Margot awoke the next morning with the pleasant feeling that something was going to happen, and as she dressed, curiosity added an additional savour to the anticipation. What would happen? How would the Chieftain set to work? Would the Editor consider himself a victim, or yield readily to the temptation? Certainly he had so far manifested no anxiety to enjoy her society, had, indeed, seemed to avoid her at all points; and yet, and yet— Margot possessed her full share of a woman’s divination, and, despite appearances, the inward conviction lingered that if the first natural shyness could be overcome, he would soon become reconciled to her companionship, and might even—she blushed at her own audacity!—enjoy the change from his usual solitude.
Like a true daughter of Eve, Margot did her best to help on this happy dénouement by taking special pains with her toilette, putting on one of her prettiest washing frocks, and coiling her chestnut locks in the most becoming fashion, and the consciousness of looking her best sent her down to breakfast in the happiest of spirits.
Other countries may carry off the palm for the cooking of the more elaborate meals of the day, but surely no breakfast can touch that served in a well-ordered Scottish household. The smoothly boiled porridge, with its accompaniment of thick yellow cream; the new-laid eggs; the grilled trout, fresh from the stream; the freshly baked “baps” and “scones,” the crisp rolls of oatcake; and last, but not least, the delectable, home-made marmalade, which is as much a part of the meal as the coffee itself. He must be difficult to please who does not appreciate such a meal as Mrs McNab served each morning to her guests in the dining-room of the Nag’s Head!
It was when Margot had reached the marmalade stage, and George Elgood, a persistent late-comer, was setting to work on his ham and eggs, that the Chieftain fired the first gun of the assault.
“When are you going to invite us all to come up and have tea with you in your fairy dell, George?” he demanded suddenly. “What do you think of this fellow, Mrs Macalister, finding a veritable little heaven below, and keeping it to himself all this time? There’s an easy ascent by the head of the glen for those who object to the steeper climb; there’s shade, and water and everything that the most exacting person could want for an ideal picnic. To be in the country on a day like this, and not to go for a picnic seems to me a deliberate waste of opportunity, What about this afternoon, eh? That will suit you as well as any other time, I presume?”
To say that the Editor appeared surprised by this sudden threatening of his solitude, would be to state the case too mildly. He looked absolutely stunned with astonishment, and his predicament was all the more enhanced by the fact that already murmurs of assent and anticipation welcomed the idea from his neighbours to right and to left. He stared incredulously into his brother’s face, wrinkled his brow, and stammered out a laboured excuse.
“I’m afraid I— The dell is in no sense my property—No doubt it would make a capital site for a picnic, but I—I have no right to pose as host!”
“Rubbish, my boy! You are not going to get out of it so easily as that. We expect you to act as master of the ceremonies, and show us the beauties you have kept to yourself so long. Yes, and to catch some trout for us, too! What do you say to that, Mrs Macalister? How does freshly grilled trout strike you as an accessory to a picnic? We’ll have two fires, with the kettle on one, and the gridiron on the other, and Mrs McNab will send up a hamper of good things to complete the feast. We’ll leave George to manage that, as he knows how to get round her; only do the thing well when you are about it; that’s all I have to say! We shall bring rattling big appetites, shan’t we, Miss Vane?”
Margot’s glance passed by his to dwell with remorseful commiseration on the Editor’s perturbed face. This was her own doing; a direct consequence of her appeal of the day before! The expression of the brown eyes was wonderfully eloquent, and meeting them the Editor bestirred himself to smile back a grateful recognition. By this time, however, the murmur had grown into definite speech; Mrs Macalister was stating at length her life’s experience as to picnics, and laying down the law as to what was necessary for their success; the clergyman and his son were debating how to reach the dell from the farthest point of the day’s expedition; Mr Macalister was slowly repeating—
“Trout! Grilled trout! It’s a strange-like idea to have fish at a picnic!”
It was plainly too late in the day for the Editor to refuse an invitation which had already been practically accepted! With a better grace than might have been expected he resigned himself to his fate, and the smile which he sent round the table was very charming in its shy cordiality.
“I shall be delighted if you will honour me by coming so far; and no doubt with Mrs McNab’s help I shall be able to provide refreshments. Shall we say half-past four?”
“Four o’clock would be better. We want plenty of time to linger over tea, and ramble about afterwards,” said the Chieftain firmly; and there being no dissent from this amendment, the Editor nodded assent, and, gathering his papers in his hand, hurried out of the room.
Margot followed on the first opportunity. She felt the eyes of the Chieftain fixed on her face from across the room, and could imagine the twinkle of humorous meaning with which they would be alight but she felt too self-conscious and ill at ease to respond. Like a frightened little rabbit she scuttled upstairs to her own room and remained there, busying herself with odd pieces of work until the inmates of the inn had taken themselves off for their morning’s excursions, and quiet reigned throughout the house. Then, and not till then, she opened her door and peered cautiously at that other door across the landing. It was closely shut, and taking for granted that within its portals the bewildered scholar was making the most of his free hours, Margot crept quietly down the staircase, and turned to the right towards the kitchen. It occurred to her that she might be able to help Mrs McNab in her preparations for the afternoon, and by doing so relieve the pangs of her own conscience. All this work, and worry, and bewilderment, on her account—as a response to her appeal! She blushed guiltily, hardly knowing whether to feel more gratified or annoyed with the Chieftain for so speedy a demonstration of his power; dreading the moment when they should meet again, and she must perforce brave the mischievous messages of his eyes.
