White Heather: A Novel (Volume 1 of 3)

As for him, he met this perfect friendship of hers with a studied respect. Always, if it was on the one side 'Ronald,' on the other it was 'Miss Douglas.' Why, her very costume was a bar to more familiar relations. At this moment, as she sate on the stone parapet of the bridge, looking down at the document before her, and as he stood at a little distance, timidly awaiting what she had to say, it occurred to him again, as it had occurred before, that no matter what dress it was, each one seemed to become her better than any other. What was there particular in a tight-fitting gray ulster and a deerstalker's cap? and yet there was grace there, and style, and a nameless charm. If one of the lasses at the inn, now, were sent on an errand on one of these wild and blustering mornings, and got her hair blown about, she came back looking untidy; but if Miss Douglas had her hair blown about, so that bits and curls of it got free from the cap or the velvet hat, and hung lightly about her forehead or her ears or her neck, it was a greater witchery than ever. Then everything seemed to fit her so well and so easily, and to be so simple; and always leaving her – however it was so managed – perfect freedom of movement, so that she could swing a child on to her shoulder, or run after a truant, or leap from bank to bank of a burn without disturbing in the least that constant symmetry and neatness. To Ronald it was all a wonder; and there was a still further wonder always seeming to accompany her and surround her. Why was it that the bleakest winter day, on these desolate Sutherland moors, suddenly grew filled with light when he chanced to see a well-known figure away along the road – the world changing into a joyful thing, as if the summer were already come, and the larks singing in the blue? And when she spoke to him, there was a kind of music in the air; and when she laughed – why, Clebrig and Ben Loyal and the whispering Mudal Water seemed all to be listening and all to be glad that she was happy and pleased. She was the only one, other than himself, that the faithful Harry would follow; and he would go with her wherever she went, so long as she gave him an occasional word of encouragement.

'Will I read you the programme, Ronald?' said she, with just a trace of mischief in the gray-blue eyes. 'I'm sure you ought to hear what has to be done, for you are to be in the chair, you know.'

'Me?' said he, in astonishment. 'I never tried such a thing in my life.'

'Oh yes,' she said cheerfully. 'They tell me you are always at the head of the merry-makings: and is not this a simple thing? And besides, I do not want any other grown people – I do not want Mr. Murray – he is a very nice man – but he would be making jokes for the grown-up people all the time. I want nobody but you and Maggie and myself besides the children, and we will manage it very well, I am sure.'

There was a touch of flattery in the proposal.

'Indeed, yes,' said he at once. 'We will manage well enough, if ye wish it that way.'

'Very well, then,' said she, turning with a practical air to the programme. 'We begin with singing Old Hundred, and then the children will have tea and cake – and the sixpence and the penny. And then there is to be an address by the Chairman – that's you, Ronald.'

'Bless me, lassie!' he was startled into saying; and then he stammered an apology, and sought safety in a vehement protest against the fancy that he could make a speech – about anything whatever.

'Well, that is strange,' said Meenie looking at him, and rather inclined to laugh at his perplexity. 'It is a strange thing if you cannot make a little speech to them; for I have to make one – at the end. See, there is my name.'

He scarcely glanced at the programme.

'And what have you to speak about, Miss Douglas?'

She laughed.

'About you.'

'About me?' he said, rather aghast.

'It is a vote of thanks to the chairman – and easy enough it will be, I am sure. For I have only to say about you what I hear every one say about you; and that will be simple enough.'

The open sincerity of her friendship – and even of her marked liking for him – was so apparent that for a second or so he was rather bewildered. But he was not the kind of man to misconstrue frankness; he knew that was part of herself; she was too generous, too much inclined to think well of everybody; and the main point to which he had to confine himself was this, that if she, out of her good-nature, could address a few words to those children – about him or any other creature or object in the world – it certainly behoved him to do his best also, although he had never tried anything of the kind before. And then a sudden fancy struck him; and his eyes brightened eagerly. 'Oh yes, yes,' he said, 'I will find something to say. I would make a bad hand at a sermon; but the bairns have enough o' that at times; I dare say we'll find something for them o' another kind – and they'll no be sorry if it's short. I'm thinking I can find something that'll please them.'

