Dinner was served at seven o’clock at the Nag’s Head, and was a substantial meal, consisting of spiced salt beef, gooseberry pie, and cheese. Mrs McNab carved the joint at the sideboard, and directed the movements of the maid by a series of glares which appeared to be fraught with wondrous significance.
“Brither Elgood” took the head of the table, and beamed upon his companions with cherubic good-nature, while his brother sat on his left, immersed in thought and his dinner. An elderly man with a strong Glasgow accent came next, accompanied by a homely, kindly-looking wife. (Margot sighed with relief to find that after all she was not the only lady of the company). Across from them sat a bowed old man, wearing a clerical collar with his tweed coat, and a thin, weedy-looking youth, evidently his son. An eminently staid and respectable company, but hardly of thrilling interest!
Ronald’s handsome, clear-cut face stood out like a cameo among them, while Margot’s fluffy net blouse looked a garment of superfine smartness. There was no opportunity of talking to either of the brothers Elgood, separated as they were by the length of the table. The clergyman, Mr Moffat, remarked that it had been a fine day, an ex–ceptionally fine day! Mrs Macalister, the Glasgow lady, handed the mustard with the suggestion that it was always an improvement to a boiled round; but with these thrilling exceptions the newcomers were left to their own devices. Conversation even among the older residents was spasmodic and intermittent, and in no sense could the meal be termed sociable or cheerful.
As soon as it was over “the real Mr Elgood” darted upstairs to his own room, the remaining gentlemen strolled out of doors to smoke their pipes, and Mrs Macalister escorted Margot to the best parlour across the landing.
It was a chill, yet fusty little apartment, the shrine of the accumulated treasures of Mrs McNab’s lifetime. Time was when she had been cook to a family in Edinburgh, before McNab won her reluctant consent to matrimony. Photographs of different members of “The Family” were displayed in plush frames on the mantelpiece, table, and piano-top. Mr Moncrieff in Sheriff’s attire, “The Mistress” in black satin; Master Percy in cap and gown, Miss Isabel reclining in a hammock, Master Bunting and Miss Poppet in various stages of development. There was also a framed picture of “The House”; a tambourine painted with purple iris by Miss Isabel’s own hands; an old bannerette in cross-stitch pendent from the mantelpiece, a collection of paper mats, shaded from orange to white, the glass-covered vase of wax flowers which had attracted Ron’s notice, one or two cheap china vases, a pot of musk placed diametrically in the centre of a wicker table, a sofa, and two “occasional chairs” gorgeously upholstered in red satin and green plush.
Mrs Macalister seated herself in the larger of the chairs, Margot took possession of the smaller, and heroically stifled a yawn. Another evening she would wrap herself in her golf cape and go out into the clear cool evening air; but now at last fatigue overpowered her; fatigue and a little chill of disappointment and doubt. How would it be possible to become intimate with a man who sat at the opposite end of the table, shut himself in his own room, and was apparently oblivious of his surroundings? With characteristic recklessness Margot had put on her very prettiest blouse, hoping to make a good impression on this first evening, but for all the attention it had received it might as well have been black delaine! She sighed and yawned again, whereupon Mrs Macalister manifested a kindly concern.
“You’re tired out, poor lassie! Ye’ve had a weary journey of it. From London, I believe? I have a daughter married in Notting Hill. Will that be anywhere near where you stay? I’m hoping she’ll be up to visit us in the New Year, and bring the baby with her. I have five children. The eldest girl is settled in Glasgow. I say, that’s something to be thankful for, to have a married daughter near by. There was a young lawyer paying her attention who’s away to the Cape. If it had been him, I’d have broken my heart! It’s bad enough to have Lizzie in London, where, if the worst comes to the worst, ye can get to her for thirty-three shillings, but I couldn’t bear one of my girls to go abroad...”
“But the men have to go—it’s their duty to the Empire; and somebody must marry the poor things,” Margot declared, still stifling yawns, but roused to a sleepy interest in Lizzie and her sisters. She foresaw that Mrs Macalister would need but the slightest encouragement to divulge her entire family history, and wondered whether time would prove her to be more of a solace or a bore. As a rule, she herself preferred to monopolise the larger share of a conversation, but to-night she was too tired to do more than offer the necessary remarks by the way.
“Oh ay, that’s right enough. I don’t object to their marrying, so long as it isn’t one of my girls. I sent Isabel off on a visit to a school friend when young Bailey began to grow particular. A mother can manage these things, if she’s any gumption, without letting the young people suspect that there is any interference. They like their own way, young people do, and Isabel is obstinate, like her father. Mr Macalister can be led, but he’ll never be driven. Ye have to ca’ canny to get the better of him.”
Margot murmured a few words of polite but somewhat vague import, being rather puzzled to decide in what light she was expected to view Mr Macalister’s characteristics. It occurred to her that as the good lady was determined to talk, the conversation might be carefully directed into more interesting channels, and valuable information gleaned concerning the other guests of the house.
“Have you been staying here long? Are you going to make a long visit?” she inquired; whereupon her companion began again with increased vigour.
“We’ve been a matter of a week, and as for the future, it just depends! Mr Macalister’s been failing for the past year. He’s just unduly set on his business, and his nerves,” (she pronounced it “nearves”) “are in a terrible condition. The doctor warned him he would have a collapse if he didn’t get a rest at once. ‘Take him away where he can’t get letters and telegrams every hour of the day,’ he told me. ‘Take him to the quietest place you can find, and keep him there as long as ye can!’ So here we are; but how long he’ll put up with it, is past my knowledge. He begins to weary already, and of course no man will ever believe that any one else will take his place. They’re conceited creatures, my dear. Mr Macalister—”
“It is nice for him having so many companions. I suppose you know the other visitors quite well?” Margot felt that for one evening she had heard as much as she cared for about Mr Macalister, and headed the subject in the desired direction with unflinching determination. “The Mr Elgood who took the head of the table seems very agreeable.”
