It was a very shamefaced Margot who made her appearance at the dinner-table that evening; but, to her unspeakable relief, she found that there was no cause for embarrassment. Instead of the meaning glances and joking remarks which she had dreaded, she was greeted with the ordinary kindly prosaic welcome, and not even Mrs Macalister herself ventured an innuendo. The Chieftain was the only one who alluded to the non-appearance of the searchers, and the manner in which he did so was a triumph of the commonplace.
“Muddled up that hide-and-seek finely, didn’t we?” he cried cheerily. “Afraid you had all your trouble for nothing. I happened to catch a glimpse of you heading off in the wrong direction, so turned into ‘It’ myself, and rooted them all out of their lairs. Then we played some sensible, middle-aged, sitting-down games, and strolled home in time for a siesta before dinner. Very good picnic, I call it. Great success! We’ll have another, one of these fine days.”
“’Deed yes, and we will!” assented Mrs Macalister genially. “It stirs a body up to have an outing now and then. I was thinking, why shouldn’t we drive over to B— and see the old castle and all the sights? I’ve been hankering to go ever since we arrived; but it mounts up when you drive about by yourselves. If we shared two carriages between us, it would make all the difference, and it seems foolish-like to be in a neighbourhood and not see what there is to be seen. You can get carriages from Rew, they tell me, if you order them a day or two before.”
To the amazement of the company, it was George Elgood of all others who hastened to second the proposal.
“A capital idea!” he cried. “B— is one of the finest old ruins in Scotland. Of course we must go; it would be worse than foolish to go home without seeing it. I have been before, so I could act as guide, and those who possess cameras had better take them also, as the place is rich in subjects.”
The clergyman and his son pricked up their ears at this, photography being with them only a degree less absorbing a pastime than that of walking; Ron awoke suddenly to the remembrance that his half-plate camera had never been unpacked since his arrival; and the three vied with each other in asking questions about the proposed excursion, and in urging that a date should be fixed. Before the meal had come to a conclusion, plans were mapped out, and a division of labour made, by which one person was held responsible for the hiring of carriages, another for the promised food, while George Elgood was left to arrange the plan of campaign.
“We are a happy family, we are, we are, we are!” hummed the Chieftain, under his breath, as he cast a twinkling glance across the table to where Margot sat, as demure to outward seeming as she was excited at heart.
“Why do you avoid me?” he demanded of her plumply, the next morning, when, after several unsuccessful attempts, he ran her to earth by the side of the tarn. “Scurry out of my way like a frightened bunny whenever I come along. Won’t do, you know! Not going to trouble myself to do you good turns, if you round on me afterwards, and avoid me as if I were the plague. What’s it all about?”
“Nothing,” stammered Margot confusedly. “I only felt rather— You do tease, you know, and your eyes twinkle so mischievously that I felt that discretion was the better part of valour.”
“Well, don’t do it again then, that’s all, or I may turn rusty and upset the apple-cart. No reason that I know of why I should be ostracised, because I try to help my fellow-creatures. What are you doing over here? Reading? What a waste of time! Much better come and chuck stones into the lake with me.”
Margot’s brown eyes widened in reproof.
“Don’t you like books?”
“Hate the sight of ’em! Especially on a holiday. Never want to see as much as a line of print from the time I leave home to the time I return. Especially,”—his eyes twinkled in the mischievous manner to which exception had just been taken—“especially poetry! Don’t mind my saying so, do you?”
“Not a bit,” returned Margot promptly, tossing her first stone into the lake with a vehemence which held more than a suspicion of temper. “Of course I never—one would never—expect you to like it. It would be the last thing one would expect—”
“Too fat?”
She blushed at that, and had the grace to look a trifle distressed.
“Oh, not that altogether. It’s a ‘Je ne sais quoi,’ don’t you know. One could tell at a glance that you were not a literary man.”
The Chieftain chuckled, bent down to gather a handful of stones, and raised a red smiling face to hers.
“Well, well, we can’t all be geniuses, you know! One in a glen is about as much as you can expect to meet in these hard times. But I can chuck stones with the best of ’em. That one was a good dozen yards beyond your last throw. Put your back into it, and see what you can do. It’s a capital way of letting off steam.”
Margot was tempted to protest against the accusation, but reflection prompted silence, since after all she was cross, and there was no denying it.
She took the little man’s advice, and “let off steam” by the vigour and determination with which she hurled pebbles into the lake, making them skim along the surface in professional manner for an ever longer and longer space before finally disappearing from sight.
The Chieftain cheered her on with example and precept, and, as usual, irritation died a speedy death in the presence of his bright, cheery personality. While they were still laughing and cheering each other on to fresh exploits, a lad from the post office passed along the road, and the Chieftain wheeled round to call out the usual question—
“Anything for me? Is the post in already?”
The lad shook his head. He was a red-headed sociable-looking creature who seemed only too glad to enliven his walk by a chat en route. His teeth showed in a cheerful smile as he replied—
“The post willna be here for an hour or mair. It’s just a telegram!”
A telegram! It said much for the peaceful seclusion of the Glen that the very sound of the word brought a chill of apprehension to the listening ears. No one received telegrams at the Nag’s Head. One and all the visitors had sojourned thither with the aim of getting away as far as possible from the world of telegrams, and electric trams, and tube railways, and all the nerve-shattering inventions of modern life. Their ambition was to outlive the sense of hurry; to forget that such a thing as hurry existed, and browse along in peaceful uninterrupted ease.
To-day, however, in that far-away world beyond the heather-clad mountains something must have happened of such importance to some member of the little party that it could not wait for the leisurely medium of the post, but for good or ill had demanded instant attention.
Margot and the Chieftain stood in silence for a moment before he asked the second question.
“Who is it for?—What’s the name?”
“Macalister!”
The name was pronounced with the lengthy drawl to which the hearers were growing familiar. They looked at each other with sighs of relief, followed swiftly by contrition.
“I hope nothing is wrong! I hope it’s not bad news. Poor Mr Macalister’s ‘nearves’!”
