her morning-room, and it was a

propitious moment for her request. The impatient lady was seated at her

writing-desk; letters and papers were fluttering all round her, and

as she turned to greet Rowena, she swept a packet of papers upon the

carpet with her elbow.

"Thank goodness, somebody has arrived to distract me from this chaos!

Come out upon the terrace, and I will enjoy a cigarette if you will

not join me. I have the car coming round in half an hour, I am going

to the Fletchers. May I take you with me? They're charming people, and

you ought to know them. He's a retired admiral, and she's a daughter of

Lord Gallway."

"I'm afraid I must return home quickly. I have come on business this

time, and will get to it at once. Do you remember you were good enough

to ask me the other day if I would be your companion-secretary, and I

told you how impossible it was for me to leave my sister-in-law and her

children? Well, circumstances are changed. She is giving up her house

and going to live with her mother in Berkshire, and I am not going with

her. I couldn't: a mixed household is a mistake, so I am on my own, and

able to do what I like. If your offer still holds good, I would like to

accept it."

"You will? My dear girl, that's the best bit of news I have had for a

long time! I shall be enchanted to have you. I feel inclined to plant

you at my desk now, and start you at that infernal—well, we'll say

unpleasant—mass of letters and bills. It's an accumulation of a couple

of months. I never can overtake it. Why is the art of begging, and

dunning, and boring, made so easy to all of us? When will you come to

me? To-morrow?"

"Indeed no, but in another week or two."

"I suppose I shall have to wait your time. Now we must settle your

salary. Will two hundred pounds suffice? Remember, it will be an

arduous post, for I drive every one about me they say. My days are

overfull, and I shall expect you to be at my beck and call for a good

many hours I am afraid."

Rowena laughed.

"Your salary is munificent, and I am not afraid of work. I shall get a

little quiet time to myself in and out. Thank you very much. Then it

is settled. I should love to tidy up your papers to-day, but I must be

getting back. Will you expect me this day fortnight?"

"You're too good for the post," said Mrs. Burke, putting her hand

on her shoulder affectionately. "I shall pretend you're a sort of

daughter, but daughters nowadays wouldn't do their mother's dirty

work, would they? Oh, I'm delighted to have you. There's something so

restful and dependable in your face, and you do enjoy a joke! I hate

these stuffy solid folk who open their eyes widely, and think one a

lunatic if one indulges in a bit of fun. Good-bye, if you must go, and

I'll give you the second best spare room; it's sunny, and bright, like

yourself."

Rowena marched home feeling she had burnt her boats, and wondering why

she had such pride of heart as to mentally squirm at the thought of her

future.

"An empty purse and high head don't harmonize," she said to herself.

"I must consider that I'm benefiting one of my fellow-creatures by

becoming one of her dependants, and I shall have a chance of getting

beneath her outer crust. There's something I don't understand in her

composition. She's too sensible to be so frivolous."

When Mrs. Arbuthnot was informed of Rowena's plans, she was very

perturbed and vexed.

"I have a great mind to refuse to go to mother. What shall I do without

you? It's cruel of you! You're like a bit of Ted left to me—and the

house is big enough for you, and mother would be charmed to have you."

"It can't be done," said Rowena firmly. "Ask me to pay you a visit

sometimes."

"Oh, if Mrs. Burke gets you into her clutches, she will never let you

go! I wish you had never met her. She's like an octopus for drawing all

the best into her nets. I cannot see her attractiveness. To me she's

thorough bad style, and you'll lead a most rackety life, and will never

be able to call a moment your own!"

Rowena could not comfort her. Happily, there was so much to do and

arrange that it took away her thoughts from their parting. She

arranged to go to her mother before the wedding, and the little house

was dismantled and bare within the prescribed fortnight. Rowena was

the last to leave it, and when she eventually drove off to Minley

Court in the car sent for her with her luggage packed up behind, she

felt as if this second rooting up of her life was a very black and

gloomy performance. But she arrived at her new home with a cheerful

countenance. She found Di and Vi Dunstan with Mrs. Burke.

"We feel so deadly when the hunting is off," said Vi. "Mrs. Burke is

our only cheer. We are trying to concoct a few new games for her next

garden-party. Come and help us with your wit!"

"You're going to have diggings here, aren't you?" questioned Di. "Good

for you. I'd like the job myself."

"Miss Arbuthnot's job is not going to be an easy one," said Mrs. Burke

with her jolly laugh. "She's going to supply all my deficiencies, and

run me and my household in a more orthodox fashion."

"Oh, dash orthodoxy!" cried Vi. "How I loathe the word, as bad as

conventionality and propriety, and all the rest of the prudisms and

prisms!"

Rowena had to sit down then and there and discuss seriously whether a

game of hare and hounds, in which the hare was to trail the contents

of scent sachets or scent bottles behind him, could take place in the

grounds of Minley Court.

"We'll have six hares, all men, and ladies must be the hounds, and

one might use pepper as his scent, and another onions; and another

might scatter rose-leaves behind him—nothing like variety! It will be

topping!"

