The Heather-Moon
her called. But, from Aline's point of view, there was no mistake. "I
have let the child sleep," she explained to Somerled and Basil. "It _is_
such a child, isn't it? And when she wakes up there may be a wire in
answer to mine, which went before eight."
When ten o'clock struck and still the telegram had not arrived, Aline
asked herself if she oughtn't to go and call on old Mrs. MacDonald, who
had deigned to take no notice of her tactfully expressed letter. Just
then, however, Somerled's chauffeur was seen hovering in the flowery
distance. He had brought two stage papers which his master had sent him
out to buy. Aline was not pleased that Somerled had thought it necessary
to get information on his own account. She would have preferred that he
should trust to her; but she tried to think that perhaps he too was
secretly tired of the girl and wanted to be rid of her. While he was
glancing through the first paper, Moore glided into the summer-house
with a brick-coloured envelope on a silver tray. It was addressed to
Aline, and she opened it quickly, glad to be ahead of Ian with news.
Then she found herself confronting an unexpected difficulty. "Mrs. B. M.
trying new play small towns; will open Edinburgh in five or six days."
With something like a gasp, Aline stopped on the brink of reading the
telegram aloud. Who would have thought of this?
Her brain worked quickly. She didn't want Somerled to know that "Mrs.
Bal" was so near. He might--make some ridiculous proposal about the
girl--Heaven alone knew what! Men were capable of anything. The
troublesome creature must really go back to her grandmother at once.
Mrs. Bal could easily come to Carlisle and collect her--like lost
luggage--if she cared to be burdened with such luggage. If only Aline
could find some excuse to make Somerled put down that paper and
forthwith go into the house!
"Is your telegram from Sir George?" he inquired calmly, looking up from
the paper which she longed to snatch.
For half a second she hesitated, and then said, "No. It's not what I
expected." This was almost true.
Basil was gazing at her with solicitude. He thought that she had turned
pale. "No bad news from any one, I hope, dear?" he asked.
"It is annoying," she replied with reserve, and crumpled up the
telegram. "I was stupid to let Moore go--I must send an answer. Mr.
Somerled, it would be too good of you to look for a form on the desk in
the drawing-room."
"Shan't I----" began Basil.
"I must ask your advice, meanwhile, about what I'm to say," she cut him
short. Somerled put down the paper on the rustic seat, got up with
alacrity, and started for the house. He would be back in three or four
minutes, and not one of those minutes ought to be wasted. "Don't bother
with questions," she said to Basil, "but if you love me, make those
theatrical papers disappear before Mr. Somerled can read them. I'm going
to change my mind and follow him into the house to write my telegram.
I'll keep him a while talking. If he comes looking for his papers, I
want them to be gone. I depend on you!"
Without waiting for Basil's promise, she darted away in order to
intercept Somerled before he could finish his errand in the
drawing-room. Of course, it would be easy for him to buy more papers,
but before he could get them, Aline was hoping to have maneuvered the
embarrassing Miss MacDonald out of the house. She counted that Ian would
be long in finding the forms, because men never could find the simplest
things when told to look for them; but Somerled was an exception, and
she only just caught him on the threshold. "After all, I want your
advice instead of Basil's," she said. "Do sit here where we shall be
quiet, and let me consult you." She patted the arm of a big
chintz-covered sofa invitingly, and as she sat down Ian followed suit.
Still she did not know what on earth to say to him. She hoped for an
inspiration at the last instant, as Basil had taught her to do in
arranging a difficult situation between hero and heroine. She wanted to
play heroine now with Somerled as hero. Oh, how much she wanted it!
She took a long breath which _must_ bring that inspiration at the end of
it, if inspiration were to be of use. And it came at command, as things
good or bad do come if intensely desired. But it was such a thoroughly
objectionable inspiration that she hardly dared snap at it as she
wished, for Aline was not malicious, and disliked malice and all
uncharitableness as she disliked smearing her pink and white fingers
with ink. Still, no alternative idea occurred to her, and Somerled was
waiting. In desperation she had to take what offered, excusing herself
to herself with every word she spoke. Yet through all she could not help
thinking that she was clever, that she had marvellous presence of mind,
and that she was displaying an inventive faculty which would have
surprised Basil, though, of course, he must never know, because men were
often as idiotically conscientious about little things as they were
unscrupulous about big ones.
"The telegram that came was from Mrs. MacDonald, the child's
grandmother," she heard herself explaining, not forgetting, in her
mental confusion, to rub in the impression of Barrie's unfledged youth.
"I was surprised at not hearing, but this wire is an answer to my
letter. The old lady goes into no particulars, but she says: 'Gravest
reasons why my granddaughter should not join her mother. Hope you in
person will bring her back to me.' Now, dear Mr. Somerled, the little
girl is your protegee. It's for you to say what's to be done with her."
Somerled did not reply at once. He sat thinking, his hands thrust deep
in his pockets, making a jingling noise with keys or silver, which in
her present mood got upon Aline's nerves extraordinarily. She felt that
if he did not stop jingling and begin to speak she should scream. If he
asked to see the telegram, she was prepared to say that she had torn it
up, as an excuse not to show it to Basil, on second thoughts the affair
appearing to be Somerled's business. Somerled did not, however, make the
request, and Aline was spared an extra fib, at which she was
unreasonably pleased.