“No, no! Nothing of the sort. Why imagine evil? Always look at the bright side as long as you can. Take for granted that it is good news, splendid news—the news he would like most to hear. Cut along, laddie! People pay for telegrams with the intention of getting them to their destination as quickly as possible. We’ll defer the pleasure of a conversation to our next merry meeting.”
The red-headed one grinned complacently and continued on his way, whistling as he went. There was about him no suggestion of a harbinger of bad tidings; the sun shone from a cloudless sky, and awoke sparkling reflections in the water; the scene was one of unbroken peace and happiness, and yet, and yet,—some shadow seemed to have fallen on Margot’s soul, so that she could no longer take any interest in the mere throwing of stones. Her heart followed the footsteps of the messenger down the winding path, and stood still as he entered the inn.
“What is it, little girl? You look as if you had seen a ghost!”
The Chieftain stood observing her with an expression of kindly concern, for the pretty face had turned white beneath its tan, and the brown eyes were wide and tense, as if beholding something hidden from ordinary gaze. She gazed fixedly, not back in his face, but past him down the lane towards the inn.
“I’m—afraid! I feel it is not good news. It means trouble—big trouble! It is hanging over me like a cloud!”
He looked at her swiftly, and his face changed.
“Come then,” he said quietly, “we will go back. If it is trouble, we may be able to help. I never ignore presentiments; they are sent to us all from time to time, and if we are faithful we obey them, like a summons. One came to me years ago. It was late at night, and I was just off to bed, when suddenly it came—the remembrance of a friend far off; the insistent remembrance; the certainty that he needed me, and that I must hasten to help. By all the laws of common sense I should have shrugged my shoulders and gone to sleep; but what are we, to judge by our own poor knowledge the great unknown forces of God? I went out there and then, caught a midnight train, and was at his house by seven in the morning. His wife met me on the stair and said, ‘How did you know?’ ... He lay dying in his bed, and all that night he had been calling for me. There was something I could do for him, better than any one else. He wished to place it in my hands before he went, and God had mercifully provided the opportunity. Never say that anything is impossible in this world, little girl! According to your faith so shall it be unto you.”
Margot did not answer except by a faint, strained smile. Her eyes were fixed upon the doorway of the inn, waiting for the reappearance of the messenger, but he did not come, and the delay lent weight to her apprehension.
They spoke no more, but walked silently side by side, until they drew near to the inn, when suddenly the silence of the Glen was broken by a strange, unaccustomed sound. What was it? Whence did it come? From some animal surely; some animal in pain or fear, piteously making known its needs! It could not be the moan of human woe! Yet even as she passionately denied the thought, Margot recognised in her heart that it was true, and darting quickly forward made her way into the inn parlour. The messenger still stood outside the door, waiting in stolid patience for instructions, and by his side was Mrs McNab, wiping floury hands in her apron, in evident perturbation of spirit.
On the plush-bedecked sofa in the corner of the parlour the half-inanimate form of Mrs Macalister swayed helplessly to and fro, while on either side stood two men—her husband and George Elgood—looking on in helpless, masculine fashion. Her cap had fallen back from her head, her ruddy face was bleached to a livid grey, from her lips came from time to time that pitiful, hopeless wail. At first it seemed to have no definite sound, but as one listened it took to itself words,—always the same words, repeated again and again—
“My lassie! My Lizzie! Oh, my lassie!”
“Nay, dearie, nay! You mustna give way. She’s better off. You must be strong. We’ll bear it together.”
It was Mr Macalister who spoke; but Margot hardly recognised the voice, hardly recognised the face, which, for all its pallor and quiver of pain, was yet strong and calm. All trace of the peevish discontent that had hung like a cloud over the man had vanished like a mist; his bowed back seemed to have straightened itself and grown erect; the whining voice was composed and full of courage. He had forgotten his nerves in the presence of a great calamity; nay, more than that—he had forgotten himself; his one care and anxiety was for his wife!
The tears smarted in Margot’s eyes; she ran forward, dropped on her knees before the chair, and clasped her strong young arms round the swaying figure, steadying it with loving, gentle pressure. The wan eyes stared at her unrecognisingly for a moment, then, at the sight of her girlish beauty, old memories returned, and the tears began to rain.
“Lizzie’s gone! Lizzie’s gone! I’ll never see her again. All in a moment, and me so far away. My little Lizzie!... I canna bear it!...”
“She never suffered, mother. She knew nothing about it. It’s better for her than a long, painful illness. You must be thankful for her sake.” Mr Macalister looked down at Margot, and bravely essayed an explanation. “It was an accident. We’ve just heard. Instantaneous, they say. The mother’s sore upset, but she’s a brave woman. She’ll bear it bravely for all our sakes. We’ll need to get back to Glasgow.”
“Yes. I’ll help! I’ll pack for her. Don’t trouble about anything. I’ll see that it is all right. You’ll let me help you, dear, won’t you?” Margot put up a tender hand, to straighten the cap on the poor, dishevelled head; and something in the simple, daughterly action seemed to reach the poor woman’s heart, and bring with it the first touch of calmness. She sat up and looked blankly from side to side.
“I—I’m sorry! I shouldna give way. I never lost a child before, you see, and Lizzie was such a one for her mother. I wrote to her only last night. She leaves two bairnies of her own, but they are so young. They’ll never remember her!” The pitiful trembling began again, whereupon George Elgood’s hand held out a glass of water, and Margot took it from him to lift it to the quivering lips.
“They will need you all the more, and you must be strong for their sakes. That’s what she would wish, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes. I must take care of the children. And Fred—poor Fred! but he hasn’t loved her as I have done for nearly thirty years. Father, when can we get back?”
“I’ll see, my dearie. I’ll see! Leave all to me. I’ll settle it all, and this good lassie will pack your things. Ye need trouble for nothing, my lass,—ye need trouble for nothing.”
He laid his broad hand on his wife’s shoulder with a gesture infinitely tender, then turned and went stumbling out of the room, while Margot’s eyes met the tear-drenched ones above her with a flash of enthusiasm.
“He is—splendid!”
Even at that moment Mrs Macalister showed a faint kindling of response.
“Didn’t I tell ye? When a man’s out of health ye canna judge. When he’s in his usual, there’s no one to touch Mr Macalister.”