It was difficult for Rowena to show much interest in their

childishness, but Mrs. Burke took pity on her. "Come on up to your

room, and we'll leave you in peace till tea comes. Vi and Di are quite

equal to organizing their own schemes."

So Rowena followed Mrs. Burke up the old staircase along a very broad

corridor, until they came to the room prepared for her.

It was, as Mrs. Burke had told her, one of the brightest rooms in the

house, and looked, in its dainty dimity coverings, very cool and sweet.

Rowena glanced at the comfortable chairs and couch, and at the charming

writing-table in one window.

"My dear Mrs. Burke," she said gaily, "how can I thank you for

indulging me so? I hope this luxury will not unfit me for my duties."

"Duty is never mentioned in my house," said Mrs. Burke, putting her

hands on both her shoulders and suddenly stooping and giving her a

quick warm kiss on her cheek. "We slip along as we like, and pick up

what fragments of necessary work we can, just to prevent the house

tumbling to pieces. You'll work, and I'll continue to play, but I

shan't work you hard, and I warn you that you must suffer gladly

continual interruption. To-day you are to be my guest; to-morrow you

can tackle my correspondence."

"Thank you, then I'll take this hour before tea to settle my

belongings, and congratulate myself upon such a role!"

Mrs. Burke left her. When she joined her young friends again, she said:

"I'm in luck's way at last. I can't think why she has not married!"

"There's time yet," said Di laconically; "there's a reaction set in,

now there are no more embryo heroes to be wed. There aren't many sound

able men just now, plenty of boys, but they'll keep."

"You always go for a fresh pal like hot bricks!" said Vi. "She isn't

a bad sort, this Miss Arbuthnot, but she's hardly one of us. I see

something more solid in her face than her first appearance would

warrant. Her eyes make you think she's out for larks, but there's a

twist to her lips that shows she's a quizzer!"

"I like her," Mrs. Burke asserted stoutly, "and you'll like her too

when you know her better."

Rowena was relieved when she came down to tea to find that the Miss

Dunstans had taken their departure. She and Mrs. Burke were alone, and

they had tea under the rose pergola at the end of the terrace.

"There's one thing I want to ask you," said Rowena presently; "and that

is if I may have Sunday to myself? I don't care how hard I work in the

week, but I should like to feel free on Sunday."

Mrs. Burke looked at her rather curiously.

"Oh, well," she said, after a minute's silence, "I shan't want you to

do any secretarial work on Sunday, but socially it's a day that hangs a

bit heavy, and I may want your help with my guests. I have a good many

week-end parties, you know."

"Yes. I don't want to sound disobliging, but I still want that day for

myself."

"I wish you would explain. Do you want to go right away, or is it a

question of principles? Are you a Sabbatarian? Nothing so out of date,

I am sure. I go to church occasionally, when it's not too hot, and when

I'm not too tired. Very often I keep to my bed till lunch. If my guests

bore me I invariably do so."

"I like a quiet Sunday," said Rowena, looking at her with her frank

smile. "I suppose I have always been indulged in that way. In India my

brother and his wife always went down to the Club, but I retired to my

room for the afternoon; they never minded. And of course I shall go to

church, I always have done so."

"Oh, you can go to church all day long if you want to," Mrs. Burke said

with impatience in her tone; "only don't dictate to me as to how I

should keep the Sabbath. I had enough of that when I was young!"

Rowena looked at her sympathetically.

"I expect you were driven with too tight a curb, weren't you? Isn't it

a pity when children are made by force of circumstances to hate what

should have been their joy?"

"I don't think you will find children look upon church-going as a joy,"

said Mrs. Burke, with bitterness in her tone. "In one case I have a

vivid remembrance of sitting up in church with aching head and back,

and with a positive loathing for the unutterably weary prayers, and

lengthy sermon. My father was a parson, and when I grew older I had to

be at early service at 7.30, Sunday school at ten, service again at

eleven, school at three. Evening service at 6.30, and sometimes a choir

practice afterwards. I would come into supper after our day of devotion

was over, sick in body and soul of it all!"

"If your heart wasn't in it, it must have been torture, I've always

had a lax bringing up as regards church, but somehow from a child I

enjoyed it. About eighteen months ago I had an accident in the hunting

field, and was laid up on my back for a year. I went to my brother's

house in the Highlands, and used to hear the church bells across the

loch as I lay on my couch and longed that I could go. After a year's

privation from church-going, I went out to India, and there we only got

a service about once a month when we were in the hills—at other times a

church parade lasting about half an hour. Now since we have been back

in England I'm thoroughly enjoying my church. I learnt a lot of things

when I was lying on my back, and it is a matter of principle with me to

have a quiet day on Sunday; I hope you don't like me the less for it."

"I didn't think you were that sort," Mrs. Burke said. Her tone was

almost sulky.

"Have we made a mistake? Shall I throw it up, and go away with my

sister?"

"Good heavens, no! You shall have your Sundays, but don't let me feel

you're carping at us if we can't live up to your level."