"Well?" she controlled herself to murmur, instead of screaming.
"I should feel a traitor to give the girl up," he said. "In fact, I
can't do it unless she agrees. I promised not even to advise her that
she ought to go back. She trusted me when I brought her here."
"Shall _I_ have a little talk with her?" Aline suggested, and never had
her voice been so kind and sweet. Indeed, in her trembling hope, she was
willing to be sweet and kind--with limitations.
Somerled thought again for a minute, jingling more horribly than ever.
Then, just at screaming-point once more for Aline, he said decidedly,
"No, thank you. From what Miss MacDonald's told us, it's natural her
grandmother should think there are grave objections to Mrs. Bal as a
guardian; but the old lady's two generations at least behind the age.
Youth's at the prow nowadays, and--a mother's a mother, anyhow. We'll
have to give Mrs. Bal a chance to do the maternal act----"
"She may be far, far away, even in America--or Australia," Aline
objected. "And even if----"
"Oh, Mr. Somerled, mother's coming to Edinburgh!" cried a voice at the
long window, and Barrie appeared, waving a newspaper.
The one unforeseen thing had happened. The vagabond had strayed into the
summer-house and beguiled Basil. Aline knew too well what excuse he
would make if accused: "Why, you didn't tell me _she_ wasn't to look at
the papers!"
"I've seen the name, 'Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald,'" the detestable girl
went on, pushing into the room without asking permission. "She's going
to 'open,' as the paper expresses it, in a new play called 'The Nelly
Affair,' on Monday night at the Lyceum Theatre. Next Monday! Nearly a
week from now! How can I wait--what shall I do till then?"
It was to Somerled that she appealed. She made him feel that the
responsibility was his. And it was a bad moment to feel this, because of
Mrs. West's telegram from Grandma. He got up from the sofa, still
jingling the money in his pockets. Looking down at Aline he saw only her
profile and an ear as deeply pink as coral under a loop of blond hair.
Evidently she too was feeling the situation. Good of her to take an
interest! She really was good. She had asked his advice. Now he would
ask hers.
"Mrs. West and I will talk over a plan I have for you," he said to the
girl.
"Is it your plan--or hers?" asked Barrie anxiously.
"It will be both by the time you hear it," he answered, with a
reassuring smile.
Aline humoured him. "Run away and play, little girl, till the plan is
cooked," she gayly cried. "Play with my brother."
Barrie backed out, feeling as if she had been half smothered with a
perfumed pillow.
"Do you guess my plan?" asked Ian.
"I wonder?" Aline murmured. She could not have spoken aloud just then.
"It's this. Why shouldn't we take her with us in the car to Edinburgh?
We've lots of room."
She had known that this would come. All she had done had only hastened
the catastrophe. "That poor old lady," she stammered. "I can't help
sympathizing--being a little sorry for her. Isn't she, then, to be
considered--after bringing up the girl?"
"You think," he said reflectively, "that she ought to be consulted?"
"Oh, I do!"
"Very well. Then I'll go and have it out with her myself."
"The telegram!" thought Mrs. West, her ears more coraline than ever.
"After all," she faltered, "perhaps it would bring about complications.
She might resort to--to something legal. Fancy if she sent the police to
get back her granddaughter."
Somerled laughed and said nothing. He was not in a mood for argument.
"He won't go," Aline thought. "Thank Heaven, he hates bother."
This was true of Somerled as a rule; but his rules had exceptions.
VIII
So this was the garden where that strange flower of girlhood had budded
and blossomed. All at once Barrie, in her quaintness, became a readable
riddle to Somerled.
The two gates in the high wall were kept bolted, but there was a
jangling bell for each, the gate for visitors (it was almost
supererogatory), and the gate for tradesmen and servants. An elderly and
sullenly astonished woman opened the visitors' gate for Somerled, and
made of her lean form a barrier lest he should try to pass. But she
being narrowly built, on somewhat Gothic lines, and the gateway being
broad, Somerled saw past the flying buttresses of her skirts into the
background. And it was this background that explained in a flash why the
girl knew less of life than a bird which has learned to use its wings;
also the reason why she could never return to waste her young years
behind the garden wall of Hillard House. The thought came into
Somerled's mind that it would be interesting to show her the world she
had never seen, not only between Carlisle and Edinburgh, but over the
hills and far away, as far as the purple island of Dhrum, set in its
sunset frame of ocean gold--or even farther. That could not be, of
course, but the picture was pleasant.
He had prepared himself to be ingratiating; but he realized that
ingratiation was not a successful line to pursue with dragons. Instead
of inquiring politely if Mrs. MacDonald were at home, he said bluntly,
"I wish to see Mrs. MacDonald; I have business with her--not my
business, but hers. And you may tell her I am not The MacDonald of
Dhrum, but _a_ MacDonald from Dhrum, a very different thing."
He knew well that the name of Somerled would be no "Open Sesame" to this
door, and he rather enjoyed the knowledge. It was clear at once that he
had used the right key. Perhaps no other would have served a stranger.