With an instinctive movement Margot turned her head upward till her eyes met those of George Elgood, and exchanged a flash of mutual understanding. It heartened her like a drink of water in a thirsty land, for underlying the pity and the kindliness she recognised something else; something that existed for herself alone, and which seemed to bring with it an electric thrill of happiness.
Outside in the “lobby” the Chieftain was looking up trains in his own Bradshaw, and arranging with Mrs McNab for the long drive to the station, while Mr Macalister was writing out a return message with trembling fingers.
“Come upstairs with me, dear!” said Margot gently. “You shall lie on the bed while I do the packing. It’s a long journey, and you must be as fresh as possible when you arrive. They will be waiting for you, you know, and expecting you to comfort them. You have told me how they all rely upon you. You wouldn’t like to fail just when they need you most!”
Mrs Macalister raised herself feebly from her chair, but her poor face quivered helplessly.
“I’m a broken reed for any one to lean on. I can only remember that Lizzie’s gone. There’s no strength left in me. She was the flower of the flock. And me so far away!”
For the next hour the poor woman lay on the bed in her room, now sobbing in helpless paroxysms of grief, now relating pitiful, commonplace anecdotes of the dead daughter so dearly beloved, a dazed helpless creature, unable to do a hand’s turn for herself, while her husband crept in and out, quiet, resourceful, comforting, full of unselfish compassion. Margot had hard work to keep back her own tears, as he clumsily pressed his own services upon her, picking up odd garments, folding them carefully in the wrong way, and rummaging awkwardly through the drawers.
The trap was to be ready to start by twelve o’clock, and ten minutes before the time Margot carried a sponge and basin of water to the bedside, bathed the poor, tear-stained face, brushed the straggling locks of grey hair, and helped to fasten bonnet and cloak. It was pathetic to see the helplessness into which grief had stricken this capable, bustling woman. She lifted her chin, to allow the strings of her bonnet to be tied by Margot’s hands, and sat meekly while the “dolman” was hooked. It was like dressing a big docile baby; like a child, too, the manner in which she clung to her husband’s arm down the narrow stair.
Mrs McNab was standing below in the lobby, her hard face flushed to an unnatural red. She held a basket in her hand filled with dainty paper packages containing fruit, sandwiches, and cakes. Unable to voice her sympathy, she had put it into deeds, striving to ensure some comfort for the long journey ahead.
Mrs Macalister smiled a pitiful travesty of a smile in acknowledgment, and her friends pressed her hand, mercifully refraining from speech. When it came to parting from Margot, however, that was a different matter. Mrs Macalister stooped from the seat of the trap to kiss the girl’s cheek once and again.
“You’re a guid lassie,” she said, trembling. “I would have been lost without you! The Lord bless you, my dear!”
“Ay! and she shall be blessed!” added Mr Macalister’s voice, deeply.
Margot thrilled at the sound of those words, and stood back on the path watching the departing wheels through a mist of tears. They had gone, those two good, loving, simple creatures, and in all likelihood she would never see them again; for a moment their lives had touched, but the currents had swept them apart; they were as ships that had passed in the night. To the end of time, however, she must be the better for the meeting, for in their need they had leant upon her, and she had been able to help. They had blessed her in patriarchal fashion, and the sound of their words still rang in her ears—
“The Lord bless you!”
“Ay! and she shall be blessed?”
Out of sympathy and respect for Mr and Mrs Macalister, nothing more was said about the next picnic party for several days after their tragic departure from the Glen, but the intervening time was, to Margot at least, full of interest and excitement. One morning, for instance, as she strolled from the breakfast-room to the road, as was the easy custom of the hour, a hurried step followed in the same direction, and George Elgood, staring hard in an opposite direction, advanced an opinion that one lesson in fishing was mere waste of time, whereas two, or perhaps three, might possibly convey some real knowledge of the art. Er—did Miss Vane feel inclined to pay another visit to the river?
Miss Vane, poking the gravel with the points of her shoes, was—er—yes! quite inclined, if Mr Elgood was sure she would not interrupt his sport Mr Elgood, with equal eagerness and incoherence, assured Miss Vane that she would do nothing of the kind, and hurried back to the inn, murmuring vaguely concerning eleven o’clock.
In the quiet of the riverside, however, he regained his self-possession, and once more proved himself to be the most interesting of companions, the most patient of instructors. Margot thought fishing a delightful and absorbing pursuit, which was the more remarkable as she was rather stupid than otherwise in mastering the initial movements. Mr Elgood encouraged her, however, by saying that some of the cleverest “rods” of his acquaintance had been the slowest in picking up the knack. The great thing was to have plenty of practice! She ought to come up every morning for as much time as she could spare; meantime, as she had been standing so long, would she not like to sit down, and rest awhile before walking home?
Then they sat down side by side on the grassy bank, and talked together as a man and a maid love to talk in the summer of their youth, exchanging innocent confidences, comparing thoughts and opinions, marvelling that they are so much alike.
Margot faithfully observed her promise to make no references to her ambitions on her brother’s behalf, and, truth to tell, her silence involved little effort, for she was guiltily conscious of being so much engrossed in her own affairs that even Ron’s ambitions had faded into the background. As for the lad himself, he was happy enough, wandering about by himself studying “effects” to transcribe to paper, or scouring the countryside with the Chieftain, whom he frankly adored, despite the many exceedingly plain-spoken criticisms and exhortations received from his lips.
“Your sister has been telling me about that rhyming craze of yours,” the little man said suddenly one day. “Likewise about her own very pretty little scheme for the subjugation of my brother. Told you that she’d told me, eh? Expect she did! She is pleased to believe she is a designing little adventuress, whereas as a matter of fact she’s as clear as crystal, and any one with half an eye could see through her schemes. Well! I laid down the law that neither she nor you are to worry my brother about business matters during his holiday, for, to tell you the truth, he has had his full share of worry of late. But what about me? I’m a plain, common-sense, steady-going old fellow, who might perhaps be able to give you a word or two of advice! What’s all this nonsense about throwing aside a post that’s waiting for you, and which means an income for life, in order to live in an attic, and scribble verses for magazines? If you knew the world, young man, you would understand that you are blessedly well off, to have your way made smooth, and would not be in such a hurry to meet disappointments half way. They will come soon enough! At the best of it, you will have a hard row to hoe. Why make it worse?”