"My dear Mrs. Burke, if you saw into my mind you would know that it's

the last thing I would do. I'm such a stumbling sort of creature

myself, that I feel at the very lowest level of all. One day, when I'm

more at home with you, perhaps you'll let me tell you of a bit of my

Highland experience. Till then believe me, that I shall never be your

critic. I have come here to give you my help, and I honestly will try

to do my best in your service."

Mrs. Burke's face cleared.

"All serene then! And now we'll talk of other things. Do you know the

Fortescue Bakers? I hear they have just taken a farm house near here.

They've bought it, and mean to turn it into a lovely little house. He

is an artist you know, and bound to make everything beautiful that lies

across his path."

Rowena listened to the local gossip, and pleased Mrs. Burke by her

interest and sympathy.

For a wonder Mrs. Burke was alone. She was expecting visitors the next

day. After dinner they strolled through the beautifully kept grounds,

and Mrs. Burke told Rowena the details of her past life.

"I was, as I told you this afternoon, a parson's daughter, and my

father was of the strict evangelical school. We were supposed to live

apart from all worldly gaieties. Never allowed to dance, or go to a

play, or enjoy ourselves with any young people who did so. And strange

to say I was content and even happy in those days. I was the youngest.

Two of my sisters married neighbouring curates. One is now a missionary

with her husband in China; the other is in Liverpool. I have lost touch

with her; we did correspond before my husband's death, but she and her

husband thoroughly disapprove of me. My third sister was the one who

kept everything going at home, but a bad time came. Our mother, who was

always delicate, went down with 'the Flu.' It raged round us. One of

my brothers had it with the complication of double pneumonia, and both

he and my mother died. Then my sister got it and went into a decline.

She was overworked and could not battle with it. I was just seventeen

then, so had to take command and run the house and parish. There was

never a question of recreation or rest for a parson's daughter. We were

wretchedly poor, and the struggle to keep up appearances was awful. My

remaining brother was at college, and we fought hard to keep him there.

I often wish he had earned his bread in a humbler sort of way, for

three years afterwards he died in London—a question of underfeeding and

overwork—the same as my poor sister. I can tell you the record of those

years sent the iron into my soul. There is no tragedy so great as some

of these parsons' lives! Well, to make a long story short, my father

died when I was twenty-three, and I was left penniless and homeless."

"My sister in Liverpool said I must come to her till I got some sort

of employment. Now romance steps in. In spite of my training, and

discipline and poverty, I was a bright pretty girl then. I thoroughly

believed in my father's steadfast creed that all things worked together

for good to those who love God, and that belief served to keep my head

above water. Whilst the contents of the Parsonage were being sold, our

Squire's wife, Lady Mary Crosby, took pity on me, and insisted that

I should come up to the Hall till things were settled. It was there

I met my husband. He was Lady Mary's nephew and young and handsome:

there were no other girls for him to take notice of, and we fell

headlong in love with each other. Lady Mary treated it as a boy and

girl flirtation; she never gave Alfred credit for anything serious.

When I eventually went to my sister, I considered myself engaged to

him. She was horrified. Everyone at the Hall had always been considered

'worldly'; and she tried to show me how impossible and wicked such

a union would be. But they say a worm will turn at last. I had had

enough of the hard penurious life of the godly. I was young, and felt

the blood rising and beating in my veins. Before me was a life of

pleasure and luxury. I looked at my sister with her thin cheeks and

prematurely wrinkled face, I noted her children, seven in number, were

all growing up, and requiring food and clothing which could not be

given them. I saw her husband too weak in body to be strong in soul.

His preaching was a failure: He was a dispirited disappointed man; an

irritable husband and father, a gloomy narrow-minded parson. Oh, I

know you think me hard, but looking back, I don't wonder that my youth

rebelled against such a fate as my sister's! I felt secure of Alfred's

affection, and determined to stick to him. To make a long story short,

we wrote to each other and in spite of much opposition from both his

family and mine, we finally married, and I have not regretted doing so!"

There was something almost defiant in Mrs. Burke's tone. Rowena was

deeply interested.

"How well I seem to see it all!" she said. "But did you discard

religion as an old glove when you married?"

"I did. I was nothing, if not sincere in those days. I knew my husband

was out to enjoy life, and I meant to enjoy it with him. It had to be

one thing or the other with me. I felt that a certain part of me had

always been starved, my sister assuring me that it was the worst part

of me. But I meant to have my fill of what the world could give me.

I threw my ultra-fastidious conscience to the winds. I determined to

live as the greater part of the young world lives, for pleasure and

amusement, and I have done so ever since. My motto is to have a good

time and to help everyone else to have the same."

"And when your husband died?"

"Ah, don't remind me of the black blots in my life! I have had two.

I lost our darling little only child at two years old, and then my

husband, after only five years of happy married life. He was killed out

hunting. But these times come to us all. I forget them or try to do so."

Rowena remembered that only two years previously she had been living

the same life as Mrs. Burke; and felt that she could not judge her.

There was a little silence, then Mrs. Burke said with an effort:

"They say every one has a skeleton in the cupboard. Do you know what

mine is? It's a certain verse from the Bible that haunts me, and turns

up at times to disturb my tranquillity. You see I know my Bible well.