“Oh ay, he’s a friendly wee body!” Mrs Macalister allowed, patronisingly. “There’s no harm in him, nor in his brother neither, though he keeps himself to himself, and is always busy with his fishing, or writing, or what not. My husband went fishing with him one day, but they didn’t seem to hit it exactly. Mr Macalister is very genial-like when he’s in health, and he can’t do with any one who’s stand-off. He always says—”
“But Mrs McNab seems to prefer the younger brother. He must be nice, or she would not like him so much,” interrupted Margot once more; and Mrs Macalister smiled with unruffled good-humour.
“Oh ay, they’re just two dour, silent bodies who understand each other and each other’s ways. He goes and has a crack with her now and then, and I’ve even heard them laugh,”—her voice took an awed and incredulous tone—“but at the table he never raises his voice. Mr Macalister says he is very close. He couldn’t get anything out of him at all, and all his friends say Mr Macalister ought to have been a lawyer, for he’s just wonderful for getting to the bottom of things. Of course when a man’s run down, he isna at his best. Ye can’t judge him, as I say, as you can when he’s in his usual—”
Margot groaned in spirit! To keep Mr Macalister out of the conversation was evidently a hopeless feat. She saw before her a long succession of interviews when she would sit caged up in this little room, listening to the expressions of his virtues and failings! To-night she felt a moral conviction that she would soon fall asleep under the strain, and making an excuse of writing home, escaped to her own room, scribbled a few words on the back of a postcard, wrapped herself in her golf cape, and went out into the road in search of Ron.
It was still broad daylight, but now the sky was grey and colourless, and the mountains had ceased to smile. Like grim watching sentinels they stood on either side, closing in the Glen in a solitude that was almost awesome to behold. It seemed impossible to believe that twenty-four hours earlier one had been in the great city, and had considered Regent’s Park countrified! Margot hurried forward to meet Ron, who was strolling along by himself, the other men of the party being out of sight. He looked at her with some anxiety, as she approached, and asked an eager question—
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you well? I thought you were not coming out. You look quite white!”
“I’m cold and tired, and—scarey! The beauty seems to have disappeared, and it’s all so grim and grey. I made an excuse and came out to you with a card to post—but we needn’t take it to-night, it’s too far to the village.”
“Nonsense! the walk is just what you need. You are tired with sitting still, and a sharp trot will warm you up, and help you to sleep. Come along. I’ll give you a start to the bend of the road, and race you to the nearest tree.”
Margot was not in the least in the mood for running races, but as a means of getting warm it was not to be despised, so she started promptly, running with swift, easy steps, and gradually quickening pace, as Ron gained upon her from the rear. She had not been educated at a girls’ public school and been captain of the sports committee for nothing, and, given a short handicap, could often come off best. As the following footsteps grew nearer and nearer she spurted bravely forward, the ends of her cape streaming wildly in the breeze, her uncovered hair ruffled into curling ends. The tree was but a few yards distant; she was laughing and panting, dodging from right and left, to prevent Ron from passing by from behind, when round a bend in the road a figure appeared directly in her path, the figure of Brither Elgood himself, his round eyes bulging with surprise and curiosity. He came to an abrupt standstill in the middle of the road, and the racers followed his example, looking, if the truth were told, a trifle abashed to be discovered in so childish an amusement.
“Halloa! What is the matter? Is the Inn on fire?”
Margot laughed merrily. The voice, the tone, the manner, were those of a friend of a lifetime, rather than an acquaintance of an hour. It was impossible to answer formally; moreover, the humour of the idea made its appeal.
“No, indeed! On ice, more likely! We were so cold that a race seemed the only chance of getting warm! I hope we didn’t startle you too much!”
“I like being startled,” returned Mr Elgood complacently. He stood still, swinging his cane, looking from brother to sister with bright, approving eyes. “I was afraid you were feeling tired after your journey, but evidently you have not yet reached the age of fatigue. That’s right! Thats quite right! I am glad that you have joined us at the Nag’s Head. We are a respectable and harmonious party, but we need life—young life! We may weary you, but you will refresh and enliven us. In the name of our little company, I welcome you to the Glen?”
“Thank you, sir,” said Ron simply, while Margot, as usual, hastened to amplify his words.
“I hope we shall be friends. I hope we shall all be friends. I was dreadfully tired really, but I felt worse staying in the house, and in that little parlour after dinner I nearly fell asleep.”
Mr Elgood’s eyes lit up with a flash of humour.
“But when a man’s out of health you canna judge him! When he’s in his usual, Mr Macalister’s a verra interesting character!” he said solemnly. Then, meeting Margot’s start and smile, he began to laugh again, and to shake in his happy, jelly-like fashion. “Ah—ha, I know! I guessed what was in store for you, as I saw you led away. She’s a good woman that; a good, kind, womanly woman. Her devotion does her credit. When you and I get a wife, sir, we shall do well if we find one half so loyal and devoted.”
He looked at Ron as he spoke, bringing his eyebrows together in a quick, scrutinising glance; but Ron’s face was blank and unresponsive. Enshrined in his heart was a dim figure, half goddess, half fairy, a creature of thistledown, of snow, of blossom tossed before the wind; a lovely illusive vision who in due time was to appear and complete his life. It was a violation of the shrine to suggest a Mrs Macalister! He stood still, his brows knitted, his lips pressed together in a thin, warning line. Margot was impatient at his lack of response, but all the same he looked wonderfully handsome and interesting, and she could see that Mr Elgood regarded him with awakened interest, conscious that here was a character cut out of a pattern of its own, not made in the same mould as the vast majority of his fellows.