Ronald flushed in sensitive fashion, but there was no hint of offence in his manner, as he replied—
“It is hardly a question of an attic, sir. My father would not disinherit me because I preferred literature to business. I might have a pittance instead of a fortune, but I should not have to fear want. And why should I not live my own life? If I am bound to meet troubles, surely it is only right to provide what compensations I can, and my best compensation would be congenial work! I don’t want to be rich. Let some other fellow take the post, and get his happiness out of it; it would be slavery to me.”
“Humph! No boy likes the idea of putting his nose to the grindstone. They all kick a bit at the thought of an office desk, but nine out of ten enjoy the life when they get into the swing. It’s a great secret of happiness in this world, to be kept so busy that we have not time to think of ourselves. We need work for its own sake, even more than for what it brings; but our work must be worthy. There’s no real success away from that... About those verses now! It’s a pleasant occupation for you to sling them together—I haven’t a word to say against it as a recreation—but that’s a different thing from serious work. There’s only one thing which justifies a man in cutting himself adrift from the world, in opposition to the wishes of those who have his interests most at heart, and that is, a strong and solemn conviction of a special mission in life. Very well then! If you agree so far, let us proceed to consider the mission of a poet. There’s only one justification for his existence—only one thing that distinguishes him from the professional rhymester whom nobody wants, and who is the bane and terror of society, and that is—that he has something to say! Now take your own case—a lad without as much as a moustache on his face; the son of a rich father, who has lain soft all his life, and had the bumps rolled flat before him. What do you imagine that you are going to teach the world? Do you fondly believe that you have anything to say that has not been said before, and a thousand times better into the bargain?”
Ronald looked up and gazed dreamily ahead. He had taken off his cap, as his custom was in these moorland tramps, which were becoming of daily occurrence, and his hair was ruffled on his forehead, giving an air of even more than ordinary youth to his face. The hazel eyes were dark, and the curved lips trembled with emotion; he was searching his soul for the reply to a question on which more than life seemed to depend, and while he gazed at the purple mountains with unseeing eyes the Chieftain gazed at his illumined face, and felt that he had received his answer.
The words of Wordsworth’s immortal ode rushed into his brain, and he recognised that this ignorant lad possessed a knowledge which was hidden from the world. Heaven, with its clouds of glory, lay close around him, ignorant of worldly wisdom though he might be. God forbid that the one should ever be exchanged for the other!
The Chieftain was answered, but like Ron he remained silent. They walked on over the short, springy grass, breathed the clear, fresh breeze, and thought their own thoughts. It was not until nearly a mile had been traversed that Ron turned his head and said simply, as if answering a question put but a moment before—
“I sing, because I must! It is my life. I have not thought of other people, except in so far as their approval would justify me in my father’s eyes. You could no doubt judge better than I if what I have to say has value or not. Will you read some of my lines?”
A curious sound broke from the Chieftain’s lips, a sound something between a groan and a laugh. He frowned, pursed his lips, swung his short arms vigorously to and fro, shook his head with an air of determined opposition, then suddenly softened into a smile.
“It’s a strange world, my masters! A strange world! You never know your luck! In the middle of my holiday, and a Scotch moor into the bargain! I’ll try Timbuctoo another year! Nothing else for it. Where does my brain-rest come in, I want to know! You and your verses—be plagued to the pair of you! Got some about you now, I suppose? Hand them over, then,—the first that come to the surface—and let me get through with it as soon as possible!”
He plumped down on the grass as he spoke, took out a large bandana handkerchief and mopped his brow with an air of resignation, while Ronald fumbled awkwardly in his pocket.
“I have several pencil copies. I think you can make them out. This is the latest. A Madrigal—‘To my Lady.’”
“Love-song?”
“Yes.”
“Ever been in love?”
“No.”
“What a pity when charming—poets—sing of things they don’t understand! Well, well, hand it over! I’ll bear it as bravely as I may—”
Ron winced, and bit his lower lip. It was agony to sit by and watch the cool, supercilious expression on the critic’s face, the indifferent flick of the fingers with which the sheet was closed and returned.
“Anything more?”
“You don’t care for that one?”
“Pretty platitudes! Read them before a score of times—and somewhat more happily expressed. If I were a poet—which I’m not, thank goodness!—I could turn ’em out by the score. Ten shillings each, reduction upon taking a dozen. Suitable for amateur tenors, or the fashion-magazines. Alterations made if required... Anything else in the lucky bag?”
“There’s my note-book. They are all in there—the new ones, I mean, written since I came up here. You can read which you please.”
Ron took the precious leather book from his pocket, and handed it over with an effort as painful as that of submitting a live nerve to the dentist’s tool. As he sat on the ground beside his critic he dug his heels into the grass, and the knuckles of his clenched hands showed white through the tan. The beginning had not been propitious, and he knew well that no consideration for his feelings would seal the lips of this most honest of critics. For a few moments he had not courage to look at his companion’s face, but even without that eloquent guide it was easy to follow his impressions.
A grunt, a groan, a long incredulous whistle, a sharp intake of breath—these were but too readily translated as adverse criticisms, but between these explosions came intervals of silence less easy to explain. Ron deliberately rolled over on his side, turning his back on his companion, thereby making it impossible to see his face. Those who have never trusted their inmost thoughts to paper can hardly imagine the acute suffering of the moment when they are submitted to the cold criticism of an outsider. Life and death themselves seemed to hang in the balance for the young poet during the half-hour when he lay on the heather listening to each sound and movement of his critic. At the end of half an hour the interruption came. A yawn, a groan, the pressure of a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Now then, wake up, over there! Time to move on!”