The kitchen door was closely shut. Mrs McNab was too capable a housewife to allow the noise and odour of culinary preparations to invade the rest of the house; but by this time Margot was sure of her welcome, for scarcely a day had passed by that she had not offered her services, and been condescendingly permitted to shell peas, stone fruit, or whip up snowy masses of cream. Mrs McNab always accorded permission with the air of an empress conferring an order upon some humble suppliant, but none the less Margot felt assured that she appreciated the help, and would have missed it, had it not been forthcoming.
This morning she tapped on the door, opened it, and thrust her head round the corner, to behold a tableau which remained fixed irrevocably in heart and memory. In the middle of the floor stood the mistress of the inn, arms akimbo, engaged in laying down the law in characteristic, downright fashion to some one who sat perched upon the dresser with hands thrust deep into knickerbocker pockets, and feet in rough climbing boots swinging nonchalantly to and fro; some one with a bright, almost boyish face alight with fun, laughter, and defiance.
For the second time Margot beheld the real George Elgood denuded of his mask of shyness and reserve, and thrilled at the recognition. This sunny, stone-flagged kitchen seemed fated to be the scene of unexpected meetings! She would have retreated in haste, but at the sound of her entrance Mr Elgood jumped hastily to the floor, and Mrs McNab authoritatively waved her forward.
“Here she is to speak for herself! Come yer ways, Miss Vane. I was saying to Mr Elgood that maybe he’d listen to your advice, as he willna tak’ mine. You’re a leddy, and ken how such things should be done, and if there’s any call to waste the morning, and run into daft-like expense, when everything a reasonable body need want is lying ready to hand—”
Margot looked from one to the other in bewilderment, her spirits rising with the discovery that for the first time in their short acquaintance the Editor met her glance with an expression of relief rather than of dread. He was smiling still, and the boyish look lingered on his face, making him appear an absolutely different creature from the grave, formidable hermit to whom she was accustomed.
Margot’s eyes danced, and she answered as naturally as if she had been speaking to Ron himself.
“I don’t know in the least what I am giving an opinion about—but I am not a ‘reasonable body,’ and as a rule the result of ‘daft-like expense’ is very nice! I’m afraid that isn’t what you wanted me to say, Mrs McNab, but I must be honest. Perhaps I may feel differently when I know what I am talking about.”
“Your picnic!” cried Mrs McNab.
“My picnic!” corrected the Editor. “I never gave a picnic before, and I’m weighed down by responsibility. My brother refuses to help me, and Mrs McNab is a Spartan, and nips my suggestions in the bud. She thinks we ought to be satisfied with bread and butter; I want cakes and fruit; I want her to bake, and she says she has no time to bake; I want to send over to Rew on the chance of getting strawberries; she says she has no one to send. If you agree with me, Miss Vane, perhaps she will make time; I know by experience that she is always better than her word!”
Mrs McNab sniffed ironically.
“There’s scones for ye, and good fresh butter—what do ye want forbye? Ye’d get nae mair if ye were at hame, and it’s not going to kill ye, walking a couple of miles. I’ve something else to do on a Thursday morning than waste my time messing over things that aren’t needed.”
Mr Elgood leant against the dresser, and surveyed her more in sorrow than in anger.
“Now what have you to do?” he demanded. “It’s absurd to pretend that there is anything to clean, because you never give a thing a chance to become dirty. There is cold meat for lunch, as you yourself informed me, so there’s no cooking on hand. This house goes by machinery, with Elspeth to stoke up the motive power. What can be left for you? I can’t think of a single thing.”
“Maybe not. A man-body never kens what goes on under his nose, though he’d be keen enough to find out if anything went wrong. It’s the day I clean my candlesticks and brasses. They don’t go on shining by themselves, whatever ye may think.”
“Candlesticks and brasses!” George Elgood repeated the words with gloomy emphasis, fixing the speaker with reproachful eyes. “Candlesticks and brasses! And you put such things as those before me, and the first—one of the first, favours I have ever asked! ... A big plum cake, with almonds at the top, and a round of shortbread; it seems to me a most moderate request. There’s not a soul in the inn who will notice a shade of extra polish on the candlesticks to-night, but they will all bear me a lifelong grudge if I don’t give them enough to eat. Have you ever been to a picnic where you were expected to be satisfied with bread and butter, Miss Vane?”
Margot’s shake of the head was tragic in its solemnity.
“Never! and I don’t intend to begin. I know where we can get some fruit, at any rate, for I heard the woman at the grocer’s shop saying that she had raspberries to sell. That is far easier than sending over to Rew, and I’d be delighted to take a basket and bring back all I can get. While Mrs McNab makes the cakes!”
Mrs McNab sniffed again, but vouchsafed no further answer. Mr Elgood’s face brightened, and he cried eagerly—
“That is kind of you! Raspberries are very nearly as good as strawberries, and it would be splendid to get them so near at hand. I—er—” he frowned, with a momentary return to his old embarrassment—“I will come too, and carry the basket, for we must hope to have a fairly heavy load.”
Margot could hardly believe in the reality of this sudden change of position, as she set out for the village ten minutes later, with George Elgood by her side. He carried the basket lent by Mrs McNab, and swung along with big easy strides, while she trotted by his side, a pretty girlish figure in her cool white frock. It was left to her to do the greatest share of the talking; but one reassuring fact was quickly discovered, namely, that her companion’s shyness seemed to consist mainly in the dread of breaking strange ground, for once the first plunge over he showed none of the expected embarrassment or distress. If he could not be called talkative, he was at least an appreciative listener; not a single point of her conversation missed its due share of interest; while his deep, quiet laugh proved an incentive to fresh flights of fancy. For a whole ten days had Margot been waiting for her opportunity, and now that it had come she was keen to turn it to the best possible advantage. Had the Chieftain been at hand to watch her with his quizzical glance, she might have been tongue-tied and ill at ease; even Ronald’s presence would have brought with it a feeling of self-consciousness; but in the kindly solitude of the mountain road she could be herself, without thought of any one but her companion. Remembering the warning which she had received, she kept the conversation on strictly impersonal topics, avoiding even the mention of Ron’s name, but never had ordinary topics seemed so interesting, or the way to the village so extraordinarily quickly traversed!