They turned and walked together along the winding road. Evidently friendship progressed quickly in this quiet glen, and guests living beneath the same roof accepted each other in simple, natural fashion, as members of a common household. Margot felt a sense of protection in the presence of this little man, so much older than herself, so friendly, so absolutely unsentimental in manner. His head was on a level with her own, and she read a frank admiration in his eyes, but it was an admiration of which Agnes herself could not have disapproved. He was the kind of man one would have chosen for an uncle—an indulgent bachelor uncle with plenty of money, and a partiality for standing treat!
“Tell me about the people in the Inn! I am always so interested in people!” she cried eagerly. “My brother likes other things better—books and pictures and mountains—but I like the living things best. I know a good deal about Mr Macalister’s health, and about Lizzie, and Isabel, and their husbands and babies, and their lovers before they were married. They come from Glasgow—and the old clergyman is Scotch too, I suppose. Is every one Scotch except ourselves and you? We come from London—”
Mr Elgood’s face shadowed quickly.
“Yes! but don’t mention it. Never mention it!” he cried quickly. “I live there, too, or as nearly live as is possible in the surroundings. Now for three or four weeks I’ve escaped, and my one endeavour is to forget that such a place exists. I ask every one as a favour never to mention as much as the name in my hearing. You’ll remember, won’t you, and be good enough to indulge me? For the moment Miss—Miss Vane, I am a Heelander, born and bred, a strapping young chieftain of five-and-twenty. The Elgood of Elgood, an it please you, in bonnet and kilt, and my foot is on my native heather!”
He tilted his cap on one side, and threw a swagger into his walk, cleverly remindful of the swirl of tartan skirts, then turning upon Margot, queried quickly—
“Why do you laugh? It’s rude to laugh! Is it so impossible to think of me in the character?”
“I laugh because I’m pleased,” Margot answered, truthfully enough. “I do love to pretend! Let’s bury London and our lives there, and pretend that we are all Highlanders! We will be your guests up in your mountain fastness, and you will take us about, and show us the scenes of your historic feuds with neighbouring clans, and we will swear to help you, if any new trouble should arise!”
“Right oh!” cried Mr Elgood, laughing. “I shall be only too proud. I’m a sociable beggar—during holiday time—and want to do nothing but smoke and talk. To talk nonsense, of course. Nothing dull or improving.” He cast a sudden, suspicious look at the girl’s face. “You are not clever by any chance, are you? I can’t stand cleverness in the country.”
Margot laughed gaily.
“I think I am—rather!” she declared audaciously. “I couldn’t confess to being stupid, even to please a Highland chief, but it’s in a very feminine way. I don’t know anything about politics or science, and I’ve forgotten almost all that I learnt at school, but I take an interest in things, and understand people pretty well. I am generally clever enough to get my own way!”
She laughed again, remembering the purpose of the moment, and its close connection with this newly-made acquaintance. Instinctively she turned towards Ron, and the two pairs of brown eyes met, and flashed a message of mischief, affection, and secret understanding—a glance which made the watcher sigh with a sudden realisation of his own lost youth, his bald head, and increasing bulk. They were only a pair of children, these newcomers; kindly, affectionate, light-hearted children, whose companionship would be a tonic to a lonely, tired man. The broad cherubic countenance showed a passing shadow of wistfulness, as he slacked his pace and said in hesitating tones—
“I am afraid I have tacked myself on to you, without waiting for an invitation. I will say good evening now, unless I can act as guide, or help you in any way. Have you any special object in your walk?”
“Only the post office in the village. Do please come with us if you will! We should be delighted to have you!” cried Margot eagerly; and Ron looked down into the little man’s face with his beautiful dreamy eyes, and said simply, “Please come, sir,” with a sincerity which there was no denying.
Mr Elgood beamed with satisfaction. “Come awa, then, ma bonnie men!” he cried jauntily, and waved his stick in the air.
For the very first evening Margot could not help thinking that they had made an excellent beginning!
Being a prudent damsel, and wise in her day and generation, Margot set before herself the subjugation of Mrs McNab as her first duty in Glenaire. To this end she repaired to her bedroom after breakfast on the morning after her arrival, made her bed, carefully put away every article of clothing, and tidied the oddments on the dressing-table; went through the same performance in Ron’s little crib adjoining her own, and sailed downstairs in a glow of virtuous satisfaction.
Mrs McNab had apparently only one maid to help her to attend to her eight guests and to keep the inn in its present condition of immaculate order and cleanliness, though a shaggy-headed man—presumably the master of the house—could be seen through the staircase window, meekly brushing boots, and cleaning knives in a corner of the flagged yard. He had a small, wizened face, to which the unkempt hair, tufted eyebrows, and straggling whiskers gave a strong resemblance to a Skye terrier dog. Margot watched him now and then for a minute or two as she passed up and down, and heard him speaking once or twice, but he “had the Gaelic,” and the sing-song voice and mysterious words sounded weirdly in her ears. Sometimes, as he put the final polish on the boots, he would break into song,—a strange, tuneless song which quavered up and down, and ended on long-sustained notes. Once even she saw the slippered feet move in jaunty dance-step to and fro, but at the sound of a clatter of saucepans from the kitchen close at hand he retired into his corner, and polished with redoubled energy. Mrs McNab evidently kept her husband in order, even as she did her house!