Awake! As if it were possible that he could be asleep! Never in his life had he been more acutely, painfully conscious of his surroundings. Ron rose to his feet, casting the while a tense glance at his companion’s face. What verdict would he see written on eye and mouth as the result of that half-hour’s study? He met a smile of bland good-humour; the cheery, carelessly complacent smile of the breakfast-table, the smoke-room, the after-dinner game; with not one trace of emotion, of kindled feeling, or even ordinary appreciation! The black note-book was tossed into his hands, as carelessly as if it had been a ball; even a commonplace word of comment was denied.
It was a bitter moment, but, to the lad’s credit be it said, he met it bravely. A gulp to a tiresome lump in the throat, a slight quivering of the sensitive lips, and he was master of himself again, hastily stuffing the precious note-book out of sight, and striving to display the right amount of interest in his companion’s conversation. It was not until the inn was within sight that Mr Elgood made the slightest allusion to the verses which he had read.
“Ah—about those rhymes!” he began casually. “Don’t take yourself too seriously, you know. It’s a strange thing that young people constitute themselves the pessimists of the world, while the old ones, who know what real trouble is, are left to do the optimism by themselves. If you are bound to sing, sing cheerfully! Try to forget that ‘sad’ rhymes with ‘glad,’ and don’t feel it necessary to end in the minor key. That rhyming business has a lot to answer for. I like you best when you are content to be your natural, cheerful self!”
“You think, then—you do think—some of them a little good?”
Ron’s wistful voice would have melted a heart of stone. The Chieftain laid a hand on his arm with a very kindly pressure.
“There are some of ’em,” he said cheerfully, “which are a lot better than others. I’m not partial to amateur verses myself, but I don’t mind telling you for your comfort that I’ve seen worse, before now—considerably worse!”
Poor Ron! It was bitter comfort. In the blessed privacy of his own room he sat himself down to read over the pages of the little black book with painful criticism, asking himself miserably if it were really true that they were feeble amateur efforts, tinged with pretence and unreality. Here and there a flush and a wince proved that the accusation had gone home, when a vigorous pencil mark on the side of the page marked the necessity for correction, but on the whole he could honestly refute the charge; could declare, with the bold yet humble conviction of the true craftsman, that it was good work; work well done; work worth doing!
The dreamy brown eyes sent out a flash of determination.
“I can!” said Ron to himself. “And I will!”
Three days later a wagonette was chartered from Rew, to drive the diminished party to the scene of the haunted castle. Margot felt rather shy in the position of the only lady, but a mild proposition that she should stay at home had been so vigorously vetoed that she had nothing more to say.
“If one clergyman, plus one brother, plus one bald-headed veteran, aren’t sufficient chaperons for one small girl, things are coming to a pretty pass indeed!” protested the Chieftain vigorously. “If you stay at home, we all stay, so that’s settled, and the disappointment and upset will be on your head. Why all this fuss, I should like to know? One might think you were shy.”
Margot pouted, and wriggled her shoulders inside her white blouse.
“I am shy!”
“You are, are you? Hadn’t noticed it before. Of whom, if one may ask?”
She turned at that, and walked back to the inn, nose in air, but thereafter there were no more demurs.
It was indeed a very decorous little party which sat in two rows of three, facing each other in the wagonette during the eight-mile drive. The clergyman and the Chieftain, with Margot between them; and opposite, the three dreamers: the Editor, Ron, and young Mr Menzies,—each apparently too much immersed in his own thoughts to care for conversation. Margot was quite thankful when the drive came to an end, outside castle walls, grim and grey, but imposing as ever, though they were in reality but a shell, surrounding a plot of innocent green grass. There were isolated towers still standing, however, approached by winding stone stairways, and short lengths of walks along the ramparts, and quaint little barred windows through which one could view the surrounding country. When Margot thrust her pretty laughing face through one of these latter to greet her friends below, every photographer among them insisted upon snap-shotting her then and there, and for a good half-hour she was kept busy, posing in various attitudes, to give the desired touch of life to the pictures.
Photography over, the next duties were to partake of lunch and to wander round the small, and it must be confessed somewhat uninteresting little village; then,—since the return home counted as one of the chief attractions in the programme—the little party broke up into two, the clergyman and his son preferring the longer route, round by the roads, the other four to take the short—cut across the moors.
A five-mile walk across the moors! Given health, settled skies, and congenial society, it would be difficult to name a more exhilarating occupation for a summer afternoon; but, truth to tell, the weather had taken a decided turn for the worse since midday, and it needed some optimism to set forth on a long exposed walk.
The subject had been discussed at lunch with special reference to Margot, as the only lady of the party; but, as she aptly observed, she was bound to get back somehow, and, as a choice of evils, preferred to walk through rain, rather than sit still to be soaked through and through on the seat of the wagonette. It was therefore decided to make an early start, and allow no loitering by the way; but when the village had been left about a mile behind an unexpected delay occurred. The Chieftain thrust his hands into his pockets, and stopped short in the middle of the road, with an expression of dismay.
“Eh, what! Here’s a fine kettle of fish! Where’s my bunch of keys? They were here as safe as houses, a few minutes back. I was jingling tunes on them as we passed the school. You heard me jingling ’em! Dropped them on the road, I suppose, and walked on like a blind bat. Serves me right to have to turn back to find ’em. Can’t lose my keys, you know. Got to find them somehow, or there’ll be the mischief to pay. You’ll have to go on, George, and take Miss Vane with you. There’s no time for conundrums, if you want to get home dry.” He looked towards Ron with questioning eyebrows. “Feel inclined to keep me company? I don’t fancy that walk by my lonesome.”
“Of course I do. I should not think of leaving you behind by yourself, sir,” returned Ron eagerly. “We can’t have far to go, and we can soon catch up the others, if we make a sprint for it. Go on, Margot. We’ll be after you in no time.”
In the circumstances there was nothing else to be done, nor indeed, after a long morning spent in wandering about as a party, was Margot inclined to quarrel with the fate which provided an interesting tête-à-tête for the walk home. She contented herself with expressing profuse sympathy for the Chieftain’s loss, and with prophesying cheerfully that the keys were certain to be found, then promptly dismissed the subject from her mind, and gave herself up to the enjoyment of the moment.