And what was this that was in his head? – what but the toast of the Mistress of the Feast! If Meenie had but known, she would doubtless have protested against the introduction of any mutual admiration society into the modest hamlet of Inver-Mudal; but at that moment she was still scanning the programme.

'Now you know, Ronald,' she said, 'it is to be all quiet and private; and that is why the grown-up people are to be kept out except ourselves. Well, then, after they have had raisins handed round, you are to sing "My love she's but a lassie yet" – that is a compliment to the little ones; and then I will read them something; and then you are to sing "O dinna cross the burn, Willie" – I have put down no songs that I have not heard you sing. And then if you would play them "Lord Breadalbane's March" on the pipes – '

She looked up again, with an air of apology.

'Do you think I am asking too much from you, Ronald?' she said.

'Indeed not a bit,' said he promptly. 'I will play or sing for them all the night long, if you want; and I'm sure it's much better we should do it all ourselves, instead o' having a lot o' grown-up folk to make the bairns shy.'

'It is not the chairman anyway, that will make them shy – if what they say themselves is true,' said Meenie very prettily; and she folded up her programme and put it in her pocket again.

She rose; and he whistled in the dogs, as if he would return to the village.

'I thought you were taking them for a run,' said she.

'Oh, they have been scampering about; I will go back now.'

Nor did it occur to her for a moment that she would rather not walk back to the door of her mother's house with him. On the contrary, if she had been able to attract his notice when he passed, she would have gone down to the little garden-gate, and had this conversation with him in view of all the windows. If she wanted him to do anything for her, she never thought twice about going along to his cottage and knocking at the door; or she would, in the event of his not being there, go on to the inn and ask if any one had seen Ronald about. And so on this occasion she went along the road with him in much good-humour; praising the dogs, hoping the weather would continue fine, and altogether in high spirits over her plans for the morrow.

However, they were not to part quite so pleasantly. At the small garden-gate, and evidently awaiting them, stood Mrs. Douglas; and Ronald guessed that she was in no very good temper. In truth, she seldom was. She was a doll-like little woman, rather pretty, with cold clear blue eyes, fresh-coloured cheeks, and quite silver-white hair, which was carefully curled and braided – a pretty little old lady, and one to be petted and made much of, if only she had had a little more amiability of disposition. But she was a disappointed woman. Her big good-natured husband had never fulfilled the promise of his early years, when, in a fit of romance, she married the penniless medical student whom she had met in Edinburgh. He was not disappointed at all; his life suited him well enough; he was excessively fond of his daughter Meenie, and wanted no other companion when she was about; after the hard work of making a round of professional visits in that wild district, the quiet and comfort and neatness of the little cottage at Inver-Mudal were all that he required. But it was far otherwise with the once ambitious little woman whom he had married. The shadow of the dignity of the Stuarts of Glengask still dwelt over her; and it vexed her that she had nothing with which to overawe the neighbours or to convince the passing stranger of her importance. Perhaps if she had been of commanding figure, that might have helped her, however poor her circumstances might be; as it was, being but five feet two inches in height – and rather toy-like withal – everything seemed against her. It was but little use her endeavouring to assume a majestic manner when her appearance was somehow suggestive of a glass case; and the sharpness of her tongue, which was considerable, seemed to be but little heeded even in her own house, for both her husband and her daughter were persons of an easy good humour, and rather inclined to pet her in spite of herself.

'Good morning, Mrs. Douglas,' Ronald said respectfully, and he raised his cap as they drew near.

'Good morning, Mr. Strang,' she said, with much precision, and scarcely glancing at him.

She turned to Meenie.

'Williamina, how often have I told you to shut the gate after you when you go out?' she said sharply. 'Here has the cow been in again.'

'It cannot do much harm at this time of the year,' Meenie said lightly.

'I suppose if I ask you to shut the gate that is enough? Where have you been? Idling, I suppose. Have you written to Lady Stuart to thank her for the Birthday Book?'