Elspeth, the maid, was a girl of eighteen or twenty, with a thin figure encased in a lavender print gown, and flaxen hair pulled so tightly back from her forehead that her eyebrows seemed to be permanently elevated by the process. Her face shone from the effects of constant soaping, and was absolutely void of expression. From morn till night she rushed breathlessly from one duty to another, rated continuously by Mrs McNab’s strident voice, with never so much as a bleat of protest. When waiting at table, she snored loudly from nervousness, and the big red fist trembled as she carried the dishes to and fro, but her face remained blankly expressionless as before. Margot smiled at her radiantly every time that they met, and mentally decided to bequeath to her half her own wardrobe before leaving the Glen. In comparison with such a lot of drudgery, her own life seemed inexcusably idle and self-indulgent!
It took a considerable amount of courage to beard in her own den a woman of whom the members of her own household stood in such evident awe, but there was at least no nervousness apparent in Margot’s manner as she tapped at the kitchen door at eleven o’clock that first morning, and thrust her pretty face round the opening to request permission to enter. Mrs McNab had descended from her work upstairs, and surely her heart must be softened by the spectacle of those two immaculately tidy rooms!
“Mrs McNab, I’m cold! May I come in and warm myself by your fire?”
The mistress of the inn turned a stonily surprised face from the table, before which she stood chopping suet with a short-handled knife; she did not suspend her work, but simply heightened her voice to make it heard above the harsh, monotonous noise.
“Cold, are ye? Havers! It’s a fine June day. There’s no call for any one to feel cold, if they don’t sit about idling away their time. Put on yer cloak, and go a turn down the Glen!”
Margot suppressed a thrill of indignation at that accusation of idleness. Had she not made two whole beds, and even stooped to pick stray pins off the carpet? She pushed the door open and walked boldly forward.
“I’ll go out as soon as I’m warm. If I caught a chill, I should give a lot of trouble, and you have enough to do without fussing over me. I know you would be a good nurse, Mrs McNab—good housekeepers always are. I know without being told that you have a cupboard chock full of medicines and mixtures, and plasters and liniments, and neat little rolls of lint and oilskins. Is it this one?” She laid her hand on a closed door, drawing the while nearer and nearer to the fire. “What a perfectly beautiful oak chest! That’s genuine! One can see it at a glance. The lovely elbow-grease polish can never be imitated. So different from the faked-up, over-carved things glittering with varnish that one sees so often nowadays. What a shame to keep it hidden away in the kitchen!”
Mrs McNab pounded stolidly away at the suet.
“I dinna ken where the shame can be!” she responded drily. “It’s my own chest, and my mither’s before me, and it’s a pity if I mayna keep it where it pleases meself. There’s no call that I know of to turn out my things, so that ither folks can have the fun of staring at them!”
Mrs McNab’s manner was certainly the reverse of gracious, but, remembering the momentary softening of the grim face which she had witnessed the night before, Margot was determined not to be easily discouraged. Having gone so far, one could not retreat without irrevocably burning one’s boats. Now or never victory must be wrested from the enemy!
With a charming little air of domesticity she seated herself upon the polished fender-stool at the side of the open grate, catching up her skirt so that it should not be caught by the blaze, and smiling across the room in her most confiding fashion.
“Please let me stay, Mrs McNab! It’s such a lovely cosy kitchen, and my brother is out, and I feel so lost! Couldn’t I do something to help? Are those gooseberries in that basket? Do they need picking? I can’t cook, but I can pick gooseberries with any man living. Do let me! You said I was idling away my time. Give me a chance to work!”
Mrs McNab grunted sourly.
“There’s no call for you to do anything of the sort. I never was one to take work upon myself that I couldna perform. The girl would have picked them before now, if she didna go about making more work than she gets through. She can do them when she gets downstairs!”
Poor, struggling, machine-like Elspeth! Margot felt a pang of pity for her unappreciated efforts, and the determination to spare her one task at least brought with it renewed courage.
“Let me do them as a pleasure to myself! I should feel so proud when the pie came to table, if I had helped to prepare it, and it would be an excuse to sit by this lovely fire. Please?”
“Kitchen work is no for the likes of you. Ye wouldna like it if ye soiled yer fine new gown!”
“If I asked you very nicely, perhaps you would lend me an apron!”
Mrs McNab threw down her chopper, and turned to wipe her hands on a roller towel. Perhaps she had come to the conclusion that as a pure saving of time it would be wise to give in without further demur; perhaps the twinkling appeal of the brown eyes touched a vulnerable spot in her heart; perhaps the service itself was of some value at the moment.
Margot did not concern herself as to causes, but was content to realise that she had won the victory. She meekly allowed herself to be tied into a coarse white apron, and set to work on the big basket of berries with nimble fingers. Picking gooseberries is not a task which requires much skill or experience; perhaps quickness is the criterion by which it can best be tested, and Mrs McNab’s sharp glances soon discovered that her new apprentice was no laggard at the work. The little green balls fell from Margot’s fingers into the basin with quite extraordinary quickness. She kept her eyes on her work, but her tongue wagged.
Margot talked, and Mrs McNab grunted, but the grunts grew ever softer and less repellent. The first attempt at a joke was met with a sniff of disdain, but a second effort produced a dry cackle, and that was a triumph indeed! When the suet had been reduced to shreds, there was bread to sift, and eggs to beat; and then Mrs McNab washed her hands and dropped her working apron preparatory to going upstairs to see after “the girl.” She made no demur at leaving Margot alone in the kitchen, for, having undertaken a task, she was plainly expected to carry it through.
It was astonishing how much fruit one basket could hold! One wide-lipped basin had already been filled, and another pressed into the service, yet even a vigorous tilt to the side failed to show any signs of the bottom of the basket. Margot had achieved her double purpose of warming herself and breaking the ice of her hostess’s reserve, and now was in a fidget to be off to join Ron on the hillside; but the fear of Mrs McNab was strong upon her, and she dare not move until her task was complete.