“I really think we are wise not to wait about,” George Elgood said, in accents of self-vindication, as they moved on together. “The glass is high, but I don’t like the look of things, all the same, and for your sake shall be glad when we are nearer home. Are you pretty warmly dressed, if the rain should come on?”
“Don’t I look it? I couldn’t possibly have anything more suitable than this tweed coat and skirt. It doesn’t matter how wet it gets. It won’t spoil.”
“I was thinking about your own comfort, not of the clothes. You never carry an umbrella with you, I notice!”
“I can’t be bothered! Showers are such an everyday occurrence up here, that one would be doing nothing else. I rather like the feel of the rain on my face, and besides,”—she laughed mischievously, “it’s good for the complexion!”
“Is that so?” he asked gravely, his dark eyes dwelling on the soft, rounded cheeks, which grew a shade more pink beneath his gaze. Suddenly his lips twitched, with the one-sided, humorous smile which brought the youth into his face. “I don’t think the need in that direction is so pressing that it could not be postponed with advantage, for to-day at least. Do you mind walking fairly quickly? I shall feel more comfortable when we are nearer home.”
Margot was serenely indifferent whether it rained or not, but none the less she appreciated the Editor’s care for her welfare, which showed itself in a dozen little graceful acts during the first part of their walk. For one unaccustomed to women’s society he was marvellously observant, and Margot felt a sweeter satisfaction in being so protected than in all her former independence. They climbed the hillside which led to the moor and set out radiantly to traverse the grey expanse; grey and cheerless to-day in very deed, with a thick, blanket-like dampness in the atmosphere of which dwellers in southern climes are happily ignorant.
George Elgood turned up the collar of his coat, and Margot thrust her hands into her pockets, shivering slightly the while, but neither made any complaint in words. As usual, it was left to Margot to do most of the talking; but though her companion’s responses were short, they were yet so sympathetic and appreciative, that there was never any difficulty in finding a fresh subject. Like most couples with whom friendship is fast making way for a warmer emotion, personal topics were the most appreciated, and what was happening in the world—the discoveries of science, the works of the great writers—palled in interest before sentences beginning with, “I think,” and, “Do you think?”
“I wish—”
“Have you ever wished—?”
They looked at each other as they spoke, with bright, questioning glances, which seemed ever to hail some precious new discovery of mind, drawing them closer and closer together. The hour of enchantment had come, when they moved in a world of their own, unconscious of external accidents. The moisture hung in dewdrops on the Editor’s cap, Margot’s hair curled damply on her forehead; but they felt neither cold nor discomfort. It was unusually dark for the time of day, and had grown mysteriously darker during the last half-hour; but visitors to the Highlands become philosophically resigned to sudden and unpleasant atmospheric changes, and fall into the way of ignoring them as far as possible.
It was only when they reached a point in the moor from whence the ground sloped sharply downward towards the Glen that they awoke to the consciousness of danger, for instead of a rolling stretch of green surrounded by purple hills, they seemed to be looking down into a cauldron of floating mist and steam, blocking out the view, confusing the eyes, and slowly but surely concealing the familiar landmarks.
Margot and the Editor stopped short with simultaneous exclamations of dismay, then wheeled quickly round, to see what lay behind. Here indeed the fog was much less dense, but the distance was already obliterated, while long, smoke-like tendrils of mist were closing in on every hand. The signs which they had noted had portended something worse than rain; something which the dwellers in moorland regions learn to fear and dread above all other phenomena,—a mountain mist!
George Elgood’s face was eloquent with self-reproach.
“This is my fault! Where were my eyes, that I did not see what was happening? The darkness should have warned me long ago. I am horribly ashamed of myself, Miss Vane!”
“You needn’t be. It’s as much my fault as yours. I did notice the damp on my face, but I thought it was rain. What are we to do?”
It was a simple question, but terribly difficult to answer. With every moment those rolling masses of mist settled down more densely over the hillsides. To walk forward was to walk blindfold over a treacherous country; to return seemed hardly more propitious, though as a choice of evils it was the one to be preferred.
“We must go back. We can’t have come more than two or three miles. We must get back, and drive round by the road. Probably we shall meet Geoffrey and your brother en route!”
Even as he spoke the Editor turned and led the way towards the little village which had been left behind less than an hour before. There was no time to waste, for the darkness was increasing, and the clammy dankness of the air struck to the very marrow.
“I shall never forgive myself if you suffer through this. It was my business to look after you. There’s only this slight excuse—that we were mounting towards the highest part of the moor, which was naturally the clearest. The mist seems to have gathered from all around.”
Margaret looked and shivered, but hastened to appease his anxiety.
“I think we did notice, but as we were expecting rain, a little mistiness was natural. We could not tell that it was going to spread like this. Never mind! It will be quite an adventure to brag about when we are back in town. ‘Lost on the Scotch moors! Tourists disappear in a mist!’ It would make a thrilling headline, wouldn’t it?”
She laughed as she spoke, but the laugh had rather a forced tone. Suddenly she became conscious that she was tired and chilled, that her coat was soaked, and her boots heavy with damp. Though only a few paces away, the figure of her companion was wreathed with tendrils of mist; they were floating round her also; blinding her eyes, catching her breath, sending fresh shivers down her back. A pang of fear shot through her at the thought of what might lie ahead.
Like two grey ghosts they struggled onward through the gloom.
George Elgood’s haste to reach the end of the moor gave wings to his feet, so that Margot had much ado to keep pace. Contrary to expectation, the fog did not lessen as they advanced, but closed in upon them thicker and thicker, so that the ground beneath their feet became invisible, and progress was broken by sundry trips and stumbles over projecting mounds of heather. The air seemed to reek with moisture, and a deadly feeling of oppression, almost of suffocation, affected the lungs, as the curling wreath of mist closed overhead.
Half an hour earlier Margot had felt that any sort of adventure (if experienced in George Elgood’s company) must of necessity be enjoyable, but during that swift silent retreat she was conscious of a dawning of something perilously like fear. Her breath came in quickened pants, she kept her eyes fixed in a straining eagerness on the tall figure looming darkly ahead. If she once lost sight of him, what would become of her? It made her shudder to think of being left alone upon that shrouded moor!