Inside the fusty grocer’s shop the good Mrs Forsyth manifested none of a Southerner’s delight at the advent of a customer for her superfluous fruit; she appeared, indeed, to receive Margot’s first inquiry in a somewhat flisty and off-hand manner, as though advantage were being taken of a careless word, which she had not expected to have taken in serious earnest. George Elgood, distinctly rebuffed, muttered unintelligible words of apology, but already Margot was beginning to understand the dour Northern manner, and pressed the attack with undiminished eagerness. Thus coerced, Mrs Forsyth was forced to acknowledge that she wouldna deny that she had raspberries in the garden; and that it seemed a pity they should waste, as she hadna the time to “presarve.” There was no telling—maybe when the children came hame from school in the afternoon they wouldna be above picking a basketful, and taking it down to the inn.
“But we want them now! We want as many as you can possibly spare, but we must have them to take back with us now!”
“And who’s to pick them for ye, I would ask?” demanded Mrs Forsyth with scathing directness. “I’ve the shop to mind, and the dinner to cook; it’s not likely I can be out picking fruit at the same time, and there’s not anither soul in the house forbye mysel! I’m thinking you’ll have to wait, or do without!”
“We could pick them ourselves!” pleaded the Editor eagerly. “You would have no trouble except to measure the fruit after it is gathered, and tell us what we owe! I don’t care how much I pay. I want some fruit this morning, and if I can’t get it from you I shall have to drive over to Rew. That would cost five or six shillings for the trap alone, so you see I shall get off well, even if you charge me twice the usual price.”
But here again the benighted Southerner found himself brought up sharply against an unexpected phase of Scottish character, for Mrs Forsyth was distinctly on her high horse at the thought of being offered more than her due. She had her price; a fair-like price, she informed him loftily, and she stuck to it. She wasna the woman to make differences between one person and anither. Justice was justice, and she would like to meet the man who could say she had ever stooped to accept a bribe.
So on and so on, while once again George Elgood hung his head abashed, and glanced in distress at his companion. In the delight afforded by that appeal Margot felt equal to dealing with ten Mrs Forsyths, each equally unreasonable and “kamstary.”
“We will leave the price to you; we will leave everything to you!” she cried gaily. “I know it’s asking a great deal to be allowed to come into your garden and pick for ourselves, but we are rather in a difficulty, for this gentleman is giving a picnic this afternoon, and Mrs McNab has no fruit to give us. It would be a favour not only to us, but to the whole party if you would say Yes. Please!”
The way in which Margot said “Please!” with head on one side, and upraised, beseeching eyes, was one of the most fatal of her blandishments. Even the redoubtable Mrs McNab had succumbed at the sight, and in her turn Mrs Forsyth also was overcome. She made no further objections, but led the way through the house into a long stretch of vegetable garden, the end portion of which was thickly planted with raspberry bushes.
“Help yourself!” she said briefly. “You’re welcome to all that’s fit to eat.”
So the two who had been strangers, and had suddenly developed into a kind of partnership of aim, set to work to fill the basket, which for better convenience was slung over a branch of one of the bushes.
The sun shone down on them; the life-giving breeze blew round them; they were alone together among the flowers and the scented herbs. They worked side by side, laughing over their efforts, comparing their takings, gloating over the quickly-filling basket like a couple of children recognising each other as playmates, and disdaining the ordinary preliminaries of acquaintanceship.
“It’s so kind of you to help me!” said the man.
“It’s so kind of you to let me!” returned the maid.
“I—I have noticed that you seem always to be helping people.”
“I didn’t think you noticed anything at all!”
He had not intended to say so much. She did not stop to consider what she was implying. Both blushed, relapsed into silence, and picked fruit assiduously for several moments, before beginning again—
“I am afraid this picnic will be a great bore to you.”
“Indeed, I think it is going to be a pleasure. I should have thought of it before, but that sort of thing does not come easily to me. I have lived too much alone!”
“You have your work—you have been absorbed in your work.”
“Have I? I’m afraid that is not altogether true!”
Margot glanced up surprised, met the dark eyes fixed full upon her, and looked hurriedly away.
“I have been finding it increasingly difficult to be absorbed,” he continued dreamily. “I have heard you all laughing and talking together downstairs, and my thoughts have wandered. Once you sang... Do you remember that wet afternoon when you sang? I did not seem able to write at all that afternoon.”
The basket was full of fruit by now; Margot lifted it by one handle; George Elgood lifted it by the other. They walked down the sunlit garden into the house.
Every one agreed that there never had been such a picnic, that it was impossible that such a picnic would ever occur again. In those northern regions it is a rare joy to find a day that is a very incarnation of summer; hot, yet not too hot; bright, yet not glaringly oppressive; a day when even the old and ailing feel it a joy to be alive, and the young and strong unconsciously break into song, and find it impossible to curtail their footsteps to a staid walking-pace.