We were too much nourished on it ever to forget it, and the verse was a

favourite one of my father's; he used to preach on it:

"'Cast not away therefore your confidence which hath great

recompense of reward!'"

"That comes up at intervals. Of course I have cast my confidence away.

I have none in God or Heaven or in any of the unseen things which good

people say we ought to have even down here. I have made my choice and

must abide by it. There now! To no living being have I ever confessed

so much before. What is it about you that makes me talk so?"

"I don't know," said Rowena with her sunshiny smile, "but I know now

why you have attracted me. I felt there was something beautiful deep

down out of reach."

"Beautiful! Deep down! What do you mean? Haven't I just shown you, as

parsons would say, the depravity of the human heart?"

Rowena did not speak for a moment; she was looking away dreamily as if

into space. They were pacing up and down an old box-bordered walk, and

now for a moment paused at the end of it. The sun was sinking slowly

behind a belt of pines silhouetted against the line of the blue distant

hills.

"I remember about a year ago," said Rowena slowly, "talking to my

brother's Scotch gardener about a certain part of the shrubbery where

things grew in the most wonderful thriving way. He said that long ago

that bit of ground had been a vegetable plot, and had been well worked.

Later on a summer-house had been built upon it, then it had fallen

into ruins and the shrubbery planted. He said that deep down under the

rubbish cleared away of the summer-house, there was real good soil, and

it was making itself felt in spite of the time that had elapsed since

it had been worked."

"Now what on earth are you doing? Giving me a parable to read. There's

no good soil left in my soul, let me tell you! Come along in, and don't

for goodness' sake set my skeleton walking! He is shut up and locked

away as a rule."

Rowena said no more.

When "good night" was being said, Mrs. Burke remarked with her jolly

laugh:

"One day I shall demand an account of your depths, and you will have

to give it to me. But I warn you in my house, you will have to frivol

whether you like it or not."

CHAPTER III

CHASING SHADOWS

"Heart buried in the rubbish of the world—

The world—that gulf of Souls—immortal Souls."

Young.

IT was a strange life into which Rowena had slipped. Anyone else who

held the same views that she did would have found it impossible. But

Rowena had always a wonderful adaptability to her circumstances. And

she had a supreme faith and hope in the best of people, which is

often hidden from those who only look on the surface. Those in her

company were strangely conscious of this. They knew that if she did

not agree with them, she would not harshly judge them, and that she

always believed in the best of them, not the worst. Vi and Di in their

reckless youth were inclined to look upon her with hostility at first.

Before long she was in their full confidence. Vi confided in her

continual and varied love affairs, Di, confessed her many debts and her

subterfuges for escaping payment. They turned to her when Mrs. Burke

did not please them. More than once she had to act as peacemaker, for

she soon discovered that there were certain days and occasions when

Mrs. Burke's spirits collapsed, and she was irritable and captious with

all around her.

Rowena tackled her sheaves of unanswered letters, and all her business

with indomitable patience. As a rule she never left the library from

breakfast to luncheon. In the afternoons she was at Mrs. Burke's

disposal, and that lady had generally need of her, but her Sundays were

her own. Rowena appeared at meal times, but often in the afternoons

would take some biscuits in her pocket, and her small tea kettle, and

would go out into the woods with her books, have her tea there, and not

come in till evening service. She rarely missed the morning and evening

services in the little country church. In the morning, she took a class

at the Sunday School. Her Sundays refreshed and strengthened her for

the week. Minley Court had not a restful atmosphere.

There was a continual stream of visitors, and perpetual entertainments

for them.

There were a certain number of steady Bridge players, but Mrs. Burke

herself would not play much.

"I hate sitting still," she said. "I like to be on the move."

There were moonlight picnics on the river, and at the sea; there were

tournaments of croquet, tennis, bowls, and archery, and any other game

that was in vogue. There were impromptu plays and charades, and any

amount of childish games and romps in which the elders took part quite

as enthusiastically as the younger ones. Rowena played accompaniments,

organized the games, looked after the comfort of all, and was her easy

humorous self amongst a set of people whom she might have condemned

and despised. She was soon a general favourite. One poor lady's maid

departed suddenly owing to the death of her mother. Rowena met the

tearful lady in the corridor bewailing her fate, and went straight into

her room, and helped her dress for dinner, even dressing her hair. It

was little acts like this that made her popular, and somehow or other

Rowena got many an opportunity, which she was eager to seize, of a word

upon the human world, and upon the high destiny of each soul that is

born.

She never preached; she simply dropped a seed here, and a seed there;

and prayed that it might be nurtured and brought to fruitfulness. And

as she never spoke of these things in public, the guests were willing

to talk to her in the privacy of their bedrooms, or when taking a

solitary walk with her. They told her frankly of their troubles and

difficulties, and she told them frankly of an infallible remedy for all.

One girl who was thinking of taking up the stage as a profession said

to Rowena after they had had a long serious talk together in her

bedroom one evening: "You know I've never heard of these things. I've

never come across good people. They always keep away from us, and I get

my ideas of religion through the Churches which I hardly ever attend.