There she sat upon the low fender-stool, the big white apron concealing the blue tweed dress, her pretty, flushed face bent over her work, to all appearances the most industrious of Cinderellas, while the pendulum of the old oak clock clicked noisily to and fro, and through the open door came a whiff of clean cool air, laden with the scent of flowers and sweet-briar, with the pungent aromatic odour of growing herbs, with the heavy sweetness of the dairy.
Margot thought with a shudder of the gloomy underground regions in Regent’s Park, where the servants of the house spent the greater part of their lives. In her own future spells of authority she determined to be very, very indulgent to pleas for “outings”; nay, even to make it a matter of duty to plan days of sunshine and liberty for the patient, uncomplaining workers.
The sun was beginning to peep forth from behind the clouds, and its rays dancing across the kitchen floor were an almost irresistible temptation to one newly escaped from town. Margot gave the basket an impatient shake, and, as another means to the desired end, popped a couple of berries into her mouth. So sweet did they taste, so fresh and ripe, that another two soon followed suit, and henceforth she ate as steadily as she worked. There could be no hesitation in so doing, for in fruit-picking it is an unwritten law that the worker is free to take his toll.
It was while Margot’s hand was raised to her mouth for the eighth or ninth time that a footstep sounded on the flagged floor of the scullery behind her back, and a man’s voice and laugh startled her into vivid attention. In both was a note which immediately recalled her companion of the night before,—the cheery, warm-hearted pseudo-chieftain of the Glen—yet in both rang a difference which told that the newcomer was not he, but probably one closely connected by birth and association.
The Mr Elgood; the Editor; the all-powerful dispenser of Ronald’s fortunes! Margot felt convinced that it could be no one else, and experienced a moment of keen anticipation, followed by a shock of disgust, as she grasped the meaning of his words.
“Ah-ha! So I’ve caught you pilfering again. What will Mrs McNab say when she finds all her good fruit disappearing like this? You’ll have to bribe me not to carry tales. Better turn me into a confederate—eh? Are they ripe?”
A long thin hand descended over Margot’s shoulder, the fingers deliberately feeling after the plumpest and yellowest of the berries. He had mistaken her for Elspeth! Stupefaction mingled with wrath,—Elspeth! A vision of the square-built, flat-headed, hopelessly graceless figure rose before Margot’s outraged vision, and resentment lighted into a blaze. Could any apron in the world be large enough to cause a resemblance between two such diametrically different figures! Margot appreciated her own beauty in an honest, unaffected fashion, as one of the good gifts which had been showered upon her, and for the moment the sense of injury eclipsed that of embarrassment.
With an impetuous movement she turned her face over her shoulder—that vivid pink and white face which made such a startling contrast to Elspeth’s stolidity—and stared with widely-opened hazel eyes into that other pair of eyes so near her own.
It was the younger Mr Elgood sure enough,—but seen close at hand, with that mischievous smile curling his lips, he had an extraordinary youthful and boyish appearance. Margot received an instantaneous impression of kindliness and strength, of a glinting sense of humour, before the change came. Such a change! If she had been a wild animal prepared to spring, horror and dismay could not have been more eloquently depicted upon his face. The eyes widened, the features stiffened into a mask, the outstretched hand fell limply to his side. He opened his lips to say something, several things, but the words were unintelligible; a mere broken stammer of apology, as he wheeled round and walked hastily from the room.
The door slammed behind him; she heard his footsteps over the flagged hall. Poor Margot! Never before in her life had she so keenly desired to make a good impression; never had she so signally failed. It was indeed an unpromising beginning to the campaign!
A second time that day Margot came into close contact with Mr George Elgood. She was strolling slowly up and down the road with “the Chieftain,” waiting for Ron to make his appearance before starting for a ramble over the countryside, when through the doorway of the inn out dashed the “Editor,” making in the same direction, in the headlong, unseeing fashion which was plainly a characteristic. When about twenty yards distant, he lifted his eyes from the ground, became suddenly conscious of the two figures slowly strolling towards him, stopped short in the middle of the path, and, wheeling round, darted quickly in the opposite direction.
The cut was too glaring to be ignored. Margot’s cheeks flamed with annoyance, which the sound of a low chuckle by her side did not help to subdue. She reared her little head to its haughtiest angle, and spoke in frosty accents.
“I am afraid I am in the way. Pray don’t let me interfere with your plans. Won’t you join your brother before he goes too far? He is walking very fast—”
There was a note of satire in the last words which made the Chieftain chuckle once more.
“Not I,” he replied easily. “I can have his society any time I like. Yours is infinitely more refreshing. Keeps up a pretty good pace, don’t he? Scared, you know. Scared to death! Running to cover like a frightened hare!”
“Scared of what?”
“Of you?”
Margot had known the answer to the question before she had put it, but, woman-like, was none the less affronted. Accustomed to be sought after and admired by mankind in general, it was a disagreeable experience to find herself repelled by the man of all others whom she was most anxious to ingratiate. Her face stiffened, and her rounded little chin projected itself proudly, the while her companion looked on with twinkling amusement.
“That makes you feel pretty mad, don’t it?” he inquired genially. “You are not accustomed to that sort of treatment. Most of ’em run the other way, don’t they? I should, in their place! But you mustn’t be hard on old George. When I said ‘you,’ I used the word as a plural, not as applying with any special significance to your charming self. It is womankind as a whole which he finds terrifying. Run a mile any day rather than meet a woman face to face! You must not imagine that there is anything unusual in his avoidance of yourself. It’s always the same tale.”