George Elgood’s “fairy dell” stood in a gorge between two mountains; a strip of velvet green grass sheltered from the wind, such as the monks of old loved to select as the site of the monasteries whose ruins are still to be seen scattered over our land. The Editor had discovered this retreat, and mentally adopted it as his own, keenly resenting the intrusion of strangers; yet to-day he stood surrounded by hampers and impedimenta, playing host to every guest in the inn, and, wonder of wonders! conscious of an unusual sense of satisfaction in so doing.
Up the winding path they appeared, one by one, the clergyman and his son arriving first of all, hot and breathless after climbing a record distance in a record time. Next Mrs Macalister, red and shiny of face, holding up her skirts to display a pair of large, flat-heeled boots. By her side the originator of the expedition, the genial Chieftain, walking with his usual springy tread, twirling aloft an umbrella which he fondly believed to be sheltering the good dame from the rays of the sun, but which never approached much nearer to her head than a couple of yards. Next, Ronald walking alone, as his custom was; thinking his own thoughts, and gazing around with eyes quick to behold that deeper vision which is revealed only to the chosen few. The boy poet, young, strong, and ardent, with his life ahead, and following him with weary tread the tired-out man of the world, weighed down with a sense of his own infirmities, pining after the office desk and the city smoke, and finding nothing but satiety in the lonely hillside—Mr Macalister, with the furrows graven deep as stone on his brow, his lack-lustre eyes glancing wearily around. During the walk uphill Margot had been his companion, cheering him by her merry prattle, but, now that the destination was reached, she hung back, as though anxious to hide herself from view. Marvellous and unprecedented humility, for Margot Vane deliberately to choose a place in the rear!
It was impossible, however, for the only young woman of the party to remain in the background during the hour which followed, and, willy-nilly, Margot found herself forced into a foremost position; almost, it might be said, into the position of hostess to George Elgood’s host. While Mrs Macalister sat on a bank and fanned herself with her pocket-handkerchief, while the Chieftain built up the fires after a patent fashion of his own, Margot unpacked the hampers and laid out the contents on a tablecloth, carefully fastening down the corners with stones from the brook.
There was a goodly supply of eatables, for, as usual, Mrs McNab had proved better than her word. White bread and brown, scones and “cookies” galore, and a flat, round cake of most appetising appearance. There were also little pots of home-made preserves; a large bottle of cream, and a wonderfully exact and thoughtful supply of those smaller necessities which are so often forgotten on such occasions.
There was a frying-pan also, to cook the trout which had been duly caught to order, and were lying in readiness in a shady corner—two big shining fellows, such as would have delighted any fisherman’s eyes to behold. The second fire was built for their special benefit, and, as usual, each separate member of the party had his own suggestion to make as to its construction.
“Pile all the wood in a heap, and set fire to it! It’s as easy as tumbling off a wall!” cried the Chieftain, suiting the action to the word, and puffing cheerfully at clouds of smoke.
“You’ve built it far too tightly. Pull the branches apart, and lay ’em criss-cross—”
“The best way is to get one or two big stones and use them as a grate. Then you can get a draught underneath—”
“Quite so! and just as the water begins to boil, the whole thing collapses, and the kettle is upset!”
“Why can ye not bring up a methylated spirit lamp, and use its own stand as ye would at home?”
This last in Mr Macalister’s weary accents, and a loud groan of disapproval from the younger members of the party testified to the unpopularity of the idea.
“Oh, Mr Macalister, no! How horribly prosaic! It’s just because we do use it at home that we couldn’t think of it in a fairy dell. It’s a thousand times more romantic to use faggots.”
“Well, well! It’s a matter of taste. I should say a spirit lamp was as romantic as smoked water; but don’t mind me, don’t mind me! I have no call to interfere—”
“Mr Macalister was always a very handy man about the house. If anything went wrong with the kitchen range, I would say to the girl, ‘Wait till your master comes home!’ As long as he had his health we never sent for a workman. There’s very few could lay a fire better than he, if he took the trouble—”
“Tuts, tuts!” Mr Macalister frowned darkly at the faithful wife who so loyally chanted his praises, then, turning on his heel, paced solemnly down the dell. The Chieftain seized a sheet of the Glasgow Herald and vigorously fanned the dying flame; Margot coughed, choked, and spluttered before the clouds of smoke, and retreated in dismay to the more distant fire which George Elgood was sheltering with an open umbrella. Behind the impromptu tent he knelt, poking gingerly at the smouldering wood, but at Margot’s approach he sat back on his feet, lifting to hers a laughing, boyish face.
“No go! The wretched thing won’t light! How is Geoff getting on?”
“Your brother?” It was the first time that Margot had heard the Chieftain called by his Christian name, and it struck her as wonderfully appropriate for so bright and happy a personality. “He isn’t getting on at all! His measures are more drastic than yours, and he is at present occupied in fanning smoke into every one’s face, and knocking down sticks wholesale in the process. My hopes of tea are dwindling into the far distance—”
“What about grilled trout?” queried the Editor, pointing with a grimy finger at his own travesty of a fire. “At this rate, it seems as if we should have to come down to buns and milk; in which case I should never again be able to hold up my head before Mrs McNab. She told me that it was madness to think of cooking fish in the open.”
“But it isn’t, and it shan’t be, and we’ll make up our minds that we will!” cried Margot gaily. “Let us build up a little grate of stones, on which the pan can rest, and lay more faggots round the outside, to get warm and crisp before they are needed. We must keep the flame as clear as possible, so you can go on feeding it gently, while I attend to the fish. Big stones! We must pick them carefully from the side of the stream. The little ones are no use. I’ll go!”