Every now and then as he walked, the Editor gave voice to a loud “coo-ee,” in hope that the echoes might reach the ears of his brother and Ronald, who should by now be approaching in the same direction; but no reply floated back to his anxious ears.
“Perhaps they have gone round by the road,” he suggested tentatively. “If they were some time in following, they may have seen the fog, and come to the conclusion that discretion was the better part of valour.”
“Ron wouldn’t go another way if he thought I was in danger! He promised father to take care of me. I know he will come.”
“Then we are bound to meet; unless—” George Elgood stopped short hurriedly. It was not for him to open his companion’s eyes to the fact that the direction which they were taking had become a matter of speculation, as one after another the familiar landmarks faded from view.
The two brothers might pass by within a few yards, or their paths might diverge by miles, but in either case they would be equally invisible. The only hope was to go on sending out the familiar cry, which would at once prove their identity. “Not that we should be any better off with them than without!” he told himself dolefully.
Margot did not ask for a completion of the unfinished sentence, perhaps because she guessed only too truly its import. A few steps farther on her foot came in contact with a stone hidden beneath a clump of furze; she stumbled, tried in vain to recover herself, and fell forward on her knees. The shock and the severe pricking which ensued forced a cry of dismay, and the Editor turned back hurriedly, and uttered a startled inquiry.
“Miss Vane, where are you?”
“I’m here!” replied a doleful voice, and a dark form stirred at his feet. “I—fell! On a horrid bush! My hands are full of prickles.”
“I’ll light a match while you get them out. It’s my fault. I might have guessed what would happen. I’d like to kick myself for being so thoughtless.”
“Please don’t! We don’t want any more tribulations. I—I’m quite all right!” cried Margot, with tremulous bravery. The flicker of a match showed a pale face, and two little hands grimed with dust and earth. She brushed them hastily together, and peered up into his face. “It’s pretty thick, isn’t it?”
“Abominably thick! I have heard of the sudden way in which these mountain mists come on, but I’ve never been in one before. I could kick myself once more for not having noticed it sooner. I suppose I was too much absorbed in our conversation.”
The match died out, and there was a moment’s silence, in which Margot seemed to hear the beating of her own heart. Then in the darkness a hand lifted hers, and placed it against an arm which felt reassuringly solid.
“You must let me help you along. A moor is not the easiest place in the world to cross in the dark. You won’t mind my shouts? I want to let the other fellows know where we are, if they are within hearing.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I’ll shout, too! They must be near. It seems ridiculous that we can’t see each other.”
But still no answering cry came back, and Margot’s sense of comfort in the supporting arm gradually gave place to a revival of her first dread. She shivered, and swallowed a lump in her throat before daring a fateful question.
“Mr Elgood, do you know—have you the faintest idea where we are going?”
His arm tightened over her hand, but he made no attempt at prevarication.
“No, I haven’t! For the last five or ten minutes it has been purely guess-work.”
“We may be going in the wrong direction, or round and round in a circle!”
“We may—I am afraid it is more than probable. I have been thinking that it might be better to stay where we are. We can’t have strayed very far out of the course as yet, but—” Again he stopped, and this time Margot completed the sentence.
“I know! It’s not safe to wander about when we can’t see what is ahead. I’ve been thinking the same thing. We had better sit down and wait. They will come to look for us. I’m sure they will come, and there’s a cottage somewhere near, where we have been for milk. That’s another chance. If we keep calling the people, they may hear us.”
“Oh yes, yes! Some one will hear, or the mist will rise as suddenly as it fell. It will be only for a short time,” returned the Editor sturdily. “Now look here—the ground is soaking—you can’t possibly sit on it without something underneath. If you could spare your cape it would serve us both as a rug, and I’m going to wrap you up in my coat.”
He loosened his arm, as if to take off the said coat forthwith, but Margot’s fingers tightened their grasp in very determined fashion.
“You are not! I won’t wear it. I absolutely refuse to do any such thing. How can you suggest such a horridly selfish arrangement—I to wear your coat, while you sit shivering in shirt-sleeves? Never! I’d rather freeze!”
“Put it the other way. Am I, a man, to hug my coat, and let a girl sit on the soaking grass? How do you suppose I should feel? I’d rather freeze, too!”
Margot gave a quavering little laugh.
“It seems to me we have a pretty good chance of doing it—coat or no coat. If I am a girl, I’m a healthy one, and I must take my chance. Did you happen to put your newspaper in your pocket this morning? That would be better than nothing.”
“Of course I did! That will do capitally. What a blessing you thought of it! There! Sit down quickly, and I’ll pull a bit down under your feet. Can’t I wrap that cape more tightly round you? And the hood? Hadn’t you better have the hood up?”
“Yes, please! I had forgotten the hood. That will be cosy!”
Margot’s cold cheeks flamed with sudden colour as she felt the touch of careful fingers settling the hood round head and face, and fumbling for the hook under the chin. At that moment at least cold was not the predominant sensation! There was a short silence while the Editor seated himself by her side, and felt in his pockets.
“You won’t mind if I smoke?”
“I shall like it, especially if you have fusees. I love the smell of fusees! You don’t ask me to have a cigarette, I notice, and yet it is fashionable for girls to smoke nowadays. How did you know that I didn’t?”
“I did know! I can hardly tell why, but I am thankful for it, all the same. I am too old-fashioned to care for smoking women. A girl loses her charm when she apes a man’s habits.”
“Yes. I agree. I am sorry I am not a man, but as I’m a girl I prefer to be a real one, and have my clothes smelling sweet and violety, instead of like a fusty railway carriage. But men seem to find smoke soothing at times. I wish I had a feminine equivalent of it just now. It’s a little bit frightening to sit still and stare into this blank white wall. Couldn’t you tell me something interesting to pass the time?”
“It’s a little difficult to be ‘interesting’ to order. What particular kind of narrative would distract you best?”
“Oh—something about yourself. Something you have done, or felt, or planned for another day. I’m so interested in people!” returned Margot, wrapping the folds of her cloak more closely round her, and slipping her hands deep down into the inside pockets. “Have you had any thrilling experiences or adventures that you don’t mind speaking about? The more thrilling the better, please, for my feet are so cold!”