Margot paused a moment, to reflect dismally that in this case there was small hope for the fulfilment of her scheme, then ventured the natural feminine question—
“Has he been crossed in love?”
“Who? George?” George’s brother appeared to find something mysteriously ludicrous in the suggestion, for he shook with delighted laughter. “Rather not! Never had enough to do with a woman to give himself a chance. He’s an old hermit of a bachelor, Miss Vane, absorbed in his work, and becoming more of a slave to it every year of his life. Even on a holiday he can’t take it easy like other folks. He has some writing on hand just now—a paper of sorts which he has undertaken to have ready by a certain time, and it appears to his benighted intellect that a holiday is an excellent opportunity of getting it through. Mad, you see; stark, staring mad, but an excellent fellow all the same. One of the very best. I have a large experience of men, but I’ve never met one to compare with him for all-round goodness and simplicity of heart. We all have our failings, and there are worse things than a little shyness and reserve. If he avoids you like the plague, try to pity him for the loss it entails upon himself, and take no offence! As I said before, it’s not a personal matter. He knows that you are a stranger and a woman, but I don’t suppose he has the most glimmering idea of what you are really like!”
“Oh yes, he has. I was sitting in the kitchen this morning, and he came and spoke to me under the impression that I was Elspeth! The impression lasted until he got quite near. I was wearing an apron, but still,—I wasn’t pleased! When he saw my face instead of hers, he fled for his life. But he did see it! He knows quite well what I am like.”
“And in the depths of your little girl heart you think he is a strange fellow, not to want to see you again! You can’t understand why he should go out of his way to be kind to Elspeth, and avoid some one infinitely more attractive. Don’t be offended, but that’s a wrong view to take of the case. In my brother’s eyes Elspeth is more attractive than yourself, for she is poor, you see, and ugly, and leads a life of all work and no play. He might be able to do her a good turn. Besides, he has known her for several years, and has had time to become reconciled to her existence, so to speak. Custom goes a long way with shy people. George would rather beard a den of lions than face the company in the inn parlour on a wet evening, but he is a welcome guest in the kitchen, and Mrs McNab adores him to the extent of submitting to muddy boots without a murmur. He cracks jokes with her in a free-and-easy manner which strikes awe into the heart of tremblers like myself. It’s my first visit to the Nag’s Head, and I’m still in the stage of abject submission. She’s a wonderful woman!”
Margot smiled with returning composure. She divined her companion’s desire to change the subject of conversation, and was quite willing to further his efforts. What she had already heard concerning George Elgood supplied ample food for meditation.
Viewed in dispassionate light, it was not wholly disconcerting, for if the citadel could but once be stormed, there seemed a certainty of gaining sympathy and consideration. She must be content to wait in patience, until the hermit had become reconciled to her existence; but Ron, as a fellow-man, could venture on advances on his own account.
She must talk to Ron in private, and try to instil into him some of her own energy and enterprise. He was a dear, wonderful fellow, but absolutely wanting in initiative. Poets, she supposed, were always dreamy, impracticable creatures, unfitted to attend to practical interests, and dependent upon the good offices of some adoring woman working meekly in the background.
Her eyes brightened eloquently as she watched her brother’s approach along the winding path. What a handsome young figure of manhood he made in his Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, the close-fitting deerstalker cap showing the light chestnut hair, from which no barber’s shears could succeed in banishing the natural kink and curl. No one would suspect, to look at him, that he cherished poetical ambitions! Margot was English enough to be thankful for this fact, illogical as it may appear. She was proud to realise that he looked a thorough sportsman, and in absolute harmony with his surroundings, and instinctively her pride and affection voiced themselves in words. The Chieftain might not be the rose, but he was at least near the rose, and it would be well to enlist his interest as well as that of his brother.
“Doesn’t he look splendid?”
Mr Elgood started, and for a moment his round face expressed the blankest bewilderment, then his eyes lit upon Ron, and comprehension dawned.
“Ah, yes,” he returned indifferently, “nice-looking lad! Pity he hasn’t more to say for himself. What’s he supposed to do? Business or profession?”
“It’s not decided. He has not long come down from Cambridge. He is quiet, but he is very clever, all the same. Much cleverer than most boys of his age.”
“Humph!” The Chieftain’s tone was distinctly sceptical. “Yes! Good degree?”
Margot’s colour heightened in embarrassment.
“Nothing special. Only a pass. It isn’t in that way that his cleverness shows.”
“Just so! Just so! I’ve met men like that before. Well, don’t spoil him, that’s all. Worship him in your heart, but not to his face. Looks to me as if he needed hardening up. A bit moony and sentimental. What? Don’t mind my saying so, do you?”
“Not a bit!” returned Margot proudly; but she cared horribly, all the same, and for the moment her liking for her companion suffered a distinct eclipse. “I know him, you see, and understand him as no stranger can do. He needs appreciation, for he is too apt to lose faith in himself, and he is not sentimental at all. He has plenty of sentiment, but that’s a different thing!”
“Yes—Um!” responded the Chieftain mischievously, his little eyes twinkling with amusement as they scanned the girl’s flushed, injured face. “Quite so! Sorry I spoke. He is, without doubt, an unusually gifted young man.” He bowed towards Margot, with an inference too transparent to be mistaken, and at which she was obliged to laugh, despite herself.
Ronald joined them at this moment, and looked from one to the other with his big, dreamy eyes. Margot was irritated to see that he looked even more absent-minded than usual, just when she was anxious that he should show to most advantage. He asked no questions in words, however, but Mr Elgood hastened to reply to the unspoken query in his eyes.