“No, no! I’ll go!” He sprang to his feet as he spoke, and the umbrella, loosed from its moorings, pitched promptly forward, and alighted in the middle of the fire. There was only the tiniest of flickering flames, but, after the contrary nature of things, though it had scorned to undertake the grilling of trout, it seemed eager to seize upon twilled black silk, and to scorch it into a hole. Margot squealed; George Elgood pounced and stamped and dragged, until the ground was scattered over with smoking faggots, and the last pretence of fire had disappeared.
Just at this moment of thwarted ambition a whoop and crow of triumph sounded across the green, and behold the Chieftain capering round a dancing flame, and Mrs Macalister approaching with a brimming kettle.
“Quick! Quick!” cried Margot, flying brook-wards. “We’ll have it laid again in a moment. The ground is warm, and so are the sticks, so it will light more quickly this time. I’ll lay it afresh on two or three stones while you bring the rest. Big ones! Big ones!”
“But your frock, your pretty frock!” The Editor cast a commiserating glance at the dainty lawn flounces, already splattered with wet; but Margot only laughed, and ran eagerly back to her task.
The tea would be ready first, but that was only right and proper. The company would have time to be seated, and to help themselves to cream and sugar to their liking, and while they were even yet enjoying the first fragrant sips, the smoking trout would emerge from the pan, and triumphantly take its place on the festal tablecloth.
Gingerly picking up the smoking faggots, Margot piled them up in careful criss-cross fashion, sheltering them the while with the stones which the Editor carried back from the brook. Dress and hands alike suffered in the process, but she minded nothing for that. It was recompense enough to hear the crisp crackling of wood, to see the dancing gold of the flame. Almost as soon as the artificial grate was complete, the heat was strong enough to put on the frying-pan, and soon the fish was spluttering and sending forth a pleasant fragrance, at which the picnickers sniffed with anticipatory enjoyment.
A curious company they looked, seated on the ground around the well-spread table; very different from the usual party on like occasions, when a solitary adult is admitted on sufferance to play chaperon to a number of light-hearted youngsters. To-day youth was the exception rather than the rule, and a stolid reserve took the place of hilarious enjoyment. Yet even here the softening effects of tea and trout, and cakes and scones gradually made themselves felt. The clergyman waxed anecdotal, his grim face twitching with unexpected humour, as he related various sayings and doings of his brethren; the son insisted upon refilling the kettle, and superintending its second boiling. Mr Macalister assisted himself to two helpings of trout, and his wife’s disapproving gaze softened into complacence at the sight of the zest which replaced his usual languid distaste.
By the time that third cups of tea had been served round, the subject of music had been introduced, and the company had been made aware of the fact that a one-time singer of note was among their number. From this point it seemed only one step until Mr and Mrs Macalister were safely launched upon the strains of “Hunting Tower.”
There sat he at the one end of the low-spread cloth, eyes shut, brows elevated until they almost touched the locks of sandy hair which discreetly veiled his bald crown, his right hand sawing the air in time to the melody. There sat the guid-wife, beaming goodwill on all around, her bonnet-strings untied, her kindly face flushed to a peony red as the combined result of excitement and indigestion. There was not left much to boast of in the timbre of either voice; indeed, regarded as a musical effort, the duet must have been classed as a failure, had it not been for the hearty sincerity with which the words were voiced.
“Be my guidman yoursel, Jamie,
Marry me yoursel, laddie,
And tak’ me ower to Germanie,
Wi’ you at hame to dwell, laddie!
“I dinna ken how that wad do, Jeanie,
I dinna ken how that can be, lassie,
For I’ve a wife and bairnies three,
And I’m no sure how ye’d agree, lassie!
“Dry that tearful eye, Jeanie;
Grieve nae mair for me, lassie,
I’ve neether wife nor bairnies three,
And I’ll wed nane but thee, lassie!
“Blair in Athol’s mine, lassie,
Fair Dunkeld is mine, lassie,
Saint Johnstoun’s Bower, and Hunting Tower,
And a’ that’s mine is thine, lassie!”
A burst of applause greeted the concluding words, under cover of which Margot’s eyes and those of George Elgood met with instinctive sympathy.
“Aren’t they dears? Don’t you love to hear them?”
“Indeed I do! There’s so much poetry underlying the prose. To me they are far more interesting than a pair of young callow lovers, whose affection has known no trial.”
“Oh!” gasped Margot, and grimaced over her plate. She could not go so far as that, and had not bargained for such a degree of enthusiasm. As she stood side by side with the portly songstress a few minutes later, washing and drying dishes preparatory to packing them away in the hampers, she found herself still pondering over the Editor’s reply, and wondering if really—literally!—he could be more interested in this plain elderly woman than in a young attractive girl, like—like—
And then Miss Margot blushed, and tucked away a fold of the lawn skirt on which the mark of smoky fingers was painfully apparent!
When the hampers were packed ready for the return to the inn, an awkward silence fell upon the little company, while each one looked at the other, mutely interrogating as to what should happen next. It seemed ill-mannered to depart directly after being fed, yet no one knew what to do, or who should take the lead, seeing that the host himself appeared serenely unconscious of his duties. Once again it was the Chieftain who came to the rescue with a brilliant suggestion.
“Now we must clear the courts for Olympian sports, suitable for the occasion! To set the ball a-rolling, I’ll give you my celebrated impersonation of the reel, as performed by the prize dancer at the Athol Sports. Miss Vane! A word in your ear. Will you retire with me to the green-room behind those trees?”
Margot followed dimpling with amusement, and for the next ten minutes outbursts of laughter floated to the ears of the company, and kept them happily expectant of what was to come. Once or twice Margot darted across the green to open a hamper, and pilfer some mysterious article, which she made haste to cover beneath a cloth, and on her return would follow fresh explosions of mirth, the deep “Ha, ha!” of the Chieftain mingling with her own silvery trills of laughter.