And it never entered my head that I, as an individual unit, shall be

held responsible for my influence and life. I don't like the idea at

all; but somehow you have made me believe in it. It's most upsetting."

She left after a week's visit, but persisted in starting a

correspondence with Rowena, and some time later, told her she was

giving up the idea of the stage, as she did not think it would be

satisfying.

One day Mrs. Burke and Rowena were driving out when they met the

rector and his daughter Maude. He wanted to speak to Mrs. Burke about

some parochial matter, and whilst he was speaking to her, Rowena and

Maude chatted together. The girl was devoted to Rowena, and carried on

a very animated conversation with her. Mrs. Burke glanced at her in

surprise, and suddenly turned to her and asked her to come to tennis

the following afternoon.

After a little hesitation on the part of her father the invitation was

accepted, and they drove on.

"Why that girl is quite pretty," Mrs. Burke said. "I thought she was a

little stiff prig. I have only seen her in church, and hurrying in and

out of the cottages. I wonder if I should be allowed to give her a good

time? Remembering my own poverty-stricken youth, I always pity these

parsons' daughters."

"Maude is a very happy girl," said Rowena; "and you can't look upon her

father as a tyrant. He gives her all the pleasures he can."

Mrs. Burke nodded her head knowingly:

"We'll see. I shall cultivate her acquaintance."

"Don't bewitch her," Rowena said, laughing: "don't try to make her

discontented with her lot."

"Leave me alone, and don't spoil sport."

Rowena had reason to fear Mrs. Burke's influence. She had a way with

her of captivating all young girls, and Maude fell an easy prey to her.

When she went home from the tennis party, she told her father that Mrs.

Burke had been adorable to her, and wanted her to come to dine the

following Saturday, when she would have a house-party. "Do let me go,

Dad. You like Miss Arbuthnot and she will be there."

"No, my child, not on Saturday. I know the style of Mrs. Burke's

week-end parties, and don't want a daughter of mine mixed up in them."

"Oh, I shall be so disappointed. You might let me this once."

The Rector was immovable, and for the first time his bright little

daughter left his study with a cloud upon her face, and a feeling of

resentment in her heart against her father's will.

Rowena watched with anxiety Mrs. Burke's efforts to capture the girl's

affection. She saw how much she loved her popularity, and how she

tried to attract the young. Always fearless, Rowena spoke to her one

day about it: "Do you really think you will put fresh happiness into

Maude's life by making her discontented with her home, and giving her a

taste for things out of her sphere?"

"I love to see the young thoughtless. They ought to be."

"It's the crackling of the thorns under the pot," said Rowena. "I often

wonder how you can keep it up; you are worthy of higher things!"

"Stuff! Don't lecture me! My life is my own. If I fritter it away, I

have only myself to blame."

She continued to waylay Maude. She sent her presents, she took her

drives, and the girl's head was becoming turned. Then Rowena determined

to interfere. She met Maude in the village one day, on her way to visit

a sick woman at a distant farm, and she volunteered to accompany her.

Maude was delighted, but her conversation was entirely upon Minley

Court. She asked Rowena who the next guests were going to be, what

entertainments were going to be given to them, and said in her

enthusiastic way:

"I do think Mrs. Burke so delightful, she's so unselfish, always trying

to make people happy! I don't know why Dad does not like her. I suppose

it is because she comes to church so seldom. I envy you living with

her, the whole house is so jolly, every one seems so happy!"

"My dear child, if you were to ask my opinion, I should say the

atmosphere at the Rectory was far happier. Clowns laugh, you know, with

breaking hearts. Laughter and noise are no true test of happiness.

Don't barter away your substance for a shadow, Maude. Minley Court is

a place of shadows and unrealities of paint and camouflage, and Mrs.

Burke, for all her jolly gaiety, would give a good deal I believe to

have your father's outlook instead of her own. You see I am taking you

into my confidence when I talk like this. I am very fond of Mrs. Burke

and I'm deeply sorry for her. For she is chasing shadows, and trying to

persuade herself that they are the substance."

"She had an unhappy girlhood," said Maude, unconvinced. "She told me

all about it."

"Well, you haven't had that, have you?"

"No—no—but sometimes—lately—I feel as if Father is rather strict about

some things."

"Of course you would think so, and being much at Minley Court will make

you think so—"

"Now, Miss Arbuthnot, you speak as if you disapprove of Minley Court,

and yet you are there yourself in the middle of it all, and you seem

almost the centre of it. You laugh and talk with every one and seem

quite fond of them. Why should it be good for you to be there and bad

for me?"

Maude ended her speech by blushing hotly, afraid that she had been too

outspoken, but Rowena smiled upon her reassuringly.