“Your sister and I have been having an argument. I don’t know how it came about. Hate arguments myself, especially on a holiday. Besides, it’s a waste of time. Whoever knew any one converted by an argument? Each one goes away more satisfied than ever that he is in the right, and that his opponent is talking rubbish; present company excluded, of course. So far as I can remember, we were discussing cleverness. If you were asked for a definition of a clever man, what would you say? How would you describe him?”
Ronald stood in the centre of the road, his hands clasped behind his back, his brows knitted in thought. Ninety-nine people out of a hundred would have answered such a question off-hand with a few light words; Ron bent the weight of his mind to it, with whole-hearted earnestness.
“Cleverness!” he repeated slowly. “It’s a poor word! There’s no depth in it. When a man is called clever, it means, I think, more an ability to display a superficial knowledge than any real, stored-up wisdom. It may even be a double-edged compliment!”
“Scored!” cried the Chieftain gaily, as he waved his stick in the air, and led the way forward with a jaunty tread. “Proposed, seconded, and carried that cleverness is a delusion to be sedulously avoided! Just what I always said. I’ve known clever people in my day—squillions of them, and, my hat! how stupid they were! That little lass dabbling in the lake is wiser than the whole crowd.” He pointed to a fair-haired child wading by the side of the tarn. “The spirit of childhood—that’s what we want! the spirit of joy in present blessings, and untroubled trust for the future. That little lass has a life of hardship and toil ahead—but what does she care? The sun shines to-day, and the funny wee mannie fra the inn is going to gie her a bawbee for goodies. It’s a bad habit which he has fallen into; a shocking bad habit, but he canna cure himself of it.” He threw a penny to the smiling, expectant child, then turning sharply to the left, led the way across the low-lying ground towards the base of the nearest hill.
Margot noticed that, as he went, he turned from time to time quick, scrutinising glances at Ron’s face, as though trying to satisfy a doubt, and classify him in his own mind. Evidently the lad’s serious, somewhat pedantic manner of replying had invested him with a new interest, but when he spoke again it was only in reference to the afternoon’s expedition itself.
“I am not going to take you far,” he announced. “I object to walking, on principle. What I maintain is, that we were never intended to walk! If we had been, we should have had four legs, instead of two. I never walk if I can possibly induce something else to carry me. And climbing is another mistake. What is it that one admires about mountains? Their height and grandeur! Very well, then, where is the point of vantage from which to view them? The base, of course. Climb up to the top, and you lose the whole effect, to say nothing of chucking away your valuable breath. See that little path winding up the slope? That leads to the moors, and when you are once on the moors you can walk about on the level all day long, if you are so disposed, and the air goes to the head of even a lazy old fellow like myself, and makes me quite gay and frisky. You two youngsters can go on ahead and engage in light conversation, while I puff along in the rear. At my age and bulk even the most witty conversation palls when climbing a hillside. When you get to the end of the footpath sit down and wait till I arrive, and take no notice of me till I get my wind. Then we’ll start fair. Off with you!”
Margot ran forward, laughing, and she and Ron were soon scrambling up the hillside, side by side.
“That’s a good fellow. I like him! He will be very interesting when one gets beneath the surface,” pronounced the boy thoughtfully.
Margot nodded emphatically.
“I’m going to love him! I feel it in my bones, and he is going to love me too, but unfortunately he’s the wrong man. He says that his brother hates women, and will do all he can to avoid me, so you must take things into your own hands, Ron! I can’t help you, so you must help yourself. You will have to cultivate his acquaintance, and get him to take you about, and talk to him, and try to get intimate. You will, won’t you? Promise me that you will!”
She looked with anxiety into the lad’s face as she spoke, for previous experience had proved that Ron possessed the full share of those failings which are most characteristic of his temperament: a sudden cooling of interest at critical moments; a shirking of responsibility, an inclination to drift. It was a part of the artistic nature, which had an irritating effect on more practical mortals. Now, as she feared, he remained as placidly unmoved by the intelligence as if it had no bearing whatever on his own prospects.
“Oh, all right. I’ll see! You can’t rush things, if a fellow keeps out of your way. Our opening will come in time, if we leave it to chance and don’t worry. I believe I am going to do really good work here, Margot! I had an idea last night, after you had gone to bed, and I was watching the stars through the pines. I won’t read it to you yet, for it wants working up, but it’s good—I am sure it is good! And that little stream along from the house; I found a song motif in that,—‘Clear babbling over amber bed!’ How’s that for a word-picture? Shows the whole thing, doesn’t it? The crystal clearness of the water; the music of its flow, the curious golden colour of the rocks. I’m always pleased when I can hit off a description in a line. I’m glad we came, Margot! There’s inspiration in this place.”
But for once Margot refused to be sympathetic.
“You did not come for inspiration, you came for a definite, practical purpose; and if you write a hundred poems, it won’t make up for neglecting it. Now, Ron, wake up! I shall be angry with you if you don’t do all you can for yourself. Promise me that you will try!”
“All right! All right! Do let us be happy while we have the chance, Margot. We had enough worry at home, and this place is perfect. Let us be wise children, and take no thought for the morrow. What would Elgood think of you, beginning to worry about the future, the moment his back was turned? She was a pretty illustration, wasn’t she?—that little bare-headed child. Did you notice her hair? Almost white against the russet of her skin.”
Margot grunted unsympathetically. She was out of breath with scrambling up the hillside, a trifle out of temper also, and consequently not in the mood to enthuse over artistic contrasts. She did not speak again until the summit was reached, and she threw herself on the ground to rest, and wait the arrival of the Chieftain. His gasps and grunts could already be heard in the distance, for, notwithstanding his various handicaps, he was surprisingly nimble, and in a few moments a round scarlet face hove into sight, and a round grey body rolled over on the ground by her side.