She shivered, in involuntary childish fashion, and George Elgood sighed profoundly.
“This is about the biggest adventure I’ve had. I was once snowed up for a night in a rest-house on one of the Swiss mountains, but we had every ordinary comfort, and knew exactly where we were, so that it didn’t amount to much, after all. I was going up with my guide, and met another party of two brothers and a sister coming down, and we all took shelter together, while one of the guides returned to the village, to let the people in the hotel know of our safety. When the door was open the prospect was sufficiently eerie, but we made a fire and brewed tea, and passed the time pleasantly enough. The worst part of it was that I had to give up the ascent next day, as there was too much snow to make it prudent to go on.”
“Oh! Yes! Was she pretty?”
She felt, rather than saw, his start of surprise.
“Who?”
“The sister. You said there was a girl in the other party.”
“I’m sure I don’t know! I didn’t notice.”
“Don’t you care how people look?”
“It doesn’t interest me, unless I am already attracted in other ways. At least—” he hesitated conscientiously. “I used not to be. I think I am growing more noticing. Geoff always said I needed to be awakened to the claims of beauty. I understand now that it may be a great additional charm.”
How did he understand? Who or what had increased his power of observation? Margot hoped that she knew; longed to be certain, yet dreaded the definite information. In a little flurry of nervousness she began to talk volubly on her own account, hoping thereby to ward off embarrassing explanations.
“I seem fated to come in for adventures. I went over to Norway one summer, and the engines broke down half-way across the North Sea, and at the same time all the electric lights went out. It was terribly rough, and we rolled for a couple of hours—the longest hours I have ever known! The partitions of the cabins did not quite reach to the roof, and you could hear the different conversations going on all round. In a dreary kind of way I realised that they were very funny, and that I should laugh over them another day. Quite near us were two jolly English schoolboys, who kept ordering meals all the next day, and shouting out details to a poor sister who was lying terribly ill in the next cabin ‘Monica, we are having bacon! Have a bit of bread soaked in fat?’ Then Monica would groan—a heartrending groan, and they would start afresh. ‘Buck up, Monica—try a muffin!’ At lunch-time they pressed roast beef and Yorkshire pudding upon her, and she groaned louder than ever. She was ill, poor girl. In Norway there was an alarm of fire in one of those terrible wooden hotels, and we all jumped on each other’s balconies to get to the outside staircases. It was soon extinguished, but it was a very bad scare. And now this is the third. Mr Elgood, do coo-ee again! Ron must be looking for me, unless he is lost himself.”
The Editor put his hands to his mouth and sent forth a succession of long-drawn-out calls, which seemed as though they must surely be heard for miles around, but in the silence which followed no note of reply could be heard. In the face of such continued disappointment, Margot had not the courage to go on making conversation, but relapsed into a dreary silence, which was broken only by the gentle puff-puff of the Editor’s pipe. In the darkness and silence neither took note of time, or realised how it sped along. Only by physical sensations could it be checked, but gradually these became disagreeably pressing.
Margot’s feet were like ice, her fingers so cold as to be almost powerless; but as the minutes passed slowly by the active discomfort was replaced by a feeling of drowsy indifference. She seemed to have been sitting for years staring into a blank white wall, and had no longer any desire to move from her position. It was easier to sit still, and wait upon Fate.
Beneath the veil of darkness her head drooped forward, and she swayed gently from side to side. For some time these movements were so slight as to pass unnoticed by her companion, but as the drowsiness increased the muscles seemed to lose control, the swayings became momentarily more pronounced, until she tilted violently over, to recover herself with a jerk and a groan. Then indeed George Elgood was startled into anxious attention.
“What is it? What is the matter? Are you in pain?”
The inarticulate murmur which did duty for reply seemed only to whet anxiety still further.
“Miss Vane, are you ill? For pity’s sake tell me what is wrong!”
Another murmur sounded faintly in his ear, followed by an incoherent—“I’m only—asleep! So—very—tired!”
With a sharp exclamation the Editor leapt upwards, and the drowsy Margot felt herself suddenly hoisted to her feet by a pair of strong arms. The arms retained their hold of her even after she was erect, shaking her to and fro with almost painful energy.
“But you must not sleep! Margot, Margot, awake! I can’t let you sleep. It is the worst thing you could do. Speak to me, Margot. Tell me you understand. Margot! Darling! Oh, do rouse yourself, and try to understand!”
Margot never forgot that moment, or the wonder of it. She seemed to herself to be wandering in a strange country, far, far away from the solid tangible earth—a land of darkness and dreams, of strange, numbing unreality. Her eyes were open, yet saw nothing: impalpable chains fettered her limbs, so that they grew stiff and refused to move; an icy coldness crept around her heart. Hearing, like the other senses, was dulled, yet through the throbbing silence a sound had penetrated, bringing with it a thrill of returning life. Some one had called “Margot” in a tone she had never heard before. Some one had said, “Darling!”
Back through the fast-closing mists of unconsciousness Margot’s soul struggled to meet her mate. Her fingers tightened feebly on his, and her cold lips breathed a reply.
“Yes—I am here! Do you want me?”
Something like a sob sounded in the Editor’s throat.
“Do I want you? My little Margot! Did I ever want anything before? Come, I will warm your little cold hands. I will lead you every step of the way. You can’t sit here any longer to perish of cold. We will walk on, and ask God to guide our feet. Lean on me. Don’t be afraid!”
Then the dream became a moving one, in which she was borne forward encircled by protecting arms; on and on; unceasingly onward, with ever-increasing difficulty and pain.
George Elgood never knew whether he hit, as he supposed, a straight road forward, or wandered aimlessly over the same ground. His one care was to support his companion, and to test each footstep before he took it; for the rest, he had put himself in God’s hands, with a simple faith which expected a reply; and when at last the light of the cottage windows shone feebly through the mist his thankfulness was as great as his relief.
As for Margot, she was too completely exhausted to realise relief; she knew only a shrinking from the light, from the strange watching face; a deathly sensation as of falling from a towering height, before darkness and oblivion overpowered her, and she lay stretched unconscious upon the bed.