Presently out he marched—“The Elgood of Elgood,” stepping daintily across the carpet of grass, his stockinged feet criss-crossed with bindings of tape, Mrs Macalister’s plaid shawl flounced round his substantial waist, and hanging therefrom to the depth of the knee. A roller towel was swathed across his body, and swung gallantly over his shoulder; sideways on his head was perched a cap of brown paper, secured across the chin with a shoelace, while held aloft in his hands was an empty milk-bottle, from the mouth of which issued the wailing notes of a bagpipe.
“Pity me, what’s this?” cried Mr Macalister, in amaze.
“Did ever any one see the like?” echoed his astonished wife.
The clergyman gazed over the top of his spectacles with eyes bulging with astonishment. Ron clapped his hands, and sent up a great shout of delight, while George Elgood sat on the grass clasping his knees with his hands, and shaking with laughter.
“Good old Geoff! Go it, Geoff! Keep it up. Dance, man, dance! Leave the pipes to us—we’ll pipe for you. Give your mind to your steps!”
Even as he spoke he and Ron seized bottles on their own account, and turned themselves into imaginary pipers, rivalling each other in turns and twists and long-drawn-out notes, till presently the infection spread, and every single member of the family was swelling the orchestra, Mr Macalister beating time with vigorous sawings of the arm and shakings of the head. So they piped, this motley assembly of old and young, while in the centre of the green the Chieftain twirled and leapt, and twirled again, and stamped his feet, and gave vent to loud staccato whoops—as deliciously comic a spectacle as one would meet in the course of a very long day.
Then at last, with purple face and gasping breath, he collapsed on the grass, and rolling over on his side lay panting, the while the onlookers exhausted themselves in applause.
“If they could see him now! If they could see him now!” cried George Elgood rapturously to himself; and Margot caught the words, and questioned curiously—
“Who? Whom do you mean?”
“The people at home. In town! What would they think?”
“Does he behave so differently in town?”
He cast at her a glance more eloquent than words. “Different!” he echoed beneath his breath. “Different!” But though she waited eagerly for a further explanation, it did not come. The Chieftain was already sitting up, mopping his damp face, and gesticulating energetically towards the other members of the party.
“Now then! Go ahead. I’ve led the way. Mr Macalister, your turn, sir! Who’s afraid?”
Mr Macalister shook his head. He was not afraid of any man, but his days were past for playing the fool! Not to say there had not been a time when he could dance a reel with the best! There was young Mr Menzies now—
Young Mr Menzies, the clergyman’s apathetic son, blushed crimson at the suggestion, and shook his head until it seemed in danger of falling off altogether. George Elgood stoutly denied his ability to “play tricks,” and tiresome, aggravating Ron flatly refused to improvise a poem on the day’s doings, throwing away a valuable opportunity with a recklessness which made his sister long to shake him.
Nobody would do anything! The Chieftain sat on the grass, divesting himself of his make-up, the while he roundly denounced his companions as the laziest, slackest, most unsportsmanlike crew whom it had ever been his misfortune to meet.
“But if you won’t play singly, you must play in bulk, for play you shall! We are out for a picnic, and must behave as sich. Up with you now, every man-jack of you!” he cried, suiting the action to the word, and springing to his own feet with the surprising ease and elasticity which characterised all his gestures. “We’ll start hide-and-seek along the Glen. We’ll hide, and,”—he glanced round, with an air of innocent inquiry—almost too innocent, it appeared in the eyes of one watcher at least!—and pointed a fat forefinger at his brother and Margot as they sat side by side—“you two will seek! Miss Vane and George... Give us ten minutes to hide ourselves discreetly, and then start out on your search. Between the two fireplaces shall be ‘Den!’ Are you ready?”
Apparently they were all ready. Mrs Macalister creaked and gasped, and finally rose to her feet; the men travelled after her in a long, straggling row. Margot and the Editor were left to themselves.
There was a short, somewhat embarrassed silence while Margot kept her eyes fixed on the scene of the late meal, the two smouldering fires, the piled-up hampers and baskets, and the Editor drummed with his fingers, and chewed his moustache.
“Er—” he began haltingly at last. “How do you think it has gone?”
“You mean the—”
“Picnic! Yes. My first entertainment. I feel responsible. Think they enjoyed it at all?”
“I’m sure of it. Immensely! They thawed wonderfully. Think of the duet! To hear Mr Macalister singing was a revelation. It has been a delightful change from the ordinary routine. And the trout! The trout was a huge success. How amiable of it to let itself be caught so conveniently!”
The Editor smiled, with the conscious pride of the experienced fisherman.
“There was not much ‘let’ about it. He led me a pretty dance before he gave up the struggle, but I was on my mettle, and bound to win. Do you know anything about fishing, Miss Vane?”
“I?” Margot laughed happily. “Just as much as I have gleaned from watching little boys fish for minnows in Regent’s Park! I don’t think I have ever particularly wanted to know more. It seems so dull to stand waiting for hours for what may never come, not daring to speak, in case you may scare it away! What do you think about all the time?”
He turned and looked at her at that, his lips twitching with amusement. Seated on the ground as they were, the two faces were very near together, and each regarded the other with the feeling of advancing a step further in the history of their acquaintance.
“He really is young!” decided Margot, with a sigh of relief. “It’s only the frown and the stoop and the eyeglasses which make him look as if he were old.”