“Piff! piff! whew–w! Don’t look at me, please—I don’t like—being stared at by ladies—when my—complexion is flushed!” he gasped brokenly, mopping his face with a large silk handkerchief. “Every time—I—come up here—I vow I’ll—never come again; but when I’m once up, I—never want to go down!”
He flourished his handkerchief to the left, pointing out the wide moorland, beautiful in colouring with its bright rank greens, and the bloomy purple of heather undulating gently up and down like the waves of an inland sea.
The pure rarefied air fanned the heated faces of the climbers, and with every moment seemed to instil fresh life and vigour. It was easy to believe that, once started, one would wander on and on over this wonderful moorland, feeling no fatigue, possessed with the desire to go farther and farther, to see what surprise lay beyond the next hillock.
After all, it was Mr Elgood who made the first start. One moment he lay still, puffing and blowing, bemoaning past youth, and bewailing loss of strength; the next, like an indiarubber ball, he had bounced to his feet, and was strutting forward, waving his short arms in the air, the white silk handkerchief streaming behind him like a flag.
“Allons, mes enfants! No lolling allowed on the moors. Keep your eye on that green peak to the right, and make for it as straight as a die. A few hundred yards away is a cottage where, if we are very polite and ask prettily, the guid-wife will give us a cup of buttermilk, the Gaelic substitute for afternoon tea. In a certain spot, which shall be nameless, I should as soon think of drinking poison in glassfuls, but after a stretch on the moors it tastes like nectar! Take my word for it, and try!”
That was the first walk which Ron and Margot had ever taken over a Scotch moor, and to the last day of their lives they remembered it with joy. The air went to their heads so that they grew “fey,” and sang, and laughed, and teased each other like a couple of merry-hearted children, while the Chieftain was the biggest child of the three.
At times he declared that he was tired out and must turn back, but hardly were the words out of his mouth, than, lo, he was dancing an impromptu hornpipe with astonishing nimbleness and dexterity! He took a lively interest in all that his companions did and said, and did not hesitate to put question after question in order to arrive at a fuller understanding of any case in point; but London, and all that took place in London, remained a forbidden topic. He was the Elgood of Elgood, and they were “his bonnie men,” and life outside the Highlands had ceased to exist.
Margot was delighted that the little man should have a chance of seeing Ronald in one of his lightest, most boyish moods, for from the expression of his face she feared that he had not so far previously been favourably impressed by the lad’s personality. Now it was impossible not to admire and laugh as Ron played imaginary bagpipes on the end of his walking-stick, or droned out lugubrious ballads in imitation of a strolling minstrel who had visited the inn the night before. The ballad dramatised the circumstances of the moment: the perilous ascent, the wandering of three strangers across the moor, the flowing bowl which was to refresh and strengthen them for the return journey. Ron’s knowledge of the native dialect was so slight that he fell back upon the more stately phraseology of the early English poets, introducing a strange Scotch term now and again with irresistibly comic effect.
The two listeners cheered him on with bursts of delighted laughter, while at an unexpected clever turn, or apt stringing together of words, the Chieftain would clap his hands and caper with delight.
“Good! good!” he would cry. “Neat! neat!” while his twinkling eyes surveyed the boy with increasing respect. “Do you often improvise?” he asked, when the ballad came to an end, and when Ron replied truthfully enough in the negative, “Well, I have heard many fellows do it worse!” was his flattering comment.
Margot had expected more, and felt that more was deserved, for the ballad had been quite a brilliant effort to be rattled off on the spur of the moment, but she could only hope that, in conclave with his brother, the Chieftain might be more enthusiastic, and manage to impress upon that absent-minded genius that the boy was worthy of his notice and study.
In due time—a very short time, as it appeared—the cottage was reached owned by the “guid-wife,” who was ready to give—not sell—draughts of buttermilk to the passers-by. Margot was a little chary of the first taste, but the keen moorland air had done its work, and she too found it as nectar to the palate. The guid-wife “had no English,” but the two women conversed eloquently with the language of the eyes, concerning the sleeping baby in its cradle, and the toddling urchins around the door. Here in the solitude this brave woman of the people reared her family, made their garments, tended them when they were sick, cooked for them, baked for them, washed for them, mended for them, and kept the three-roomed cot as exquisitely clean as hands could make it. The girl who dusted the drawing-room and arranged a few vases of flowers as her duty in life, gazed at her with awe, and felt ashamed of her own idle existence!
The buttermilk quaffed, Mr Elgood led the way to a thick patch of heather some few hundred yards nearer home, came to a standstill, and, spreading his handkerchief under his head, lay down with great deliberation and crossed his arms in beatific content.
“Now, if you want to discover what comfort means, find a soft patch for yourselves, and take a nap before we start for home. No upholsterer on earth ever manufactured a mattress to equal a bed of heather. If you don’t want to sleep, kindly keep your distance, and enjoy yourselves with discretion, for if I’m awakened in the middle of my siesta, nothing short of murder will appease me!”
He shut his eyes even as he spoke, and composed himself with a sigh of content. Margot, nothing loath, took off her cap, and, spreading her cape over the bushes, nestled contentedly into its folds. Ron scorned the idea of sleep, but as he was curious to test the comforts of the heather, down he lay in his turn; and so soft, so springy, so eminently luxurious did the new bed appear, that he felt no desire to rise. Presently his eyes dropped, rose heavily once or twice, and rose no more. Margot’s head burrowed more deeply into her cape. Deep regular snores sounded from the bush where Mr Elgood reposed. All three were fast asleep!
The sun shone on them; the hum of a thousand insects rose from the grass; high in the air a lark trilled his triumphant song. It was rest indeed to sleep and dream in such surroundings!