"I dare say I may seem inconsistent to you, but I am there for a

purpose—and I want to help Mrs. Burke all I can. I know her better than

you do, and know that her empty forlorn time will come, when she will

see that this time has been all froth and bubble. I want to be with her

then, for she will need help. And I do want you not to make the mistake

she did when she was a young girl. She threw away her confidence—she

knew she did it—she threw away all her hopes and ideals, for the kind

of life she is leading now. You can't have both, Maude dear, and what

you throw away is sometimes very difficult to get back again. Don't

you do as she did, for those who are with her most, know she isn't a

happy woman. And I shall never rest till I see her with her discarded

treasures once again."

Maude was visibly impressed. She slipped her hand into Rowena's, and

squeezed it.

"You are so good. I oughtn't to have spoken so. I see that people like

you, and of course you do them good, just as you do me. I always want

to be good after leaving you."

"My dear Maude, don't set me up on a pedestal. Do you know that two

years ago I was a godless heathen? and then gradually I began to see

beauty in things I had scorned before. I don't know how I did it, but I

was gently and surely drawn into quite another environment. It sounds

mystical, doesn't it? I came to see what a wonderful creed we have as

Christians, and I came to know the Founder of our creed. You have grown

up in that atmosphere. Don't try to leave it, I beseech you. Now I'm

not going to preach any more, tell me about this sick woman."

After this little talk, Maude's wave of discontent vanished. She did

not very often come up to the Court, and when she did, she saw things

at a truer value.

The summer wore away. Mrs. Burke's liking for Rowena did not lessen,

and she more than once had serious talks with her. If Rowena expressed

disapproval of certain things, she was not angry with her, only pursued

her way, laughing at her "squeamishness." But occasionally she modified

her schemes to Rowena's requirements.

One afternoon in late September, she and Rowena were enjoying their

tea together over a good fire in the big drawing-room. The last of her

guests had left the house about an hour before, and Mrs. Burke leant

back in her comfortable easy-chair with a sense of relief.

"The last of my visitors," she said. "I shall have a quiet week or two,

before we move up to town. I hate a winter in the country, but I always

come down here for Christmas. It seems the thing to do."

"I am sure that reason does not weigh with you," said Rowena laughing.

"No, perhaps it does not. I hate conventions."

"Will you want me to come up to town with you?"

"Why, of course I do. How should I get on without you?"

"I could stay down here and caretake for you, and do most of your

correspondence without you. You leave me such a free and independent

hand in your affairs, that I believe I could carry on, with an

occasional inquiry by post."

"You are my companion as well as my secretary. Of course I shall want

you in town. Don't tell me you would rather vegetate down here, instead

of being in the middle of it all."

"Oh, I would much rather stay here," said Rowena frankly; "but of

course I shall be ready to accompany you."

"You are an extraordinary creature—a regular hermit; you seem to care

for nothing. And as to money! well, it is a good thing you are not

wealthy. It would be wasted upon you."

"Oh would it? I don't think so."

Rowena's expressive eyes glowed as she gazed into the fire.

"Wealth can do so much—I have your command laid upon me that I am not

to relieve any of the appeals that come to you by post. I know you have

your charity list and it is a big one, but you don't know how I ache

sometimes to slip a pound note into an envelope and send it off. There

are so many private cases of want and misery that never come before the

public at all, and therefore never get relieved."

"It's the worst class that begs through the post," said Mrs. Burke

indifferently.

"Some are humbugs, of course; but I would have a shot or two. I often

think of your early days. They have a strange fascination for me.

If I were you, I think I would go round to the country villages and

ferret out for myself some of the real deserving cases amongst the poor

clergy."

Mrs. Burke looked at her meditatively.

"There might be some sense in that," she said, then added hurriedly,

"but you would want a millionaire's income to give away in that style."

"No," said Rowena, still gazing dreamily before her, "you would only

have to set apart a few hundreds for the purpose. You could do a lot,

say, if you were to spare £500 out of your income for the poor clergy

every year; you would never miss it. Think what it would do for them."

"It would be but a drop in the ocean," said Mrs. Burke. "Take up

Crockford's, and see the incomes of the married clergy. I always do say

it is iniquitous! I know my father was heavily in debt all his life,

and though he could not clothe and feed his family in a decent manner,

he was supposed to relieve all the bad cases of poverty in his parish,

and keep a rotten old dilapidated church in perfect repair. If you have

no rich people in your parish, and the Squire is close fisted, all the

expenses fall on the poor parson's shoulders. But don't let us talk of

such dismal subjects. I did not tell you that I heard from my sister

yesterday. I think we have not written to each other for five years.

Her husband is ill, and of course wants to be nursed and nourished and

sent to a warmer clime the doctors say. It's one of his lungs. She must

be pretty low down to turn to me. There was a time when she refused to

touch a farthing of my money."

"Poor thing! How awful not to be able to do what is best for him."

"She shouldn't have married a poor curate. I suppose I shall have to

send her a cheque. You must see to it for me. I am wondering what she

will do, whether she will take him away herself. There is one blessing,

all her children are grown-up and doing for themselves I believe. But

she seems to have some of her grandchildren dependent on her. Talks of

her darling Nester's boy and girls, who are such a comfort to her. I

believe Nester was the girl who married a very hard-worked doctor, and

he and she both succumbed to some epidemic raging round them. I did

hear about it. Send a cheque for a hundred pounds. That will help."