George Elgood looked into the pink and white face, and his thoughts turned instinctively to a bush of briar roses which he had seen and admired earlier in the day. So fresh, and fair, and innocent! Were all young girls so fragrant and flower-like as this? Then he thought of the little prickles which had stung his hand as he had picked a bud from the same bush for his buttonhole, and smiled with latent mischief. After all, the remembrance did not lessen the likeness. Miss Margot looked as if she might—under provocation—display a prickle or two of her own!
“What do I think about?” he repeated slowly. “That is rather a difficult question to answer; but this good little river, I am thankful to say, does not leave one much time for thought. There’s a little channel just beyond the bridge that is a favourite place for sea trout. Would you like to see it?”
“Might I? Really? Oh, please!” cried Margot, all in a breath. Her very prettiest “please,” accompanied by a quick rise to her feet which emphasised the eagerness of her words.
George Elgood lost no time in following her example, and together they walked briskly away towards the head of the dell; that is to say, in the opposite direction to that taken by the other members of the party. George Elgood had picked up his fishing-tackle as he went—by an almost unconscious impulse, as it seemed—and unconsciously his conversation drifted to the all-absorbing topic.
“If we take a sharp cut across this hill—I’ll give you a hand down the steep bits!—we hit the river at the best spot. You have been grumbling at the wet weather, but you will see the good effects of rain, from a fisherman’s point of view. The river is full from bank to bank, rushing down to the sea. It is a fine sight, a river in flood! I don’t know anything in Nature which gives the same impression of power and joy. That’s where Norway has the pull. Her mountains can’t compare with the Swiss giants, but everywhere there is a glorious wealth of water. No calm sleeping lakes, but leaping cataracts of rivers filling whole valleys, as my little stream here fills its small banks; roaring and dashing, and sparkling in the sun. Norway is perfection, from a fisherman’s point of view; but there is plenty of sport to be found nearer home. I have had no cause to complain for the last fortnight. This way—to the right! It’s just a little rough going at first, but it cuts off a good mile. You are sure you don’t mind?”
Margot’s laugh rang out jubilantly. She scrambled up the steep mountain path with nimble feet, easily out-distancing her guide, until the hilltop was reached, and she stood silhouetted against the sky, while the wind blew out her white skirts, and loosened curling tendrils of hair.
Below could be traced the course of the river, winding in and out in deep curves, and growing ever broader and fuller with every mile it traversed. The sunlight which played on it, making it look like a silver ribbon, played also on the yellow gorse and purple heather; on the long grey stretch of country in the distance; on that softer blue plain joining the skyline, which was the sea itself. A breath of salt seemed to mingle with the aromatic odour of the heather, adding tenfold to its exhilaration.
As Margot stood holding on to her hat, and waiting for her companion’s approach, she felt such a glorious sense of youth and well-being, such an assurance of happiness to come, as is seldom given to mortals to enjoy. It was written in her face, her radiant, lovely young face, and the light in the eyes which she turned upon him made the shy scholar catch his breath.
“You did that well! Magnificently well!” he cried approvingly. “But you must take the descent carefully, please. There are one or two sudden dips which might be awkward if you were not prepared. I know them all. Shall I,—would you,—will you take my hand?”
“Thank you!” said Margot, and laid her hand in his with an acceptance as simple as if he had been her own brother. It was a very pretty little hand, in which its owner felt a justifiable pride, and it lay like a white snowflake in the strong brown palm stretched out to meet it.
For just a moment George Elgood kept his fingers straight and unclasped, while he gazed downward at it with kindling eyes, then they closed in a tight, protecting clasp, and together they began the descent.
For the most part it was easy enough, but the awkward places came so often and unexpectedly that it did not seem worth while to unloose that grasp until the bottom was safely reached. Margot had a dream-like sensation of having wandered along for hours, but in reality it was a bare ten minutes before she and her guide were standing on level ground by the side of the rushing river.
“Thank you! That was a great help,” she said quietly. George Elgood, with a sudden access of shyness, made no reply, but busied himself with preparation.
“I’ll just make another cast, to show you how one sets to work. I take a pretty big fly—the trout like that. These are the flies—all sizes, as you see. I am rather proud of them, for I make them myself in the winter months, when one can enjoy only the pleasures of anticipation. It’s a good occupation for a leisure hour.”
“You make them yourself!” Margot repeated incredulously, stretching out her hand to receive one of the hairy morsels on her palm, and bending over it in unaffected admiration. “But how clever of you! How can you have the patience? It must be dreadfully finicky work!”
“It is a trifle ‘finicky,’ no doubt!” He laughed over the repetition of the word. “But it’s a refreshing change to work with one’s hands sometimes, instead of one’s brain. Now shall I give you your first lesson in the art? Don’t imagine for a moment that fishing means standing still for the hour together, with nothing more exciting than the pulling-in of your fish the moment he bites. That’s the idea of the outsider who does not know what adventure he is losing, what hope and suspense, what glorious triumph! Like most things, it’s the struggle that’s the glory of the thing, not the prize. Shall I soak this cast for you, and give you your first lesson?”
“Oh, please! I’d love it! It would be too kind of you!” cried Margot eagerly. She had not the faintest idea what “soaking a cast” might mean, and listened in bewilderment to a score of unfamiliar expressions; but it is safe to affirm that she would have assented with equal fervour to almost any proposition which her companion made.
There and then followed the first lesson on the seemingly easy, but in reality difficult, task of “casting,” the Editor illustrating his lesson by easy, graceful throws, which Margot tried in vain to imitate. She grew impatient, stamping her feet, and frowning fiercely with her dark eyebrows, while he looked on with the amused indulgence which one accords to a child.