It seemed to Ronald (who wished to get away, but could scarcely leave without some civil word of parting) that she referred to Lady Stuart in an unmistakably clear tone. She appeared to take no notice of Ronald's presence, but she allowed him to hear that there was such a person as Lady Stuart in existence.

'Why, mother, it only came yesterday, and I haven't looked over it yet,' Meenie said.

'I think when her ladyship sends you a present,' observed the little woman, with severe dignity, 'the least you can do is to write and thank her at once. There are many who would be glad of the chance. Go in and write the letter now.'

'Very well, mother,' said Meenie, with perfect equanimity; and then she called 'Good morning, Ronald!' and went indoors.

What was he to do to pacify this imperious little dame? As a gamekeeper, he knew but the one way.

'Would a hare or two, or a brace of ptarmigan be of any use to you, Mrs. Douglas?' said he.

'Indeed,' she answered, with much dignity, 'we have not had much game of any kind of late, for at Glengask they do not shoot any of the deer after Christmas.'

This intimation that her cousin, Sir Alexander, was the owner of a deer-forest might have succeeded with anybody else. But alas! this young man was a keeper, and very well he knew that there was no forest at all at Glengask, though occasionally in October they might come across a stag that had been driven forth from the herd, or they might find two or three strayed hinds in the woods later on; while, if Mrs. Douglas had but even one haunch sent her in the year – say at Christmas – he considered she got a very fair share of whatever venison was going at Glengask. But of course he said nothing of all this.

'Oh, very well,' said he, 'I'm thinking o' getting two or three o' the lads to go up the hill for a hare-drive one o' these days. The hares 'll be the better o' some thinning down – on one or two o' the far tops; and then again, when we've got them it's no use sending them south – they're no worth the carriage. So if ye will take a few o' them, I'm sure you're very welcome. Good morning, ma'am.'

'Good morning,' said she, a little stiffly, and she turned and walked towards the cottage.

As for him, he strode homeward with right goodwill; for Meenie's letter was in his pocket; and he had forthwith to make his way to Crask – preferring not to place any commission of hers in alien hands. He got the dogs kennelled up – all except the little terrier; he slung his telescope over his shoulder, and took a stick in his hand. 'Come along, Harry, lad, ye'll see your friends at Crask ere dinner time, and if ye're well-behaved ye'll come home in the waggonette along wi' the bairns.'

It was a brisk and breezy morning; the keen north wind was fortunately behind him; and soon he was swinging along through the desolate solitudes of Strath Terry, his footfall on the road the only sound in the universal stillness. And yet not the only sound, for sometimes he conversed with Harry, and sometimes he sent his clear tenor voice ringing over the wide moorland, and startling here or there a sheep, the solitary occupant of these wilds. For no longer had he to propitiate that domineering little dame; and the awful shadow of Glengask was as nothing to him; the American, with his unsettling notions, had departed; here he was at home, his own master, free in mind, and with the best of all companions trotting placidly at his heels. No wonder his voice rang loud and clear and contented: —

'"'Tis not beneath the burgonet,Nor yet beneath the crown,'Tis not on couch of velvet,Nor yet on bed of down."

Harry, lad, do ye see that hoodie? Was there ever such impudence? I could maist kill him with a stone. But I'll come along and pay a visit to the gentleman ere the month's much older: —

"'Tis beneath the spreading birch,In the dell without a name,Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie,When the kye come hame."

What think ye o' that now? – for we'll have to do our best to-morrow night to please the bairns. Ah, you wise wee deevil! – catch you drinking out o' a puddle when ye see any running water near.

"When the kye come hame, when the kye come hame,Twixt the gloaming and the mirk, when the kye come hame."