"I will do it to-morrow morning."

"You look as pleased as if you are going to have it for yourself. Don't

you think all my charity cheques will go on the credit side of my

life's history? I may be frivolous, but I do feed the hungry and clothe

the naked—sometimes."

"Yes, you do," said Rowena gravely.

"I know you size me up in your own mind and judge me. Not in the same

pharisaical manner as my sister judges me! My heart prompts me to tell

her to send along these grandchildren of hers, and I'll look after them

whilst she goes away with her husband. But she would only snub me, and

say she wouldn't have them contaminated by my society. Do you think

I would do them harm? I know you thought I was spoiling little Maude

Waring."

"I wish you would let me go and pay them a visit," said Rowena

suddenly. "A hundred pounds will not help them much at a time like

this. I could find out just how things were, and then we would talk it

over together. If your sister will let you help her, you would like to

do it I expect."

"She must be quite elderly by this time," said Mrs. Burke musingly;

"she is five years older than I am. Oh, I can't spare you at present.

Not till we are thoroughly settled down in town."

Rowena said no more. She felt a strange interest in this sister of Mrs.

Burke's, and longed that the two sisters should come closer together.

They went up to town, and some very busy crowded weeks followed. From

the first Rowena kept out of the incessant round of gaiety. Mrs. Burke

turned night into day, and thought nothing of attending three or four

reception and supper parties the same night, sometimes cramming in a

theatre as well. To these Rowena did not go. She helped Mrs. Burke when

she entertained at home; beyond that she begged to be excused. There

were charity entertainments, and bazaars in the afternoon, to which

she was dragged. People used Mrs. Burke's house like an hotel, but she

never complained; and the younger and giddier the company was, the

better she enjoyed herself.

The cheque was sent off to her sister, and Mrs. Burke received a letter

of grateful thanks; but it was not till a month later that she allowed

Rowena to go up north, and see what further help was required.

She came back and gave Mrs. Burke her report. "I was only just in time

to see your sister. What a sweet woman she is!"

"She used to be pretty. I suppose she slanged me pretty thoroughly."

"May I be quite frank and tell you her attitude towards you?"

"Oh yes—don't spare my feelings. I have a thick skin and can bear it."

"She said she realized that she had been hard towards you in those

early days; but now that you were getting on in years, she felt sure

you must be becoming tired of a life of pleasure, and she would like to

be friends with you."

"Afraid of losing my money should I die!" snapped Mrs. Burke. "I am

much obliged to her. I hope you stood up for me."

Rowena laughed. "I told her how good you were to me and everybody, and

then we talked about the grandchildren. She is taking her husband to

Bournemouth. It is too late to save his life I am afraid. He has not

the strength for a journey abroad even if the means were forthcoming.

She has a daughter living at home now. She is a governess, but is out

of a situation and has been helping her mother since her father has

been so ill. The grandchildren consist of two girls and a boy. The

boy is a handsome little fellow of fifteen, the girls are sixteen and

twelve. They ought to be all at school. The elder girl teaches the

younger one, and the boy goes to the Grammar School. She is leaving

them for the present at home with her daughter. I think you would lose

your heart to the trio, they are so bright and so good-looking, but are

delicate—want of good food I should say."

"Did you suggest they should come to me?"

"No. How could you have them here in London? I said something about the

holidays, but you must write to your sister about it."

"We'll have them down for Christmas, and give them a good time. I'll

write at once, and if the boy is worth placing at a good school, I'll

do it."

"That will be splendid. Oh dear, I do envy you your opportunities!"

"It is you pegging away at me, that makes me seize them." And it was

true. Slowly, but surely Mrs. Burke was finding out the delights of

sharing some of her wealth with those in need. Before Rowena had come,

she made her banker her almoner; now she began to take interest in

many individual cases, whom Rowena discovered. Sometimes when her

spirits flagged, she would say: "I dare say I shall end my days in

some secluded country cottage; I am sure you will gradually get all my

wealth from me for your 'deserving poor'!"

And Rowena would reply with a glow in her eyes, "You might do many

worse things than that."

CHAPTER IV

AN OLD FRIEND

"And I perceived no touch of change"

. . . . . . . .

"But found him all in all the same."

Tennyson.

"MY dear girl, you must come with me to Lady Graeme's At Home this

afternoon."

"Oh, why?" asked Rowena, looking up from her desk with a wrinkle

between her brows.

"Well, she made a special point of your accompanying me. She lost her

heart to you the other afternoon when she was here. Now I let you off a

good many places, but not this one. Will you be ready about half-past

four?"

"If you wish."

And so it came to pass that Rowena found herself, on a foggy November

afternoon, in a crowded drawing-room in Palace Gate. She knew many of

the young people assembled there, for Lady Graeme, like Mrs. Burke,

though old herself, loved to surround herself with the young. It was

not a very staid gathering. There was a distinctly rowdy element in it.