“Are you always in such a hurry to accomplish a thing at once?”
“Yes, always! It’s only when you don’t care that you can afford to wait.”
“It sometimes saves time in the end to make haste slowly!”
“Oh, don’t confound me with proverbs!” cried Margot, turning a flushed, petulant face at him over her shoulder. “I know I am impetuous and imprudent, but—the horrid thing will twist up! Don’t you think I might have a demonstration this time? Let me watch, and pick up hints. I’m sure I should learn more quickly that way, and it would be less boring for you. Please!”
At that he took the rod, nothing loth, and Margot seated herself on the ground, a trifle short of breath after her exertions, and not at all sorry to have the chance of looking on while some one else did the work. She was intently conscious of her companion’s presence, but he seemed to forget all about her, as wading slightly forward into the stream he cast his fly in slow, unerring circuit. How big he looked, how strong and masterful; how graceful were the lines of his tall lean figure! From where she sat Margot could see the dark profile beneath the deerstalker cap, the long straight nose, the firmly-closed lips, the steady eyes. It was the face of a man whom above all things one could trust. “A poor dumb body,” Mrs Macalister had dubbed him, scornfully; but Margot had discovered that he was by no means dumb, and that once the first barriers were broken, he could talk with the best, and bring into his conversation the added eloquence of expression. She recalled the lighting of his absorbed eyes as he had looked down at her own white hand, and flushed at the remembrance.
Margot had often pitied the wives and sisters of enthusiastic fishermen who had perforce to sit mum-chance in the background, but to-day she was conscious of no dissatisfaction with her own position. She possessed her full share of the girl’s gift of building castles, and it would not be safe to say how high the airy structure had risen before suddenly the rod bent, and the Editor’s intent face lit up with elation. The fish was hooked; it now remained to “play” with him, in professional parlance, till he could be landed with credit to himself and his captor.
For the next half-hour Margot was keenly, vividly interested in studying the tactics of the game. The reel screamed out, as the captive made a gallant dash for liberty; the Editor splashed after him, running hastily by the side of the river, now reeling in his line, now allowing it full play; and at the distance of a few yards she ran with him, now holding her breath with suspense, now clasping her hands in triumph, until at last, his struggles over, the captive floated heavily upon the stream.
It was the end for which she had longed throughout thirty of the most exciting moments that she had ever known; but now that victory was secured, woman—like she began to feel remorse.
“Oh, is it dead? Have you killed it? But it’s horrid, you know—quite horrible! A big strong man like you, and that poor little fish—”
“Not little at all! It’s a good six-pounder,” protested the fisherman, quick to defend his sport against depreciation. “No—he’s not dead yet, but he soon will be. I will just—”
“Wait! Wait! Let me get out of the way.” Margot flew with her fingers in her ears, then pulled them out to cry—“Is it done? Is it over? Can I come back?”
“Yes; it is all right. I’ve put him in my bag. You will appreciate him better in his table guise. I’ll take him back as a peace-offering to Mrs McNab, for her own evening meal. We have already had our share at the pic—”
Suddenly his hands fell to his sides, he straightened himself, and turned his eyes upon her, filled with puzzle and dismay.
“The pic—”
”—Nic!” concluded Margot faintly. Rosy red were her cheeks; a weight as of lead pressed on her eyelids, dragging them down, down, beneath his gaze. “I—I—forgot! We were to have gone to find them! Do you suppose they are—hiding still?”
He laughed at that, though in somewhat discomfited fashion.
“Rather not! Given us up long ago. It must be getting on for an hour. I can’t think how I came to forget—”
Margot glanced at him shyly beneath her curling lashes.
“It was the fish! A fisherman can’t be expected to remember anything when he is landing a trout!” she suggested soothingly. Nevertheless she remembered with a thrill of joy that his forgetfulness had dated back to a time when there had been no fish in prospect. “Do you suppose they have gone home?”
“We will go and see. From that mound over there we can overlook the path to the inn. Perhaps we had better keep a little in the background! It would be as well that they should not see us, if they happened to look up—”
If it were possible to feel a degree hotter, Margot felt it at that moment, as she followed George Elgood up the little hillock to the right, and, pausing just short of the top, peered stealthily around. A simultaneous exclamation broke from both lips; simultaneously they drew back, and crouched on their knees to peer over the heather.
There they went!—straggling in a row in the direction of the inn, the party of revellers who had been so basely deserted.
First, the clergyman, with his hands clasped behind his back, his head bent in thought; a pensive reveller, this, already beginning to repent a heavy, indigestible meal; next, Mrs Macalister, holding her skirts in characteristic fashion well up in front and sweeping the ground behind; a pace or two in the rear, her spouse, showing depression and weariness in every line of his body. Yet farther along the two young men carrying the empty hampers; last of all, at quite a little distance from the rest, the figure of the Chieftain stepping out with a tread even more conspicuously jaunty than usual, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his head turned from side to side, as if curiously scanning the hillsides.
At one and the same moment Margot and the Editor ducked their heads, and scrambled backwards for a distance of two or three yards. There was a moment’s silence, then instinctively their eyes met. Margot pressed her lips tightly together, George Elgood frowned, but it was all in vain; no power on earth could prevent the mischievous dimples from dipping in her cheeks; no effort could hide the twinkle in his eyes—they buried their heads in their hands, and shook with laughter!
When at last composure was regained, George Elgood pulled his watch from his pocket, glanced at the time, and cried eagerly—
“There is still an hour before we need be back for dinner. As well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Let us go back to the river, and try our luck once more!”