CHAPTER X

HIGH FESTIVAL

A children's tea-party in a Highland barn sounds a trivial sort of affair; and, as a spectacle, would doubtless suffer in contrast with a fancy-dress ball in Kensington or with a State concert at Buckingham Palace. But human nature is the important thing, after all, no matter what the surroundings may be; and if one considers what the ordinary life of these children was – the dull monotony of it in those far and bleak solitudes; their ignorance of pantomime transformation scenes; their lack of elaborately illustrated fairy tales, and similar aids to the imagination enjoyed by more fortunate young people elsewhere – it was surely an interesting kind of project to bring these bairns away from the homely farm or the keeper's cottage, in the depth of mid-winter, and to march them through the blackness of a January evening into a suddenly opening wonderland of splendour and colour and festivity. They were not likely to remember that this was but a barn – this beautiful place, with its blazing candelabra, and its devices of evergreens and great white and red roses, and the long table sumptuously set forth, and each guest sitting down, finding himself or herself a capitalist to the extent of sevenpence. And so warm and comfortable the lofty building was; and so brilliant and luminous with those circles of candles; and the loud strains of the pipes echoing through it – giving them a welcome just as if they were grown-up people: no wonder they stared mostly in silence at first, and seemed awestruck, and perhaps were in doubt whether this might not be some Cinderella kind of feast, that they might suddenly be snatched away from – and sent back again through the cold and the night to the far and silent cottage in the glen. But this feeling soon wore off; for it was no mystical fairy – though she seemed more beautiful and gracious, and more richly attired than any fairy they had ever dreamed about – who went swiftly here and there and everywhere, arranging their seats for them, laughing and talking with them, forgetting not one of their names, and as busy and merry and high-spirited as so great an occasion obviously demanded.

Moreover, is it not in these early years that ideals are unconsciously being formed – from such experiences as are nearest? – ideals that in after-life may become standards of conduct and aims. They had never seen any one so gentle-mannered as this young lady who was at once their hostess and the little mother of them all, nor any one so dignified and yet so simple and good-humoured and kind. They could not but observe with what marked respect Ronald Strang (a most important person in their eyes) treated her – insisting on her changing places with him, lest she should be in a draught when the door was opened; and not allowing her to touch the teapots that came hot and hot from the kitchen, lest she should burn her fingers; he pouring out the tea himself, and rather clumsily too. And if their ideal of sweet and gracious womanhood (supposing it to be forming in their heads) was of but a prospective advantage, was there not something of a more immediate value to them in thus being allowed to look on one who was so far superior to the ordinary human creatures they saw around them? She formed an easy key to the few imaginative stories they were familiar with. Cinderella, for example: when they read how she fascinated the prince at the ball, and won all hearts and charmed all eyes, they could think of Miss Douglas, and eagerly understand. The Queen of Sheba, when she came in all her splendour: how were these shepherds' and keepers' and crofters' children to form any notion of her appearance but by regarding Miss Douglas in this beautiful and graceful attire of hers? In point of fact, her gown was but of plain black silk; but there was something about the manner of her wearing it that had an indefinable charm; and then she had a singularly neat collar and a pretty ribbon round her neck; and there were slender silver things gleaming at her wrists from time to time. Indeed, there was no saying for how many heroines of history or fiction Miss Meenie Douglas had unconsciously to herself to do duty – in the solitary communings of a summer day's herding, or during the dreary hours in which these hapless little people were shut up in some small, close, overcrowded parish church, supposing that they lived anywhere within half a dozen miles of such a building: now she would be Joan of Arc, or perhaps Queen Esther that was so surpassing beautiful, or Lord Ullin's daughter that was drowned within sight of Ulva's shores. And was it not sufficiently strange that the same magical creature, who represented to them everything that was noble and beautiful and refined and queen-like, should now be moving about amongst them, cutting cake for them, laughing, joking, patting this one or that on the shoulder, and apparently quite delighted to wait on them and serve them?

The introductory singing of the Old Hundredth Psalm was, it must be confessed, a failure. The large majority of the children present had never either heard or seen a piano; and when Meenie went to that strange-looking instrument (it had been brought over from her mother's cottage with considerable difficulty), and when she sate down and struck the first deep resounding chords – and when Ronald, at his end of the table, led off the singing with his powerful tenor voice – they were far too much interested and awestruck to follow. Meenie sang, in her quiet clear way, and Maggie timidly joined in, but the children were silent. However, as has already been said, the restraint that was at first pretty obvious very soon wore off; the tea and cake were consumed amid much general hilarity and satisfaction; and when in due course the Chairman rose to deliver his address, and when Miss Douglas tapped on the table to secure attention, and also by way of applause, several of the elder ones had quite enough courage and knowledge of affairs to follow her example, so that the speaker may be said to have been received with favour.