Every one smoked, and voices were loud and voluble. Rowena got as near

the door as she could. She hoped she could slip out into an emptier

ante-room, but first one and then another detained her. Lady Graeme's

second son, Alan by name, was a special crony of hers. He had stayed at

Minley Court on several occasions, and was a fresh frank young fellow

in the Scots Guards. He now slipped into a seat close to her.

"Thanks be, that you are here, at any rate," he said. "I do loathe the

mater's crushes so. I hardly see you anywhere in town. Don't you go

about?"

"I'm not a gadder by choice," said Rowena cheerfully.

"You don't look it! Did you ever see such a set of women as are here

this afternoon? I'm getting fed up with it. I should like to go off

game hunting in Somaliland or in the Rockies."

"Why don't you do it when you get your leave? I agree with you, one

does get fed up with all this. So much energy wasted."

"Oh, I know what you think of us. You and I have had some straight

talks. Why don't you sober your giddy old friend over there. My word!

she might be just eighteen!"

Mrs. Burke was the centre of a noisy group—the other end of the room.

One of the men was taking off a well-known parliamentary character, and

his audience was convulsed with laughter.

Rowena looked across at her and sighed; then she turned to her young

companion and smiled.

"Well, you see what life does to those who grow old in this atmosphere!

Get your own soul into fresher and clearer air, and do something before

you die. Isn't it Young that says:

"Time wasted is existence—us'd is life."

"You ought to have lived in the mediæval days," laughed young Alan.

"How you would have buckled on your man's sword and thrust him forth!

Do you seriously think running down a tiger is more soul inspiring than

dancing the Tango?"

"Your soul would get a chance of breathing. Life without a pause is so

paralysing."

"We always get into metaphysics—you and I! Hulloo, here is Macdonald

by all that's wonderful! The mater has beguiled him here under false

pretences; he'll never stand this. Take a good look at him. He saved my

life out in France—ought to have got a V.C. for it. He's a cousin of

ours."

Rowena took one look at the tall figure coming in at the door, and a

faint flush rose to her cheeks, a breath of Highland air seemed to

accompany him. He looked irreproachable in his London clothes, and yet

there was some indescribable stamp about him that set him apart from

the men around him.

"Let me introduce him," said her young companion.

"But I know him," said Rowena.

Alan Graeme started forward and shook hands warmly with the General.

"Awfully good of you to come! The mater's just gone into the tea room;

here's some one who knows you."

General Macdonald met Rowena's bright friendly eyes, with grave

pleasure in his own.

He held out his hand to her.

"It seems a long time since we met," he said. "I have brought Mysie to

town for a week or two."

Alan was seized hold of by a young girl in a startling dress of black

and white striped velvet, very open at the neck and back; very short in

the skirt.

"Oh, you slacker!" she exclaimed, putting her hand on his shoulder.

"Don't you know that two lady loves await you in that further corner.

They have sent me to fetch you. You promised to sing for one, and—"

They moved off.

General Macdonald's look of disgust made Rowena smile.

"Are you at home in this company?" he asked abruptly; "it somehow does

not seem to fit you."

Then before she had time to reply he went on:

"I am told I am old-fashioned and censorious; but a scene like this

repels me. Are these the mothers of our future generation? May God help

me to keep Mysie out of fashionable society."

"Amen," breathed Rowena.

"Give me news of the Highlands," she said.

He did not respond, but looked at her in puzzled bewilderment.

"Do you often attend these functions? I feel like a fish out of water.

Is there nowhere we can get away from this smoke and heat? I came to

see my cousin."

"Shall we go into the tea room? I believe she is there." But the tea

room was overcrowded, and they stood for a moment in the corridor

outside. He told her he had brought Mysie up for a fortnight and they

were staying with an old cousin of his in Eton Place. Then he asked her

about herself, and Rowena pointed out Mrs. Burke to him.

"I live with her, as a companion-secretary."

General Macdonald looked at Mrs. Burke with her golden wig and rather

loud style of dress. He noted the noisy circle in which she was, and he

said shortly and sternly, "I am sorry to hear it."

Rowena's eyes first twinkled, then softened:

"I do like you," she said audaciously, "when you act the stern friend."

He did not smile.

"Mysie will be wild to get hold of you. Can you come round and see us?"

"I think I might perhaps to-morrow, darling Mysie! I expect she is

grown."

He was silent. Rowena was conscious that she was the subject of his

close scrutiny.

"You have been through trouble since we met. I did not know your

address or would have written you a line of sympathy. Your brother was

a great friend of mine."

"I know. Thank you. My sister-in-law has gone to live with her mother,

so I am on my own."

"And you can do no better than this?"

"You are judging me hardly."

Rowena's tone was rather proud, though her heart was beating and her

pulses throbbing strangely. She rather resented the effect that this

tall grave friend of hers had upon her.

He smiled, and his smile warmed her heart.

"Perhaps I am. You must tell me all about yourself."

At this moment Lady Graeme came up, and whilst she was greeting her

cousin, Mrs. Burke seized hold of Rowena.

"I am off. Come along. I have promised to go to the Ford Curries. If

you don't want to come with me, you can go home."