And if there were any wise ones there, whose experience had taught them that tea and cake were but a snare to entrap innocent people into being lectured and sermonised, they were speedily reassured. The Chairman's address was mostly about starlings and jays and rabbits and ferrets and squirrels; and about the various ways of taming these, and teaching them; and of his own various successes and failures when he was a boy. He had to apologise at the outset for not speaking in the Gaelic; for he said that if he tried they would soon be laughing at him; he would have to speak in English; but if he mentioned any bird or beast whose name they did not understand, they were to ask him, and he would tell them the Gaelic name. And very soon it was clear enough that this was no lecture on the wanderings of the children of Israel, nor yet a sermon on justification by faith; the eager eyes of the boys followed every detail of the capture of the nest of young ospreys; the girls were like to cry over the untimely fate of a certain tame sparrow that had strayed within the reach – or the spring rather – of an alien cat; and general laughter greeted the history of the continued and uncalled-for mischiefs and evil deeds of one Peter, a squirrel but half reclaimed from its savage ways, that had cost the youthful naturalist much anxiety and vexation, and also not a little blood. There was, moreover, a dark and wild story of revenge – on an ill-conditioned cur that was the terror of the whole village, and was for ever snapping at girls' ankles and boys' legs – a most improper and immoral story to be told to young folks, though the boys seemed to think the ill-tempered beast got no more than it deserved. That small village, by the way, down there in the Lothians, seemed to have been a very remarkable place; the scene of the strangest exploits and performances on the part of terriers, donkeys, pet kittens, and tame jackdaws; haunted by curious folk, too, who knew all about bogles and kelpies and such uncanny creatures, and had had the most remarkable experiences of them (though modern science was allowed to come in here for a little bit, with its cold-blooded explanations of the supernatural). And when, to finish up this discursive and apparently aimless address, he remarked that the only thing lacking in that village where he had been brought up, and where he had observed all these incidents and wonders, was the presence of a kind-hearted and generous young lady, who, on an occasion, would undertake all the trouble of gathering together the children for miles around, and would do everything she could to make them perfectly happy, they knew perfectly well whom he meant; and when he said, in conclusion, that if they knew of any such an one about here, in Inver-Mudal, and if they thought that she had been kind to them, and if they wished to show her that they were grateful to her for her goodness, they could not do better than give her three loud cheers, the lecture came to an end in a perfect storm of applause; and Meenie – blushing a little, and yet laughing – had to get up and say that she was responsible for the keeping of order by this assembly, and would allow no speech-making and no cheering that was not put down in the programme.

After this there was a service of raisins; and in the general quiet that followed Mr. Murray came into the room, just to see how things were going on. Now the innkeeper considered himself to be a man of a humorous turn; and when he went up to shake hands with Miss Douglas, and looked down the long table, and saw Ronald presiding at the other end, and her presiding at this, and all the children sitting so sedately there, he remarked to her in his waggish way —

'Well, now, for a young married couple, you have a very large family.'

But Miss Douglas was not a self-conscious young person, nor easily alarmed, and she merely laughed and said —

'I am sure they are a very well-behaved family indeed.'

But Ronald, who had not heard the jocose remark, by the way, objected to any one coming in to claim Miss Douglas's attention on so important an occasion; and in his capacity of Chairman he rose and rapped loudly on the table.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said, 'we're not going to have any idlers here the night. Any one that bides with us must do something. I call on Mr. Murray to sing his well-known song, "Bonnie Peggie, O."'

'Indeed no, indeed no,' the innkeeper said, instantly retreating to the door. 'There iss too many good judges here the night. I'll leave you to yourselfs; but if there's anything in the inn you would like sent over, do not be afraid to ask for it, Ronald. And the rooms for the children are all ready, and the beds; and we'll make them very comfortable, Miss Douglas, be sure of that now.'